YOUTH

An Illustrated Monthly Journal for Boys and Girls
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Copyright 1902 by The Penn Publishing Company

WASHINGTON AND THE COMMITTEE OF CONGRESS AT VALLEY FORGE.

YOUTH

VOL. I    May 1902    No. 3

CHAPTER VII
A Friend on the Enemy’s Side

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

THE collie rattled his chain at the corner of the sheep pen, and from a low growl changed his welcome to a bark of delight and frisked about Hadley’s legs as the boy stopped to pat him. The house door across the paved yard opened and the innkeeper’s voice cried: “Be still, Bose! Who’s out there?”

Hadley went nearer and laughed. “What’s the matter, Master Benson?” he asked. “Are the dragoons still about the place?”

At once the innkeeper plunged down the steps, and, reaching the boy, seized him tightly in his arms. “Had! Had!” he cried, “why did you come back to the Three Oaks? We thought you’d join the army for sure this time.”

“Is the colonel still here?” asked Hadley, in haste, and drawing back from the inn.

“Yes, he’s here,” grunted Jonas, “but he can’t do anything to you. The dragoons are no longer at the Mills. Malcolm’s troop started for York this morning. There’s something going to happen ’fore long, for the British are stirring, and they say Lord Howe has sailed with his fleet.”

“I know,” said the boy, with some pride. “There’s going to be a big battle, or something. Those papers I ran away with told all about Lord Howe’s plans, and now our generals will be able to meet him.”

“Who told you?” Jonas asked, open-mouthed in astonishment.

“I heard General Washington himself say so,” declared the boy, and then, having entered the wide inn kitchen, and, finding it empty, he had to sit down and relate the particulars of his ride to Germantown, and his brief interview with the Commander-in-Chief of the American forces.

“I’ve heard of that Colonel Cadwalader,” Jonas said, drawing a long breath, “and you were certainly lucky to make such a powerful friend, Hadley. Why didn’t you join the army? You’d make a good soldier, and perhaps get to be a captain, or something. Men rise quick from the ranks now-a-days.”

“You know very well why I cannot enlist,” Hadley replied, gravely. “If Uncle Ephraim should tell me I could go, I might feel as though I would not be breaking my word by enlisting. But unless he says so, I don’t see how I can do it, much as I would like.”

The innkeeper shook his head. “Ah, boy, there’s plenty of time yet for you, after all, it’s likely. The struggle is bound to be a long one. The king is sending over more troops, they say, and there’s a big force marching from Canada. We’ll never give up till we’re free; but most of us may be dead before freedom comes.”

Mistress Benson came in a minute later, and her delight at seeing Hadley safe and sound again was sincere, although, as Jonas had admitted to the boy’s private ear, she was none too sympathetic with the patriot cause. She set before the boy a bountiful repast and made him eat his fill. Then he retired to his usual couch in the loft of the great barn and slept undisturbed until morning.

He was currying down Black Molly in the open door of the stable before breakfast when Colonel Knowles chanced to stroll into the inn yard. The Englishman stopped and stared at the stableboy with a lowering brow. Hadley kept at work, whistling cheerfully, but a little amused at the colonel’s evident surprise, and not at all sure what the outcome of the meeting might be.

“Well, young man!” exclaimed the guest; “you certainly are a youth of mettle to dare come back here after what occurred the other day. Do you know who I am?”

“You are a guest of Master Benson’s, sir,” Hadley said, quietly.

“I am an officer in His Majesty’s army, sir.”

“But you are in the enemy’s country just now, Colonel Knowles,” the boy said, softly. “The dragoons are no longer within call, and although there are some Tories in the neighborhood, there are more men who hold to the cause of the Colonies. I think I am safer to come back here than you are to remain.”

“Humph!” grunted the colonel; but the words evidently impressed him. After a moment of sullen silence he said: “They tell me your name is Morris; is that so?”

“It is, sir.”

“Do you know a person named Ephraim Morris living in this part of the country?”

“That is my uncle’s name,” declared the boy, and his interest grew, for he remembered his conversation two days before with Mistress Lillian.

“How old a man is he?” demanded Colonel Knowles, with some eagerness.

“Rising sixty, sir. He is a farmer and lives not more than four miles from here.”

“Well,” said the Englishman, turning finally on his heel, “you’re a worthy nephew of such an uncle, I don’t doubt.”

“I’m afraid Uncle Ephraim would not agree with you,” Hadley called after the gentleman. “He is a Tory.”

But Colonel Knowles paid no further attention to him, and the boy went on with his work. But his mind ran continually on the interest the colonel and his daughter evidently had in old Ephraim Morris. Mistress Lillian herself appeared after breakfast, and while Hadley was clearing up the entrance to the inn yard. Jonas Benson prided himself on having everything about the inn as neatly kept as did his wife inside the house.

“Hadley Morris!” the colonel’s daughter exclaimed, leaning over the railing of the inn porch and looking at the youth with sparkling eyes. “Has my father seen you? Mistress Benson told me you had come back and that she was afraid father would be angry when he saw you. Aren’t you afraid?”

“I’ve seen the colonel,” Hadley replied, smiling up at her. He remembered the anxiety in her countenance when he had last seen her looking from the inn window as he ran with the dispatches to escape the dragoons, and he was not so much afraid of her as he had been earlier in their acquaintance. “He wasn’t very pleasant, but the dragoons aren’t in the neighborhood now and I guess he won’t try to do anything to me. You see, m’am, most of the farmers are on my side.”

“You are a terrible rebel!” declared the girl, but she still smiled down upon him. “Did you carry those dispatches ’way to—to that Mr. Washington whom your people call ‘general’?”

“I went all the way with them and saw General Washington himself,” declared the boy, proudly. “He is a mighty fine gentleman, and the place where he stops was full of officers. All the American army are not ragamuffins,” and his eyes twinkled as he thus reminded her of her criticism of the American soldiery on a previous occasion. “Some of the colonists know how to fight as well as hired soldiers.”

“And some of them know how to run,” Lillian cried.

“True. Would you have had me stand here and face that whole mob of dragoons—to say nothing of your father?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you. I think you were very smart to get away on that horse with the dispatches. And I’ll tell you what father said about it,” she added, lowering her voice and glancing about her. “He said that ‘if the rebel youth can fight so well and are such strategists, it is no wonder that my Lord Howe and the other generals have so little luck in bringing the uprising to a swift close.’ Now, aren’t you proud?”

Hadley flushed as she spoke. “I thought he was very angry with me this morning.”

“Well, I think he is angry enough; but he seemed to admire your ability to beat the dragoons and get across the river as you did. I heard him and the officer in command of the troopers talking about it, and they both wondered how you escaped them on the road to the ferry. Father said he had almost caught you—he could tell by the sound of your horse’s feet—when the sound suddenly stopped and you disappeared as though the earth had opened and swallowed you. How did you do it?”

“You are an enemy,” the boy returned, with amusement. “I couldn’t tell you that, you know. Anything else—”

“Tell me what sort of a man that uncle of yours, Ephraim Morris, is?” she broke in, suddenly. “I spoke to father about him and he said he must be the man he has come here to see.”

“Uncle Ephraim is an old man. He came from England years ago. He isn’t liked very well. He’s a king’s man, you know—a Tory.”

“Oh! that’s something in his favor,” she declared.

“So I thought you’d say,” he replied, shouldering his rake and broom and preparing to return to the stableyard. “I didn’t want you to have too bad an opinion of Uncle Ephraim.”

“If he is the person my father is looking for I have a very bad opinion of him, indeed, and his being for the king will make little difference one way or another.”

Her words disturbed Hadley when he thought them over. Mistress Lillian had seemed well disposed towards him personally, but she was also bitter against his uncle, and Hadley believed Uncle Ephraim should have warning of the colonel’s visit. So, immediately after his duties at the Three Oaks were performed, Hadley set out to his uncle’s house.

The Morris pastures were the nearest to the Three Oaks Inn, and crossing the road where he had so fortunately escaped the dragoons by the aid of Lafe Holdness, Hadley struck into the open plain on which his uncle’s cattle grazed.

The big pasture was dotted with clumps of trees, and while yet Hadley was some distance from the farmhouse and its neighboring buildings, he saw a band of young stock stampeding wildly from the vicinity of a grove of dwarfed oaks not far away. The cattle, heads down and tails in the air, plunged across the plain at a mad pace, and Hadley was positive that they were not running without cause. The drove passed him like a whirlwind, and in their wake came a loudly-yelping cur and a person whom he very well knew, urging the dog on.

“Hold on there! what are you about?” cried Hadley, running forward. “What are you chasing the cattle for? That brute of yours will kill some of the stock.”

It was Lon Alwood, and it was quite evident by Lon’s expression of countenance that Hadley was the last person he had expected to meet just then. “Wh—why, I thought you had gone to join the army!” he gasped.

“I’m right here to tell you to stop chasing my uncle’s cattle,” returned Hadley, in disgust.

“Oh, you are, hey?” cried the other boy, with bravado. Then, to the cur who had halted like his master at the appearance of Hadley: “Sic ’em, boy—sic ’em!”

Hadley grabbed a clod, and as the dog started after the fleeing steers he hurled the lump of earth with considerable force and it bounded resoundingly from the canine’s ribs. The brute gave a yelp and took refuge behind its master, its interest for the moment lost in the inoffensive cattle. There it crouched and growled at Hadley, while Lon fairly danced up and down in his rage.

“What you need, Had Morris, is a sound thrashing, and I’m going to give it to you right now!” declared the young Tory.

“I wouldn’t try any thrashing, if I were you, Lon. You know you tried it once, a long time ago, and I haven’t forgotten how to wrestle since then.”

Hadley tried to pass on as he spoke, but young Alwood sprang before him and barred his way. “You’re going to get thrashed right here and now, Had Morris!” declared he, resentfully. “You haven’t got any gun or pistol to help you out, and I’m not afraid of you. So look out for yourself!”

Hadley saw no way of avoiding the struggle unless he took to his heels, and he could not bring himself to do that. So he met his antagonist’s charge to the best of his ability, and in a moment they were locked together in a close, but far from loving, embrace, while the dog ran around and around them, barking its approval of its master’s conduct.

THE boys had scarcely gripped each other when Lon realized that he was now no better able to cope with his rival in a wrestling bout than he was at their last encounter, months previous. The stableboy of the Three Oaks Inn had been in perfect training every day of his active life. Lon was lazy, and had to be fairly driven to work by his father. He would much rather roam the woods with a gun and dog, or go fishing, than do those tasks which fell to the share of the other lads of the neighborhood, and leaping and running, and frolicking with his friends in their off-hours, had not hardened his muscles as Hadley’s toil hardened his.

The latter obtained a good hold on his enemy and, with a sudden squeeze, almost drove the breath out of Lon’s lungs. The Tory youth gasped as he felt this sudden strength. “Oh! oh!” he groaned. And then, kicking frantically and endeavoring to beat his antagonist in the face with his fists, cried aloud to the excited dog: “Sic ’im, sir! Go at ’im!”

The mongrel, as cruel as its master, plunged into the fray and grabbed at Hadley’s leg. Fortunately, the stableboy wore high riding boots, and instead of seizing the calf of his leg, the brute sunk its teeth in the leather. The attack, however, brought Hadley to the ground, with the dog chewing at the bootleg and snarling, and Lon Alwood on top. But the under boy still hugged his human antagonist tightly to him, and for the moment his brute enemy did little harm.

All the time Lon was encouraging the dog in his attack, but Hadley would not strike him. “Call off the beast and fight fair, Alwood!” he said. “Call him off and try it over again. This is no fair game.”

Lon’s only answer was a more desperate attempt to get his arms free and so strike his enemy with more precision. But the unequal contest was exhausting Hadley’s strength, and he knew he could not keep his advantage for long. So, putting forth all his remaining energy, he suddenly rolled Lon over and came uppermost himself. The dog yelped loudly and let go the boot, for Hadley had managed to give him a well-placed kick at the same moment, and while the brute was recovering from this the boy broke away from Lon and sprang to his feet.

The dog seeing its master on the ground, growled savagely and leaped for Hadley again—this time for his throat. But the boy was ready for the attack, and the toe of his riding boot caught the animal under the jaw and sent it backward with terrific force. Lon had secured his footing, too, and seeing his canine friend so badly treated, came at Hadley with redoubled fury. The latter caught him at arms’ length and before Lon could secure any hold, threw him forcibly to the ground.

The dog happened to be in the way and his master fell flat upon him and with sufficient force to break the animal’s spine. The dog’s almost humanlike cry of agony shocked Hadley, and his anger was gone in an instant. “Oh, the poor creature!” he cried, and as Lon got up, bleeding at the nose and much bruised, Hadley knelt down beside the beast to see how badly it was hurt. But with a few spasmodic jerks of its limbs the dog lay still; its master’s fall had killed it.

Alwood, however, little interested in the death of the faithful creature, was searching about the pasture, and suddenly finding a smooth cobble, hurled it with all his might at the kneeling boy. Fortunately, Hadley turned in time to see the action and dodge the stone. He leaped up, and Lon turned tail and ran to escape merited punishment for this cowardly act.

“That fellow hasn’t a spark of honor,” thought the victor of this rather sanguinary encounter. “He can’t fight fair. I’m sorry I killed his dog; but I don’t believe Lon thought of the poor brute at all. He was just mad at me and cared nothing about it. I’ll have to watch out for Lon Alwood, for he’ll seek to injure me without giving fair warning, I know.”

His encounter with the Tory youth had detained him, until now it was growing dusk along the edges of the wood which bordered the pasture. He hurried on and soon arrived at the outbuildings and barns belonging to his uncle. The cattle had come up to the barnyard and the cows were being milked by the hired hands, while Ephraim overlooked the feeding. If the old gentleman deprived himself of everything but the bare necessities of life, he was careful that his stock was well fed.

The men were mostly lads from neighboring farms, who went home at night, working for their monthly wage for Master Morris because there was not enough to do to keep them busy at home. They cordially greeted the miser’s nephew, for though they were nearly all from Tory families, Hadley was popular with them. Ephraim Morris, however, had but a cold welcome for the stableboy.

“Well,” he said, in an unpleasant voice, “what have you got to say for yourself, Hadley?”

“About what, uncle?” demanded the boy.

“Oh, I’ve heard all about it. I let you work for that innkeeper and this is what it comes to, hey? I thought so—I thought so! Hanging around a place like that would spoil anybody’s morals. I’m surprised at you, Hadley—and your mother was a good woman. And for you, who were born a British subject on English soil yourself, to help these crazy colonists along—”

“But I believe they are right, uncle, just as you believe the king and the king’s men are right.”

“Pah! pah!” exclaimed the old man, savagely. “What does a boy like you know of such matters? You have hung about that Jonas Benson, and his inn, which is a hotbed of rebellion, so long that you talk like a lawyer. It is ruining you, and I won’t have a nephew of mine—”

“But Master Benson pays you my wages regularly, doesn’t he?” demanded Hadley, before the old man could say anything rash.

“Hem—well, I can say he does,” admitted Uncle Ephraim, and subsided for a moment. Soon, however, he started on a new tack. “Who is this English officer who is a guest at the inn, nephew?” he asked. “It is said that he is a great man from York way. And to think that you should oppose a gentleman and an officer of His Majesty’s army!”

“I don’t know how great a man he is,” Hadley returned. “He calls himself Colonel Creston Knowles—”

The old man started and leaned forward so that his wrinkled face came within the candlelight. Wonder, and an expression which seemed like fear, slowly grew upon his countenance. “Who did you say he was?” he demanded, his lean fingers clutching the edge of the table.

“Colonel Creston Knowles, uncle. His daughter, Mistress Lillian, is with him. They have come into Jersey to find a family by our name, I understand. Both of them have asked me about you, sir.” While he said this, Hadley scrutinized Uncle Ephraim closely. The old man was much disturbed, for he sat silent for several minutes and his face showed plainly that he was the man Colonel Knowles was so anxious to see. “Who is Colonel Knowles?” the boy asked, at length. “What does he want to see you for? Is he—is he related to us in any way?”

“No, no!” snarled the miser. “He’s nothing to either you or me. I—I don’t know him—I don’t know him, I tell you! Now, go to bed, and don’t disturb me with your questions.”

Hadley cleared up the untidy kitchen as best he could, and then lit a tallow dip at the single candle on the table, and obeyed his uncle’s behest by mounting the stairs to the loft over the room. He went to bed at once, for he was tired enough, but he could not sleep for thinking of his uncle’s strange manner and words. There was some mysterious connection between Colonel Knowles and the Morrises; but Uncle Ephraim did not intend to admit it.

Hadley fell into a doze at last, but only for a short time. The squeak of a door below aroused him, and after listening a moment and fancying all sort of noises, as one will in the night when the house is still, he crept out of bed, slipped on his outer clothes again, and tiptoed to the head of the stairs to see if his uncle had himself gone to bed. There was a faint light below, and the boy was confident that the candle must be burning, for Uncle Ephraim would never leave a fire on the hearth at this time of the year.

Carefully going down several steps in perfect silence, he managed to get a view of the whole kitchen, including the fireplace, and what was his astonishment to see Ephraim Morris standing upon a chair before an old brick oven built high in the chimney, and which Hadley never remembered seeing opened before. It was open now, however, and the old gentleman had his head and shoulders thrust inside, as though reaching for something concealed at the extreme back of the oven.

TO play the rôle of eavesdropper, or “Peeping Tom,” was not exactly as Hadley Morris would have wished. He hated a sneak; but his curiosity regarding his uncle’s manœuvres was for the time too strong for his ideas of what was really honorable, and instead of retreating up the stairs to the loft again, he remained where he was and watched the old gentleman with wide-open eyes.

Like most substantially built houses of that day, the Morris homestead had a great stone and brick fireplace built into the end wall. To the right of the fireplace was one of those ovens in which the pioneer housewives did all their baking. The oven was like a safe built into the side of the chimney, and had a smooth clay floor. Uncle Ephraim had always kept the oven door fastened with an old-fashioned brass padlock.

The padlock now lay on the floor, and as Hadley continued to peer into the wide kitchen from around the corner of the door-frame, he saw Master Morris draw back from the mouth of the oven, holding a bag in each hand. The bags were not large, but by the way his uncle carried them the boy knew they were heavy, and when the old man stepped down from the chair and laid them on the table, the listener heard a faint chink as though of metal. “It’s gold!” whispered the boy to himself, and his eyes opened even more widely at the thought.

Then for the first time Hadley saw that Master Morris wore his waistcoat and coat, as though he were ready to go out of doors. He put on his hat at once, stuck the half-burned candle in a lantern, and with the latter swung over his arm and one of the heavy bags in each hand, he left the house.

Hadley hesitated only a moment; then, curiosity still spurring him, he ran lightly down the remaining steps into the kitchen and followed his uncle out of doors without stopping for his own hat. The night was mild and not at all dark, but the boy might have found some difficulty in following the old man had it not been for the flickering lantern which swung from his arm. This dancing will-o’-the-wisp led the boy down behind the barns and cribs and directly into the orchard where the branches of the gnarled old apple trees met and, with their fruit and foliage, shut out most of the star-light.

Hadley crept near, cautiously, when he saw that Uncle Ephraim had halted and set the light upon the ground. Soon he discovered that the old man had been here before since he went to bed, for there was a shovel and a heap of earth in plain view. He watched his uncle and saw him drop the two bags into what appeared to be a rather deep hole, then place a flat stone on top of them, and afterward fill in the hole with the soil and stamp it all down with care. There was considerable soil left then, and the old man carried this away, shovelful by shovelful, and threw it into a ditch at the far edge of the orchard. Afterward he replaced the sod which he had earlier removed, patting it all down evenly with the flat of his shovel. The burying was completed, and marking the spot well for future reference, Hadley ran back to the house and climbed to the loft, and was nicely in bed again before the old man returned to the kitchen.

But the strangeness of the whole matter kept the boy awake long after he was sure his uncle had sought his own couch. He was unable to compose his mind to sleep, and was glad when at length the cocks crew to announce the gray light in the east. He rose and went back to the Three Oaks without again seeing Uncle Ephraim, and tried to forget the incident of the night in his work about the inn. But when he saw Colonel Creston Knowles ride off with William toward the Morris farm soon after breakfast, Hadley wished he had remained longer with his uncle, and so been present at the interview which was about to take place between the old man and the British officer.

Lillian avoided him that day, seemingly, and Hadley went about his duties with much trouble at his heart. It was after noon when Colonel Knowles and his henchman returned, and a glance at the officer’s face told Hadley that the gentleman was in a towering rage. Evidently his visit had afforded him little satisfaction.

Soon, however, something occurred which succeeded in driving this mystery into the background of the boy’s mind. News from Philadelphia had been scarce since his return from the Pennsylvania side of the river; but after supper that evening a man rode up to the inn on a fagged-out horse, and told them that the army under Washington was on the move, and was marching toward Philadelphia, as it was believed Lord Howe’s fleet would land troops to attack the city, where Congress was then in session. The man obtained a fresh mount and rode on into the east, having secret business in that direction.

That night, while Jonas Benson and Hadley sat together in the chimney place of the inn kitchen, talking over the possibilities of the battle which must occur before long, the heralding squeak of Lafe Holdness’ wagon axles reached their ears, the outer door being ajar.

“Run and open the gate for him, Had!” exclaimed Benson. “Mistress, put down something to eat for a hungry man, and I warrant you Lafe will do justice to it.”

His wife grumblingly expressed herself that a cold supper was good enough for a man like Lafe Holdness; but she, nevertheless, obeyed her husband’s request.

“Stan’ round ther, you!” From the yard the teamster’s voice could be heard addressing the horses. “Ef ye want suthin’ ter eat, why don’t ye stan’ still so’t I kin unbuckle this strap? Hello, Had Morris! is that air yeou? I didn’t ’spect to see yeou ag’in this side o’ the river till the war was over,” and the Yankee chuckled mightily and dug the boy good-naturedly in the ribs.

“We heard to-night the army was on the move, Lafe,” Jonas said, coming to the porch, and speaking low.

Lafe dropped for the moment his bantering tone and spoke seriously. “There’s going to be something done purty soon, friends—somethin’ big! There’s sure to be a battle. Howe’s fleet is comin’ up Chesapeake Bay and General Washington will meet the troops he lands somewhere south of Philadelphia; but we ain’t got much more’n ten thousand men all told.”

“How many sailed from York?” queried the innkeeper.

“Nobody knows!” returned Lafe, ruefully. “Them dispatches Had took over ter Germantown didn’t give the exact figgers. But I’m out this way sendin’ in all the scatterin’ men that hev’ got guns. There won’t much happen hereabout until the two armies meet. And, speakin’ about Had,” added Lafe, suddenly, “I’m wantin’ ter use him, Jonas.”

“Well,” remarked the innkeeper, with twinkling eyes, “he’s a pretty valuable boy to me. I have to pay his uncle for him, too.”

“You’d oughter be called Judas Benson!” declared the Yankee. “You’re a great feller ter haggle over the price of a ’prentice boy. I’m goin’ ter send him to the army—it’s at Philadelphia now.”

“And that means I’ll likely lose a good horse as well as the boy,” grumbled Jonas.

“Don’t you think I’ve got anything to say about it myself?” demanded Hadley of the Yankee.

“Not much. I’ve got orders for you,” he declared, nodding his head. “See here.” He drew a battered wallet from his pocket, and in the light of the innkeeper’s lantern selected a slip of paper from one of the compartments. This he displayed before the wondering eyes of both Jonas and Hadley. On the paper was written, in a rather cramped and formal hand:

“Why!” exclaimed the round-eyed innkeeper, “that’s the man who saved you from the soldiers, Had--Colonel Cadwalader.”

“I reckon ye’ must ha’ got purty thick with Master Cadwalader, Had,” said Lafe, tearing the paper into small pieces. “Let me tell yeou he is in the General’s confidence as much as old Knox, or Colonel Pickering. I got suthin’ important for yeou to take to headquarters, an’ if yeou’ve had your supper yeou’d better saddle a hoss an’ git away with it purty soon. The quicker ye start the sooner ye’ll ketch the army, for it’s on the move.”

While he was speaking, Jonas Benson was already leading Black Molly out of her stall, showing at once that his objections to the boy’s departure had been but momentary. “He’s had his supper, and he can git out right now!” he declared.

But Hadley waited long enough to go into the loft and put on the best suit of homespun which he possessed, and encased his legs in long riding boots with a pair of tiny spurs screwed into the heels. There were no papers to take this time, for Lafe Holdness whispered the message he had to send into the boy’s attentive ear. “An’ now good luck to ye!” exclaimed the scout as the youth mounted into the saddle and Jonas opened the stable door. “Nobody can take nothin’ from ye this time, but mebbe it’s just as well if yeou dodge all armed men of airy complection till ye pass Germantown.”

Black Molly trotted quietly down the inn yard toward the gate. Just as she was going through this and her rider was about to give her the rein, he was startled by a soft “S-s-st!” beside him. He turned his head quickly and drew Molly down to a walk. A shadowy figure stood at the end of the porch. In an instant Hadley recognized Lillian Knowles, with a light shawl flung over her head and shoulders, and her hand outstretched to him.

A FIGURE STOOD AT THE END OF THE PORCH

“Hadley Morris!” she whispered, “if you are carrying anything—anything you don’t want other folks to see—look out! There are others beside me who know you are riding toward the ferry to-night.” And then, before he could reply or express his astonishment at her warning, she disappeared within the shadow of the porch. He heard the door close softly behind her, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he started Molly on again and turned her head toward the distant ferry, wondering if he ought to take the girl’s words seriously and turn back for reinforcements.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

A MEMORIAL DAY STORY

By LAURA ALTON PAYNE

A sharp, imperative rat-a-tat-tat on the class-room door almost at her back startled the speaker, Sidney Dallas. She turned for an instant, but that instant was enough to scatter her wits like chaff before the wind. She paused—stammered—paused again, then repeated vaguely:

But the words would not be coaxed back. Her mind was a perfect blank. She was so confused that she did not see that the visitor who was being ushered in by Bess Martin, and whose sharp knock had so disconcerted her, was her own mother.

A hot flush of shame scorched her face, the crowd of attentive faces before her began to waver, her knees grew weak, her feet cowardly, but she made one more brave effort:

“We called—we called”—she repeated weakly and hurriedly, then stopped short.

“But it would not come,” murmured mischievous Ted Scott, lugubriously. Ted had been crowded to the front seat, which he shared with two other boys. The boys snickered, and Sidney’s misery was complete. Never before had she failed in a speech, or realized the humiliation.

All a-tremble she stepped off the platform, and with scarlet face and tearful eyes passed down the aisle between the double row of visitors, whose looks of sympathy her distorted imagination turned into looks of derision at her distress. But the tears should not fall, and she would not lower her head. As she reached her seat she caught a look of amusement on the face of Myrtle Emmons, who sat at the desk immediately behind her own. It was that that gave her the bit over her runaway self-possession. Myrtle was somewhat noted for making fun of people. She would show Myrtle how little she cared.

Disregarding Myrtle’s nudge, she concentrated her attention upon the beautifully decorated school-room. It had been transformed into a veritable bower, not with boughs of pine and cedar as in the Eastern States, but with fragrant branches of catalpa with their great clusters of snowy blossoms and with immense sprays of feathery asparagus. The platform, as well as the teacher’s desk at the back of it, was banked with potted ferns and palms and flowering plants. The beribboned waste-basket formed a huge bouquet of feathery greenery, amidst which tall, graceful sunflowers bowed their golden heads. That artistic touch was her own, and she gazed at it with pride. Sunflowers and asparagus adorned the pictures and caught up the folds of the large flag draped gracefully over the front blackboard, and of the bright bunting festooned around the walls.

Flags and sunflowers, sunflowers and flags—a combination so popular that she should always associate the golden emblem-flower of her State with the glorious emblem of her country. They had devoted more time than usual to their decorations, for, the following Monday being Memorial Day, they had turned their “last day” exercises into a memorial service. Owing to the naval victory of scarce a month previous, patriotism was at a white heat, and patriotic selections of spirit shared the honors with tributes to the dead—both the Blue and the Gray, sectionalism being forgotten in the new union of the North and the South.

But it did not require recent victory to stir Sidney’s enthusiasm; she was at all times intensely patriotic. As a small child, a mere babe, she had listened enthralled to her father’s tales of the Civil War, through many of whose terrible battles he had passed. She invariably chose patriotic selections to speak. Such a deed as described in the “Dandy Fifth” made her forget herself. And now, of all times, to fail to-day! The school were singing softly:

How she would love to lay a tribute of flowers upon the graves of the Dandy Fifth’s many dead heroes! And, oh, shame! she had failed to give them even the tribute of honor due them—failed miserably!

That meant the most of the Dandy Fifth. She could see the gaunt, silent forms, fallen at their posts in that awful hour that “tried men’s souls.” But theirs stood the test—stood it grandly.

Stood firm—firm? Did they not? Why, they made a glorious stand—none braver in all the war, none more deserving of honor!—and she had left them with their courage unproven, with the scorn of their comrades upon them, before they had been given a chance to make their derisive epithet a name to be proud of for all time. Oh, she could not bear it! she could not bear it! She must save the honor of the Dandy Fifth.

The thought was electric. It shocked into full life the resolve already half formed in her mind. Hastening up to Miss Mason she whispered a request, which was smilingly granted. With a bright face Sidney hurried from the room just as the next number was called. She meant to go home, find the poem, then come back and redeem herself. She had but three blocks to go, and that distance was covered with flying feet. To her dismay she found the door locked. Of course, her mother meant to attend the exercises. No doubt she was in the room all the time, and had witnessed her failure. But—she must get in. She looked for the key in its customary hiding-place when all the family were expected to be absent at once; it was not there. Recent petty thieving in the neighborhood had probably induced Mrs. Dallas to take the key with her.

Sidney was dismayed. She rushed from door to door, and from window to window. All were securely fastened. She sat down on the porch to think a moment. Perhaps she could get in through an upper window; she had left her own window, which, fortunately, was over the kitchen, lowered slightly and the screen unlatched. She could reach the spring through the opening, lower it still more, then crawl through. Desperation lent her strength to drag the long, heavy ladder from the barn and to raise it to the low kitchen roof. A moment later she pattered over the flat tin roof to the window—only to find further evidence of her mother’s caution. It was closed and latched.

Then, in spite of her courageous soul and her fifteen years, Sidney gave up to a tearful despair for a few minutes. Down upon the tin roof she sat, huddled close up in the corner, and, bowing her head upon her knees, wept silent tears of mortification. The thought that she would have to leave the Dandy Fifth unhonored brought forth the bitterest drops of all.

But—they did not give up. Neither would she. Something must be done. She would go back to the school-house and get the key, come back and get the book, then return and save the day for the Dandy Fifth if possible.

It was a very tired, hot-faced girl that labored up the second flight of stairs at the school-house. As she paused for breath a moment in the upper hall she heard Rob Ellison stentoriously depicting “Sheridan’s Ride.” In the room across the hall the “Fifth Graders” were singing “Sherman’s March to the Sea,” and farther on the “Sixths” were sending out a vigorous chorus of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Passing into the library, a small room just across the hall, she sat down to cool off, and at the same time to work up sufficient courage to face the crowded room in search of her mother. She didn’t want to disconcert another speaker by knocking on the door in order to call her mother out. She glanced around the room. Right there in that corner was where she stood when she rehearsed the “Dandy Fifth” to the elocution teacher.

Mechanically Sidney placed herself in the accustomed position, and half unconsciously began to recite the poem in a low tone. To her amazement and delight she went through it without a break. Whether it was the effect of association, or whether her recreant memory had suddenly chosen to return, she neither questioned nor cared, she was so overjoyed. She tried it again, then a third time, all unconscious of an interested listener beyond the closed door—Prof. Marlow, who stood there smiling to himself as the speaker’s voice rose higher and higher with returning confidence.

As Sidney finished with a triumphant flourish, he clapped his hands softly, then opened the door to remark smilingly. “Well done, Miss Sidney. Now, rally to the charge again, and march on to victory.”

Sidney blushed: she knew he had witnessed her failure. She felt that explanations were in order.

Prof. Marlow held up a warning finger. “At the eleventh hour, Miss Sidney,” he said, with a smile.

“It’s the twelfth hour that tells,” she retorted merrily, and passed into the school-room. Prof. Marlow followed her. He was curious to see how such a plucky effort would turn out.

Sidney was met with many swift glances as she entered, but her radiant face showed no trace of her recent failure. A few moments later she again faced the many expectant eyes, now no longer dreaded. No sudden rat-a-tat-tat could scatter her wits again—no, not even a cannon’s roar, for the Dandy Fifth’s honor was at stake. The audience greeted her enthusiastically. It is human nature to admire courage even in small things. Self was forgotten; every thought and feeling was centred on the subject in hand—that famous regiment of young aristocrats, men who knew not toil, who had never suffered want or endured hardship, whose fastidiousness fastened upon them the scornful epithet, “The Dandy Fifth.”

Her listeners saw it all: the old fort “somewhere down on the Rapidan” that the Dandy Fifth was ordered to hold; the fierce onslaught of the enemy along the whole line; the raging of battle day after day; how gloriously the old fort, the “key of the whole line,” on which hung the fate of the whole army, was held by the Dandy Fifth against all odds—a brave, determined foe without and starvation within. The water gave out; they fought on. Another day, and their rations were gone; they fought on. One by one, they sank to “rest where they wearied and lie where they fell.” A third day of fierce siege—a fourth, then reinforcements fought their way through, inch by inch, to the beleaguered men. And what a sight met their gaze!—a few gaunt-eyed men behind the guns, and many, many more lying as they fell, in the stupor of famine or ghastly and rigid in death. But the old flag floated still!—and the “kid-gloved Dandy Fifth” had proved that white hands are not incompatible with brave hearts. How their old comrades cheered!—and cheered! And how proud they were to clasp those brave, emaciated white hands!

Sidney’s little head might well have been turned by praise had it been that kind of a head, she received so many words of commendation. Ted Scott led the applause, and it was his hands that gave the final appreciative clap. Even Myrtle Emmons congratulated her. “It was grand, Sid,” she said, earnestly. “But how could you ever do it after breaking down once? I never could, and I always break down. I was awfully sorry for you, for, you see, I know how it goes. But, say, Sid! I thought I couldn’t help laughing as you came down the aisle; old Mrs. Perkins stalked along right behind you, her battered bonnet over one ear as usual, and that ancient, solitary, stiff, bedraggled, black feather sticking straight up. I always have to laugh when I see it, though, of course, I oughtn’t.”

“So do I,” returned Sidney, with sudden cordiality. So she had misjudged Myrtle, after all.

“But how could you do it?” persisted Myrtle.

Then out came the whole story, even to the tears, and they had a merry time over it.

“And to think that I was the cause of it,” laughed Mrs. Dallas. “But I am glad my little girl was brave enough to turn defeat into victory.”

“I don’t think it was really I, mamma,” said Sidney, slowly and thoughtfully. “It was the Dandy Fifth.”

CHAPTER VI
A TRYING AFTERNOON

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

“SO you like your new friends, my dear,” said Miss Hetty. “They must be banished to the shed now for their dinner while you and I eat ours. Do you hear Arctura’s signal to us?”

There came a sound unlike anything Polly had ever heard; it was not exactly a bell; she couldn’t imagine what it was. Miss Hetty held out her hand with a smile, and Polly, still with Snip and Snap on her shoulders, was led out of the library, across the porch hall to a big, sunny dining-room. On the table, at Miss Hetty’s place, stood a strange thing with three bronze cups upside down, a little one highest up, one somewhat larger under it, and one still larger at the bottom; at least that was the way it looked to Polly.

Arctura stood close to it with a little stick in her hand; she struck the bronze cups as Polly looked at her, and again the musical sound was heard.

“There, I reckoned you’d never heard anything like that!” said Arctura as she beamed on Polly, and then took the kittens from the little girl’s shoulders. “That’s a heathen invention, called a gong, brought to Miss Pomeroy by her Uncle Pete. I hope you’ll relish your food; I’ve got no time to sit down now,” said Arctura, and bearing Snip and Snap in her arms she marched out of a doorway through which there was a glimpse of the kitchen.

Arctura Green had never sat at the table with Miss Pomeroy in all the years of her faithful service, but it was understood to be purely a matter of choice on her part, and a few words were spoken now and then to make this state of affairs clear to any chance visitor.

Polly ate her steak and potato and fresh bread and butter, sitting opposite Miss Pomeroy, and only speaking in answer to questions. She looked at the spotless white table-cloth with its rose and fern pattern, at the shining glass tumblers, and the big glass water bottle, at the fat silver tea-pot and sugar-bowl, and the slender spoons and forks, at the knives, with mother-of-pearl handles, at the white plates with dull blue figures that matched those on the platter, and at the big bread plate with its gold rim. Then she looked at the buffet on which there were all sorts of shining things.

“It is because everything is so wonderful in the house that they like to stay here better than out-doors,” thought Polly, but in spite of everything her eyes turned wistfully to the window. The sunshine flickered and danced among the branches of the Pomeroy oaks, and Polly gave a half sigh as she looked at it.

“Don’t you like your pudding, my dear?” asked Miss Hetty, and the little girl turned quickly to her dinner again.

After dinner she followed Miss Pomeroy up the broad, shallow front stairs to the pretty room which had been prepared for her. It had a white bed, a white bureau, a white wash-stand, two little straight-backed white chairs, and a white rocking-chair. A pink stripe ran through the white near the edges of all these pieces of furniture, and Polly thought it was the most beautiful bed-room that could possibly be imagined.

“And here is your closet,” said Miss Hetty, as she opened a door, and showed what seemed to Polly like a good-sized room, with shelves and hooks. On the lowest shelf sat the big black enamel cloth bag, looking old and forlorn.

“Now, you’d better take out your things and put them away in the closet and the bureau, Mary,” said Miss Hetty, “and perhaps you’d like to lie down and rest awhile; I am going to take my nap now. When you wish to go downstairs you may, but I wouldn’t run out to-day, for the ground is so damp. I dare say you’ll find plenty to amuse you in the house, and you are free to go anywhere. I’m sure I can trust such a careful, quiet little girl as you are.”

When the door that led into Miss Pomeroy’s room across the hall was fairly shut, Polly executed a silent dance on the soft gray and pink carpet.

“I guess Mrs. Manser’d think I was doing pretty well,” said Polly, thrilling with pride. “I never was called ‘quiet’ or ‘careful’ before. She’d hardly believe it. I must be growing like Eleanor pretty fast. As soon as I’ve put away my things I shall lie right down on that bed. I wonder how long I ought to stay on it. I suppose most probably Eleanor would stay till she heard her aunt getting up; that’s what I’ll do. Mrs. Manser said most likely Miss Pomeroy would give me tests. I shall lie on that bed till I hear Miss Pomeroy if its—two hours,” said Polly, firmly, mentioning the longest space of time which she could conceive might be spent in sleeping by daylight.

Then Polly took the big bag out of the closet and proceeded to unpack it. There was her other new gingham frock on top of everything else; it had blue and white stripes, and was very pretty, Polly thought, as she laid it carefully away in the lowest of the four bureau drawers. Then came her little brown cashmere frock, made over from one which had done service for six years as Mrs. Manser’s Sunday gown; it was Polly’s Sunday best now, very brave with a little red piping around the neck and sleeves, and at the head of the ruffle. This Polly hung in the closet.

In the closet, too, went a very old and much-mended red frock which was always nearly hidden by long-sleeved and high-necked aprons. There were four of these, and two more new ones without sleeves. Polly was so small that there had been plenty of room in the big bag for all these things and for the little store of underclothes which went into the third drawer. The aprons had the second drawer to themselves, and in the top drawer there were Polly’s small handkerchiefs and one pair of little white cotton gloves, freshly washed.

Polly took the bag back to the closet after removing the very last thing, her work basket, which she put on the bureau, beside the fat pincushion. Looking at this cushion reminded her of hidden treasures, and diving into her petticoat pocket she brought forth Aunty Peebles’s gift, and then the knife; these Polly placed on a table, which stood near one of the two windows. Then, after looking about the room for a moment with an air of much satisfaction, Polly slipped off her little shoes, and folding her shawl about her shoulders after the manner of Mrs. Ramsdell when ready for a nap, she turned back the white quilt, and climbing sedately up on the bed, laid her head on the pillow and clasped her little hands.

“I don’t feel sleepy,” said Polly, “but that doesn’t make any difference. I’ve got plenty of things to think of. Perhaps Eleanor didn’t always go to sleep. There are all those leaks in Manser farm—they’ll get mended if I’m adopted. And this is a beautiful place, and I’m not going to be lonesome, a great girl like me, if ’tis pretty still here. I wonder what Miss Arctura Green is doing: and those kitties, I wonder where they are.”

An hour or so later Miss Hetty held a consultation with Arctura in the kitchen.

“I came down the back way so I should not wake that child,” said Miss Pomeroy. “She hasn’t stirred since she lay down, I verily believe. Do you think it’s natural for a little girl of her age to sleep nearly two hours at this time of day?”

“Why, you see we don’t either of us know much about children,” said Arctura, meditatively. “She looks pretty strong, but I notice her appetite’s nothing extra, and probably she’s all excited up and tired out. Seems to me, though, if she don’t stir by the end of another half hour I should kind of make a noise in my room if I was in your place, and wake her up gradual.”

At the end of another half-hour Miss Pomeroy opened and shut a window in her room with vigor, and when she stepped across the hall to Polly’s room, the little girl was putting on her shoes.

“Well, well,” said Miss Pomeroy, “you’ve had a nice, long nap. You shall take one every day, my dear, if you like; I’ve no doubt it will do you good.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly meekly, with a faint little smile.

“I don’t know as I shall let you sleep quite so long, always,” said Miss Hetty, briskly, “for fear you won’t rest so well at night: but we’ll see.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly again; and Miss Pomeroy never suspected that those two hours on the bed had seemed like weeks to her little guest.

POLLY slept soundly that night in her little white bed, and woke to see the sun peeping in at her between the snowy curtains of her east window.

“Dear me!” cried Polly. “I ought to be downstairs helping Mrs. Manser this very minute!” Then she clapped her little hands over her mouth and lay very still, remembering where she was, and that Mrs. Manser and all her old friends were nearly seven miles away, on Maple Hill.

“I believe I’d better not think about them just now,” said Polly, winking fast, as she got out of bed. “Someway it makes me feel as if I wanted to swallow every minute. Maybe I can do something for Miss Arctura Green if I hurry and get dressed.”

But when she stole softly downstairs, wearing the old red frock covered with one of her new white aprons, Polly stopped for a minute to look up at the tall clock. Near the clock was a high-backed chair, and as Polly heard Arctura’s voice and a strange one, she sat down in the chair to wait until Miss Green’s visitor departed. She was sitting there when Miss Pomeroy’s door opened, and down she came over the stairs.

“So you’re up before me, Mary,” said the mistress of the house as she held out her hand to the little girl. Polly took the kind hand and shook it vigorously up and down as she had seen grown people do. “For she doesn’t want to kiss me, of course,” thought Polly, wistfully, remembering Mrs. Ramsdell and dear Grandma Manser. “I expect grand people like her don’t kiss little girls much.”

“I thought,” said Polly, when the ceremony was over, “that maybe I could help Miss Arctura set the table for breakfast, but I heard her talking to somebody at the porch door, so I sat down here to wait.”

Just then the door into the hall from the library burst open and Arctura appeared with a much vexed expression on her flushed face.

“Morning, both,” she said, abruptly. “There, I knew you’d be down and waiting! ’Twas old Jane Hackett kep’ me; she’s come spying out the land already. I didn’t let her into the hall for fear she’d abide with us all day.”

“S—h, Arctura!” said Miss Pomeroy, gravely, though her lips seemed inclined to twitch a little. “How is Mrs. Hackett’s rheumatism to-day?”

“Thinks there’s a spell coming on, I believe,” said Arctura, looking rather crestfallen. “Breakfast’s ready, all but the griddle-cakes; I can’t sit down with you, for I’ve got them to fry.”

After breakfast, Miss Pomeroy sent Polly out on the broad piazza that ran across the front of the house and the west side, to play with the kittens.

“I have some plans to talk over with Arctura,” said she, “and then I want a little talk with you before I start my letter-writing. Don’t step off the piazza, for the grass is very wet. It rained in the night, and I don’t wish my guest to take cold,” said Miss Pomeroy, with her pleasant smile.

“I presume,” said Polly to Snip and Snap, as she dangled a string alluringly just above their reach, and watched their wild jumps into the air, “Miss Pomeroy is going to speak to me about my top apron button not being buttoned; but I didn’t forget it till she came down. I was going to ask Miss Arctura Green to fasten it for me. Probably Eleanor had long arms that could reach; I expect she did. Don’t you catch the bottom of this dress, mister,” said Polly, uplifting a warning finger at Snap, whose attitude certainly justified firm, quick measures, “for it’s just as tender!”

Meanwhile Miss Pomeroy and Arctura were having another consultation in the kitchen.

“I don’t know just what to plan about little Mary,” said Miss Hetty, doubtfully. “You see, I want to find out what she likes best to do, so that I can tell what kind of a child she is. I want her to act her own nature, but, of course, I must suggest things and ask some questions, for she’s very shy.”

“M—m,” said Arctura, thoughtfully, “she handles her knife and fork real pretty. I noticed it as I was in and out the two meals, yesterday and to-day. You’d know she come of good folks, and I must say that Manser woman’s brought her up well, though she’s a hatchet-faced piece, if ever I saw one, and given to nagging, if I’m any judge. Supposing you should ride off to the village without Mary this morning and let me visit with her a little mite. She’s full as used to kitchens as she is to parlors, I expect.”

“I believe that would be an excellent idea,” said Miss Pomeroy. “Arctura, you are a very sensible woman.”

“Sho!” said Arctura but she turned quickly to the sink to hide a smile of gratification.

“Now, Mary, you and I will have our little talk,” said Miss Pomeroy, a few minutes later, and then to Polly’s great amazement, she sat down in one of the big piazza chairs, and drew the child into her lap.

“I didn’t mean to forget that top-button,” said Polly, bravely, “but you came downstairs sooner than I expected, and I can’t quite reach it, so I was going to ask Miss Arctura to fasten it for me. I’m sorry I was an untidy girl; ’tisn’t Mrs. Manser’s fault; she spoke to me and spoke to me about my careless habits.”

“I’ve no doubt she did,” said Miss Hetty, dryly; “I presume she’d speak to me about my placket-hook that’s generally undone.” As she said this she buttoned Polly’s apron and gave her a pat which warmed the little girl’s heart; and then Miss Hetty held her in such a way that Polly could not see the kind, grave face.

“Now, my dear,” she said, slowly, “I suppose Mrs. Manser may have told you that I had a little niece of whom you remind me.” Polly nodded her head, and scarcely breathed. “I asked Mrs. Manser to let me have you for at least a month,” said Miss Pomeroy, unsteadily, “to see—to see if perhaps we might decide to be together as long as I live, my dear. If you are as like my little Eleanor as I think you may be, in many ways,” said Miss Hetty, after a pause during which Polly sat very still, “I shall not be able to let you go, I am sure. I’m growing old, Mary, and I need somebody to help me forget it. Eleanor would have done it, I know, though I had not seen her often enough for her to care a great deal about me, I’m—”

Polly turned quickly around as the voice faltered and stopped. She laid her soft cheek against Miss Pomeroy’s with a little cry of sympathy.

“I will be just as like Eleanor as ever I can,” said Polly, earnestly, “and I will love you every minute, and try to do everything you want.”

“I want you to have a good time,” said Miss Pomeroy, patting the brown curls. “We are old-fashioned people here, and you may find it very dull and quiet, my dear.”

“I shall like it very, very much,” said Polly, stoutly, and to herself she said, “There! you can help Miss Pomeroy as well as the poor-farm folks, Polly Prentiss, and if you didn’t do it, you’d be as selfish as old Redtop!” Redtop was a rooster, resident at Manser farm, whose greed and ugliness were by-words in the place of his abode.

“Now I must go to my letter-writing,” said Miss Pomeroy, briskly, after a few moments’ silence. She had stroked Polly’s curls, with a far-away expression, and then had given her a sudden kiss and set her down on the piazza floor. “I’m obliged to do a good many errands to-day, and I think perhaps I’d better not take you, though I should, generally. Suppose you run out to the kitchen and see if you can help Arctura in any way.”

HALF an hour later, anyone who looked in at the windows of the Pomeroy kitchen would have seen a pretty sight. Polly, mounted on a stool, was beating a golden mixture in a white bowl, and Arctura, at the opposite end of the long table, was stirring whites of eggs carefully into a white batter in a yellow bowl.

POLLY WAS BEATING A GOLDEN MIXTURE IN A BIG WHITE BOWL

“This is what I call solid comfort,” said Arctura, gayly. “I don’t know when I’ve had such a helper as you are! Miss Hetty’s without the gift when it comes to cooking. You wouldn’t believe it, but she’d be just as likely to put the eggs right in after the butter, without beating ’em separate, as any other way. Ain’t it singular?”

“I expect she writes beautiful letters, Miss Arctura,” said Polly, loyally evading the discussion of Miss Pomeroy’s weak point.

“My, I guess she does!” said Arctura, heartily. “That’s it; we’ve all got different talents. Hiram says he’d full as soon see me with a pistol pointed at him as with a pen in my hand. The only way I ever wrote a letter was by main strength, and I’d rather take a whipping any time.”

“I guess it would be pretty hard work for anybody to whip you,” said Polly, shrewdly, and Arctura laughed with much relish.

“’Twould now-a-days,” she said, as she gave the final stir to her batter, “but I’ve been whipped in my time. I didn’t get my growth all at once, you see. Is your cake ready for the pans? You wait till I show you the cunning little brush I’m going to butter the tins with. I’ll let you do yours next time, after I’ve once showed you how. You can’t slight the edges or any spot, if you want the cakes to slip out right.”

When the heat of the oven had been tested and the little round tins had been put in and the oven doors shut on them, Arctura selected a stout testing straw from a pile on a high shelf above the kitchen sink and seated herself, holding the straw erect in her hand like a tiny weapon.

“I always take this time for a breathing spell,” she announced, motioning Polly to another chair, “for if I start in on a fresh job, those cakes more’n likely’ll get burned; it only takes twenty-five minutes to bake ’em to the queen’s taste.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly; then she looked eagerly over at Arctura. “Did you ever see little Eleanor?” she asked, breathlessly.

“No, never,” said Arctura, and Polly felt a throb of disappointment. “You see, Square Pomeroy didn’t depart this life till a year ago last December, and he was kind of queer,” Arctura tapped her forehead significantly, “the last few years, and ’twasn’t a cheerful place to bring a child. And he’d hardly let his daughter out of his sight. About once in six months I’d send her off to Shelby to see the twins for two or three days, but I was always put to it to keep the Square satisfied till she got back.”

“Was he cross?” asked Polly.

“Not to say cross,” replied Arctura, slowly, “but terrible decided and unreasonable. Miss Hetty’s had her trials, and so’ve I; money isn’t all.”

“No’m,” said Polly, soberly, “but it does a great many things, Miss Arctura. Did you know how poor this town is? Manser farm leaks in places, and the paint is all gone, and the ceilings drop sometimes, pieces of them, I mean. But the town is too poor to help fix any of those things. Uncle Sam Blodgett and Father Manser would shingle the roof quick enough, though they aren’t as spry as once they were, if only they could set eyes on the shingles,” said Polly, quoting freely from her old friends.

“It’s a stingy town, I’m afraid,” said Arctura, shaking her head. “The Square was the most liberal man in it, and Miss Hetty follows right on, but most of the purse strings are drawn pretty close. Sometime I’ll tell you a little story about the Square and me when I was your age; you remind me to relate it to you. We haven’t got time now,” she said, glancing at the clock, “for those cakes have got to come out in a minute, and then I’ll have to fly around; dinner time always gains on me, someway.”

“Do you know anything special I could do to please Miss Pomeroy?” asked Polly, wistfully. “She’s being so good to me.”

“Let’s see,” said Arctura, meditatively. “Why, of course, she wants you to enjoy yourself. I expect she’d be pleased to see you take notice of things like the old shells and so on, and there’s the books; Bobby admired to read, and she always said Eleanor was quite a hand for stories, too. And you could go to walk with her, pleasant days, same as Bobby did last winter. And she’d be glad to see you relish your food.”

“Oh, I do, Miss Arctura,” cried Polly. “I do, every single bite I take!”

“Well now, that’s good news,” said Miss Green, comfortably. “I can’t think of anything else; you do all right so far as I know. I wouldn’t worry, but just do my best every day as things come along. Now we’ll take a look at those cakes.”

“She didn’t say a word about playing or running round,” thought Polly, as Arctura rose to open the oven doors; “of course, she thinks I’m too big now for those things, just as Mrs. Manser said. There’s a girl in the village that’s most twelve, and she plays with a dolly, for I’ve seen her. But she belonged to somebody, and that’s different, I guess, from when you’re going to be adopted.”

Polly’s lips seemed inclined to quiver for a moment, but then her cakes—the dozen golden brown cakes—were lifted from the oven and set on the table, and in the rush of delight, at seeing the delicate tops puffed up above the edges of the tins, the quiver changed to a smile.

“Arctura says you are a born cook,” said Miss Pomeroy at dinner time, “and she has requested the pleasure of your company tomorrow morning when she makes the pies.”

Polly dimpled with pleasure; she was eating steadily, just as much as she could. Miss Pomeroy noticed her increased appetite with agreeable surprise.

“Miss Arctura was very, very kind to me,” said the little girl, sedately, “and I had a beautiful time, and Miss Arctura said if the minister—the supply minister, that’s nothing more or less than a bashful boy, according to her ideas—came to dinner Sunday, she should set four of my cakes along with four of hers on the table for dessert with the pudding.”

Miss Pomeroy suppressed an inclination to laugh, and told Polly she had understood from Arctura that the cakes were a great success.

“But the minister is not a boy, my dear,” she added; “you must not always take what Arctura says word for word. She used to call me her little girl until I was more than thirty years old.”

Then Miss Pomeroy and Polly had a laugh together, though Polly could not help feeling that Arctura was very brave indeed ever to have called the tall mistress of Pomeroy Oaks her little girl.

After dinner came the two naps, or at least Miss Pomeroy’s nap and Polly’s hour on the bed. Yesterday’s experience had taught Polly that an hour’s nap would be considered enough for her, so at the end of that time she got off the bed softly, and after making herself tidy for the rest of the day, she stole softly downstairs. It was a mild afternoon, and the big front door had been half opened so that the spring air might blow through the screen.

“Of course, if she asks me if I’ve been asleep, I shall have to say no,” said Polly, looking a little bit troubled as she stood at the door, “but I don’t believe she will ask me. Of course, big girls that want to be adopted can learn to go to sleep in the day-time, just as grand grown-up folks do, and I shall learn as soon as ever I can.”

Polly stepped out on the piazza and walked softly up and down, sniffing the air, and thinking how little fear she would have had of the damp ground if she could have run out barefoot as she did so often at Manser farm: and she gave a little sigh as she looked down at the shiny shoes Miss Pomeroy had brought home for her that morning. But Snip and Snap came racing up on the piazza from somewhere, ready for a frolic, and Polly did not disappoint them.

Arctura appeared on the kitchen porch, collecting the milk pans that had been sunning all day, and snapped her fingers to attract Polly’s attention.

“Look here,” she called, “my brother, Hiram, is feeling real neglected because you haven’t been nigh the barn since you came. Can’t you step out and visit with him for a spell now? I’ll call you whenever Miss Hetty wants you.”

Polly needed no second invitation. She was ready to go wherever anyone wished, but, above all things, she had longed to see the barn, with Daisy in it; and Hiram reminded her in some way of Uncle Sam Blodgett, though she could not have told just how. Certainly the two men did not look alike, for Uncle Blodgett was lean and wiry, with a long, thin, nervous face, while Hiram was stout and ruddy, and never in a hurry about anything.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

By J. ALLISON ATWOOD

BOBOLINK AND THE STRANGER

HAS it ever seemed strange to you why Bobolink should have two suits of feathers so entirely different? Why, when he comes to us in the spring, should he wear a beautiful black and white costume, and in the fall put on his modest plumage of brown? It was not always so. The time was when Bobolink wore his best spring plumage all year round; but that, of course, was before his quarrel with Rough-leg. Rough-leg was one of the hawk family and was really the most agreeable of them. He had never been known to disturb the birds, but made his entire living by catching mice. No wonder, then, that he was greatly provoked when, after he had watched patiently for two hours in the hot sun with the vain hope of catching Meadow-mouse, he learned that the latter had been warned by Bobolink. Although generally good-natured, Rough-leg had a temper and he was very angry at Bobolink for poking his bill into other folks’ affairs. He was even heard to threaten to dine upon Bobolink instead of Meadow-mouse.

This, of course, was alarming news to Bobolink, yet he never regretted saving Meadow-mouse, who had been one of his old neighbors for years. Nevertheless, he was greatly worried at the threat and went South to his winter home earlier than usual that year, for fear that Rough-leg would catch him.

The next spring when he reached the Great Meadows again Bobolink supposed that the whole matter had been forgotten. But no. There, on exactly the same limb of the tall poplar, as if he had been waiting all winter, sat Rough-leg. Bobolink was so frightened that he did not stop at the Meadows, as had been his custom, but went straight North many miles even past his summer home. Rough-leg had kept his eyes shut and pretended not to see Bobolink when he arrived on the Meadows, but in reality he was only waiting for a good chance to get his claws upon him. So, of course, his disappointment was great when he opened his eyes, to find that Bobolink had gone. Somehow this only made him more determined, and he resolved to catch Bobolink if it took a year. To a bird a year is a very long time. Rough-leg knew that Bobolink would have to stop at the Great Meadow on his way south in the autumn, for there he must get his food supply. Rough-leg would wait for him. His feathers puffed out and his eyes blazed as he thought of revenge.

At length the hot summer drew to a close, and Bobolink bethought himself of going South, for, of course, he could not remain where he was all winter. But he shuddered as he thought of Rough-leg. He must stop at the Great Meadows else he could get no food until he reached the rice lands.

It would soon begin to get cold, and already the birds around him were leaving. They seemed to enjoy the fact that he could not follow. That mischievous little imp, Maryland Yellow-throat, especially took the greatest delight in peeping out from his brier thicket and then calling in his shrill voice, “Wintery, Wintery, Wintery,” just for the fun of seeing Bobolink look round anxiously at the falling leaves.

And now Blackbird, usually among the last, was ready to go and would soon be feeding lavishly on the reed seeds. They would not last long. Bobolink was at his wit’s end. Then, as from the top of a reed he looked wistfully at the dusky form of departing Song Sparrow, an idea occurred to him.

That afternoon he disappeared. He was not seen on the next day nor the next. At the end of the third day a very strange-looking bird might have been seen hopping about in the thicket which Bobolink had occupied. This newcomer was a modest fellow. He wore a plain, brown coat without a trace of the tall, white collar such as adorned Bobolink; and he talked very little. Indeed, his only note seemed to be a dull, little chirp which no one understood. While folks in the north country were beginning to wonder who this new comer could be, he, too, disappeared. A little later the birds of the Great Meadow were surprised to see what to them was a very odd-looking traveler. He was no other than the brown stranger who had just left the north country. No one remembered to have seen him before.

Rough-leg, who from his high lookout kept his eyes open for Bobolink, saw the newcomer, but the modest plumage awakened little interest in his mind. Blackbird, who always fed near the stranger, kept up a sociable chat all the time, but he was unable to learn anything of the other’s history. Indeed the latter, although polite, paid little attention to his neighbors but went on busily about his food. He soon became quite stout.

The fall had nearly passed. All the birds except Rough-leg, Blackbird, and the stranger had gone South. The leaves had fallen and the reeds turned to brown fagots. Rough-leg still kept up his weary look-out. Occasionally he would launch himself from the now leafless poplar and circle over the Meadows. The brown bird would bolt up nervously from his feeding ground and Blackbird, thinking that it was he who had disturbed him would flutter overhead, calling out heartily, “Don’t mind me-e-e! Don’t mind me-e-e!” But in spite of Blackbird’s cheer the stranger would start up every time Rough-leg’s shadow passed over the meadow. But one day when the autumn wind murmured through the dry reeds the brown bird had flown. A day later Blackbird followed.

Old Rough-leg still keeps up his watch. Every little while you can see him launch out from the great poplar and circle above the Meadows as if perchance Bobolink might be hiding among the reeds. But his search is vain. Often, however, he sees the brown stranger, whom folks have since named Reed Bird, but as he sails back to his favorite perch, he vainly wonders what has become of Bobolink in his beautiful coat of black and white.

Perhaps he would wonder still more if he knew that, although they pass to and fro with each year’s migration, Bobolink and Reed Bird have never met. Couldn’t the reader explain something of this to old Rough-leg?

CHAPTER VII
A Woodland Menagerie

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

“HOO-AH! Yo-ho! H-e-r-e! This way!”

Adrian followed the voice. It led him aside into the woods on the eastern slope, and it was accompanied by an indescribable babel of noises. Running water, screaming of wild fowl, cooing of pigeons, barking of dogs or some other beasts, cackling, chattering, laughter.

All the sounds of wild life ceased suddenly in the tree-tops as Adrian approached, recognizing and fearing his alien presence. But they were reassured by Margot’s familiar summons, and soon the menagerie he had suspected was gathered about her.

“Whew! it just rains squirrels—and chipmunks—and birds! Hello! that’s a fawn; that’s a fox! as sure as I’m alive, a magnificent red fox! Why isn’t he eating the whole outfit? And—hurrah!”

To the amazement of the watcher, there came from the depths of the woods a sound that always thrills the pulses of any hunter—the cry of a moose-calf, accompanied by a soft crashing of branches, growing gradually louder.

“So they tame even the moose—these wonderful people! What next!” and as Adrian leaned forward the better to watch the advance of this uncommon pet, the next concerning which he had speculated also approached. Slowly up the river bank stalked a pair of blue herons, and for them Margot had her warmest welcome.

“Heigho, Xanthippé, Socrates! What laggards! But here’s your breakfast, or one of them. I suppose you’ve eaten the other long ago. Indeed, you’re always eating, gourmands!”

The red fox eyed the new-comers with a longing eye and crept cautiously to his mistress’ side as she coaxed the herons nearer. But she was always prepared for any outbreak of nature among her forest friends, and drew him also close to her with the caressing touch she might have bestowed upon a beloved house-dog.

“Reynard, you beauty! your head in my lap, sir;” and dropping to a sitting posture, she forced him to obey her. There he lay, winking but alert, which she scattered her store of good things right and left. There were nuts for the squirrels and ’munks, grains and seeds for the winged creatures, and for the herons, as well as Reynard, a few bits of dried meat. But for Browser, the moose-calf, she pulled the tender twigs and foliage with a lavish hand. When she had given some dainty to each of her oddly-assorted pets, she sprang up, closed the box, and waved her arms in dismissal. The more timid of the creatures obeyed her, but some held their ground persistently, hoping for greater favors. To these she paid no further attention, and still keeping hold of Reynard’s neck, started back to her human guest.

The fox, however, declined to accompany her. He distrusted strangers, and, it may be, had designs of his own upon some other forest wilding.

“That’s the worst of it. We tame them and they love us. But they are only conquered, not changed. Isn’t Reynard beautiful? Doesn’t he look noble? as noble as a St. Bernard dog? If you’ll believe me, that fellow is thoroughly acquainted with every one of Angelique’s fowls, and knows he must never, never touch them. Yet he’d eat one, quick as a flash, if he got a chance. He’s a coward, though; and by his cowardice we manage him. Sometimes,” sighed Margot, who had led the way into a little path toward the lake.

“How odd! You seem actually grieved at this state of things.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I love him, and I have a notion that love will do anything with anybody or anything. I do believe it will, but that I haven’t found just the right way of showing it. Uncle laughs at me, a little, but helps me all he can. Indeed, it is he who has tamed most of our pets. He says it is the very best way to study natural history.”

“H-m-m! He intends your education shall be complete!”

“Of course. But one thing troubles him. He cannot teach me music. And you seem surprised. Aren’t girls, where you come from, educated? Doesn’t everybody prize knowledge?”

“That depends. Our girls are educated, of course. They go to college and all that, but I think you’d down any of them in exams. For my own part, I ran away just because I did not want this famous ‘education’ you value. That is, I didn’t of a certain sort. I wasn’t fair with you awhile ago, you said. I’d like to tell you my story now.”

“I’d like to hear it, of course. But, look yonder! Did you ever see anything like that?”

Margot was proud of the surprises she was able to offer this stranger in her woods, and pointed outward over the lake. They had just come to an open place on the shore and the water spread before them, sparkling in the sunlight. Something was crossing the smooth surface, heading straight for their island, and of a nature to make Adrian cry out:

“Oh! for a gun!”

“IF you had one you should not use it! Are you a dreadful hunter?”

Margot had turned upon her guest with a defiant fear. As near as she had ever come to hating anything she hated the men, of whom she had heard, who used this wonderful northland as a murder ground. That was what she named it in her uncompromising judgment of those who killed for the sake of killing, for the lust of blood that was in them.

“Yes; I reckon I am a ‘dreadful’ hunter, for I am a mighty poor shot. But I’d like a try at that fellow. What horns! what a head! and how can that fellow in the canoe keep so close to him, yet not finish him?”

Adrian was so excited he could not stand still. His eyes gleamed, his hands clenched, and his whole appearance was changed; greatly for the worse, the girl thought, regarding him with disgust.

“Finish him? That’s King Madoc, Pierre’s trained moose. You’d be finished yourself, I fear, if you harmed that splendid creature. Pierre’s a lazy fellow, mostly, but he spent a long time teaching Madoc; and with his temper—I’m thankful you lost your gun.”

“Do you never shoot things up here? I saw you giving the fox and herons what looked like meat. You had a stew for supper, and fish for breakfast. I don’t mean to be impertinent, but the sight of that big game—whew!”

“Yes; we do kill things, or have them killed, when it is necessary for food. Never in sport. Man is almost the only animal who does that. It’s all terrible, seems to me. Everything preys upon something else, weaker than itself. Sometimes when I think of it, my dinner chokes me. It’s so easy to take life, and only God can create it. But uncle says it is also God’s law to take what is provided, and that there is no mistake, even if it seems such to me.”

But there Margot perceived that Adrian was not listening. Instead, he was watching, with the intensest interest, the closer approach of the canoe, in which sat idle Pierre, holding the reins of a harness attached to his aquatic steed. The moose swam easily, with powerful strokes, and Pierre was singing a gay melody, richer in his unique possession than any king.

“Indeed, it’s not one other has a king for a bow man,” he often asserted.

When he touched the shore and the great animal stood shaking his wet hide, Adrian’s astonishment found vent in a whirlwind of questions that Pierre answered at his leisure and after his kind. But he walked first toward Margot and offered her a great bunch of trailing arbutus flowers, saying:

“I saw these just as I pushed off and went back after them. What’s the matter here, that the flag is up? It was the biggest storm I ever saw. Yes; a deal of beasties are killed back on the mainland. Any dead over here?”

“No, I’m glad to say, none that we know of. But Snowfoot’s shed is down and uncle is going to build a new one. I hope you’ve come to work.”

Pierre laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh! yes.”

But his interest in work was far less than in the stranger whom he now answered, and whose presence on Peace Island was a mystery to him. Heretofore, the only visitors there had been laborers or traders, but this young fellow, so near his own age, and despite his worn clothing, was of another sort. He recognized this, at once, as Margot had done, and his curiosity made him ask:

“Where’d you come from? Hurricane blow you out the sky?”

“About the same. I was lost in the woods and Margot found me and saved my life. What’ll you take for that moose?”

“There isn’t money enough in the State of Maine to buy him!”

“Nonsense! Well, if there was I haven’t it. But you could get a good price for it anywhere.”

Pierre looked Adrian over. From his appearance the lad was not likely to be possessed of much cash, but the moose-trainer was eager for capital, and never missed an opportunity of seeking it.

“I want to go into the show business. What do you say? would you furnish the tents and fixings, and share the profits? I’m no scholar, but maybe you’d know enough to get out the hand bills and so on. What do you say?”

“I—say—What you mean, Pierre Ricord, keepin’ the master waitin’ your foolishness and him half sick? What kept you twice as long as you ought? Hurry up, now, and put that moose in the cow yard and get to work.”

The interruption was caused by Angelique, and it was curious to see the fear with which she inspired the great fellow, her son. He forgot the stranger, the show business, and all his own immediate interests, and with the docility of a little child obeyed. Unhitching his odd steed, he turned the canoe bottom upwards on the beach and hastily led the animal toward that part of the island clearing where Snowfoot stood in a little fenced-in lot behind her ruined shed.

Adrian went with him, and asked:

“Won’t those two animals fight?”

“Won’t get a chance. When one goes in the other goes out. Here, bossy, you can take the range of the island. Get out!”

She was more willing to go than Madoc to enter the cramped place, but the transfer was made, and Adrian lingered by the osier paling, to observe at close range this subjugated monarch of the forest.

“Oh! for a palette and brush!” he exclaimed, while Pierre walked away.

“What would you do with them?”

Margot had followed the lads and was beside Adrian, though he had not heard her footsteps. Now he wheeled about, eager, enthusiastic.

“Paint—as I have never painted before!”

“Oh!—are you an—artist?”

“I want to be one. That’s why I’m here.”

“What! What do you mean?”

“I told you I was a runaway. I didn’t say why, before. It’s truth. My people, my—father—forced me to college. I hated it. He was forcing me to business. I liked art. All my friends were artists. When I should have been at the books I was in their studios. They were a gay crowd, spent money like water when they had it; merrily starved and pinched when they hadn’t. A few were worse than spendthrifts, and with my usual want of sense I made that particular set my intimates. I never had any money, though, after it was suspected what my tastes were, except a little that my mother gave.”

Margot was listening breathlessly and watching intently. At the mention of his mother a shadow crossed Adrian’s face, softening and bettering it, and as they rose to go home she saw that his whole mood had changed.

IT was weeks afterward when they were again surrounded by the many wonderful inhabitants of the forest that Adrian mentioned his own parents. Their talk drifted from vexing subjects to merry anecdotes of his childhood, in the home where he had been the petted, only brother of a half-dozen elder sisters. But while they laughed and Margot listened, her fingers were busy weaving a great garland of wild laurel, and when it was finished she rose and said:

“It’s getting late. There’ll be just time to take this to the grave. Will you go with me?”

“Yes.”

But this was another of the puzzling things he found at Peace Island. In its very loveliest nook was the last resting-place of Cecily Romeyn, and the sacred spot was always beautiful with flowers, or, in the winter, with brilliant berries. Both the master and the girl spoke of their dead as if she were still present with them; or, at least, lived as if she were only removed from sight but not from their lives.

When Margot had laid the fresh wreath upon the mound, she carefully removed the faded flowers of the day before, and a thought of his own mother stirred Adrian’s heart.

“I wish I could send a bunch of such blossoms to the mater!”

“How can you live without her, since she is still alive?”

His face hardened again.

“You forget. I told you that she, too, turned against me at the last. It was a case of husband or son, and she made her choice.”

“Oh! no. She was unhappy. One may do strange things then, I suppose. But I tell you one thing: if I had either father or mother, anywhere in this world; no matter if either was bad—had done everything that is sinful!—nothing should ever, ever make me leave them. Nothing. I would bear anything, do anything, suffer anything—but I would be true to them. I could not forget that I was their child, and if I had done wrong to them my whole life would be too short to make atonement.”

She spoke strongly, as she felt. So early orphaned, she had come to think of her parents as the most wonderful blessing in the power of God to leave one. She loved her Uncle Hugh like a second father, but her tenderest dreams were over the pictured faces of her dead.

“Where is your father buried?”

It was the simplest, most natural question.

“I—don’t—know.”

They stared at one another. It was proof of her childlike acceptance of her life that she had never asked—had never thought to do so, even. She had been told that he had passed out of sight before they came to Peace Island and the forest, and had asked no further concerning him. Of his character and habits she had heard much. Her uncle was never weary in extolling his virtues; but of his death he had said only what has been written.

“But—I must know right away!”

In her eagerness she ran, and Adrian followed as swiftly. He was sorry for his thoughtless inquiry, but regret came too late. He tried to call Margot back, but she would not wait.

“I must know—I must know right away. Why have I never thought before?”

Hugh Dutton was resting after a day of study and mental labor, and his head leaned easily upon his cushioned chair. Yet as his dear child entered his room he held out his arms to draw her to his knee.

“In a minute, uncle. But Adrian has asked me something and it is the strangest thing that I cannot answer him. Where is my father buried?”

If she had dealt him a mortal blow he could not have turned more white. With a groan that pierced her very heart, he stared at Margot with wide, unseeing eyes; then sprang to his feet and fixed upon poor Adrian a look that scorched.

“You! you!” he gasped, and, sinking back, covered his face with his hands.

WHAT had he done?

Ignorant why his simple question should have such strange results, that piercing look made Adrian feel the veriest culprit, and he hastened to leave the room and the cabin. Hurrying to the beach, he appropriated Margot’s little canvas canoe and pushed out upon the lake. From her and Pierre he had learned to handle the light craft with considerable skill, and he now worked off his excitement by swift paddling, so that there was soon a wide distance between him and the island.

Then he paused and looked around him, upon as fair a scene as could be found in any land. Unbroken forests bounded this hidden Lake Profundus, out of whose placid waters rose that mountain-crowned, verdure-clad Island of Peace, with its picturesque home and its cultured owner, who had brought into this best of the wilderness the best of civilization.

“What is this mystery? How am I concerned in it? For I am, and mystery there is. It is like that mist over the island, which I can see and feel but cannot touch. Pshaw! I’m getting sentimental, when I ought to be turning detective. Yet I couldn’t do that—pry into the private affairs of a man who’s treated me so generously. What shall I do? How can I go back there? But where else can I go?”

At the thought that he might never return to the roof he had quitted, a curious homesickness seized him.

“Who’ll hunt what game they need? Who’ll catch their fish? Who’ll keep the garden growing? Where can I study the forest and its furry people, at first hand, as in the Hollow? And I was doing well—not as I hope to do, but getting on. Margot was a merciless critic, but even she admitted that my last picture had the look, the spirit of the woods. That’s what I want to do, what Mr. Dutton, also, approved: to bring glimpses of these solitudes back to the cities and the thousands who can never see them in any other way. Well—let it go. I can’t stay and be a torment to anybody, and sometime in some other place, maybe—Ah!”

What he had mistaken for the laughter of a loon was Pierre’s halloo. He was coming back, then, from the mainland where he had been absent these past days. Adrian was thankful. There was nothing mysterious or perplexing about Pierre, whose rule of life was extremely simple:

“Pierre, first, second, and forever. After Pierre, if there was anything left, then—anybody, the nearest at hand,” would have expressed the situation; but his honest, unblushing selfishness was sometimes a relief.

“One always knows just where to find Pierre,” Margot had said.

So Adrian’s answering halloo was prompt, and, turning about, he watched the birch leaving the shadow of the forest and heading for himself. It was soon alongside and Ricord’s excited voice was shouting his good news:

“Run him up to seven hundred and fifty!”

“But I thought there wasn’t money enough anywhere to buy him?”

Pierre cocked his dark head on one side and winked.

“Madoc sick and Madoc well are different.”

“Oh, you wretch! Would you sell a sick moose and cheat the buyer?”

“Would I lose such a pile of money for foolishness? I guess not.”

“But suppose, after you parted with him, he got well?”

Again the woodlander grinned and winked.

“Could you drive the King?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s all right. I buy him back, what you call trade. One do that many times, good enough. If—”

Pierre was silent for some moments, during which Adrian had steadily paddled backward to the island, keeping time with the other boat, and without thinking what he was doing. But when he did remember, he turned to Pierre and asked:

“Will you take me across the lake again?”

“What for?”

“No matter. I’ll just leave Margot’s canoe and you do it. There’s time enough.”

“What’ll you give me?”

“Pshaw! What can I give you? Nothing.”

“That’s all right. My mother, she wants the salt,” and he kicked the sack of that valuable article lying at his feet. “There, she’s on the bank now, and it’s not she will let me out of her sight again, this long time.”

“You’d go fast enough for money.”

“Maybe not. When one has Angelique Ricord for mére—U-m-m!”

But it was less for Pierre than for Adrian that Angelique was waiting, and her expression was kinder than common.

“Carry that salt to my kitchen cupboard, son, and get to bed. No; you’ve no call to tarry. What the master’s word is for his guest is nothin’ to you.”

Pierre’s curiosity was roused. Why had Adrian wanted to leave the island at nightfall, since there was neither hunting nor fishing to be done? Sport for sport’s sake—that was forbidden. And what could be the message he was not to hear? He meant to learn, and lingered, busying himself uselessly in beaching the canoes afresh, after he had once carefully turned them bottom side upwards: in brushing out imaginary dirt, readjusting his own clothing—a task he did not often bother with—and in general making himself a nuisance to his impatient parent.

But, so long as he remained, she kept silence, till, unable to hold back her rising anger, she stole up behind him, unperceived, and administered a sounding box upon his sizable ears.

“Would you? To the cupboard, miserable!” and Adrian could not repress a smile at the meekness with which the great woodlander submitted to the little woman’s authority.

“Xanthippé and Socrates!” he murmured, and Pierre heard him. So, grimacing at him from under the heavy sack, he called back “Fifty dollar. Tell her fifty—dollar.”

“What did he mean by fifty dollar?” demanded Angelique.

“I suppose something about that show business of his. It is his ambition, you know, and I must admit I believe he’d be a success at it.”

“Pouf! There is more better business than the showin’ one, of takin’ God’s beasties in the towns and lettin’ the fool people stare. The money comes that way is not good money.”

“Oh, yes. It’s all right, fair Angelique. But what is the word for me?”

“It is: that you come with me, at once, to the master. He will speak with you before he sleeps. Yes. And, Adrian, lad!”

“Well, Angelique?”

“This is the truth. Remember—when the heart is sore tried the tongue is often sharp. There is death—that is a sorrow—God sends it. There are sorrows God does not send, but the evil one. Death is but joy to them. What the master says, answer; and luck light upon your lips.”

The lad had never seen the old housekeeper so impressive nor so gentle. At the moment it seemed as if she almost liked him, though, despite the faithfulness with which she had obeyed her master’s wishes and served him, he had never before suspected it.

“Thank you, Angelique. I am troubled, too, and I will take care that I neither say nor resent anything harsh. More than that, I will go away. I have stayed too long already, though I had hoped I was making myself useful. Is he in his own study?”

“Yes, and the little maid is with him. No—there she comes, but she is not laughin’, no. Oh! the broken glass. Scat! Meroude. Why leap upon one to scare the breath out, that way? Pst! ’Tis here that tame creatures grow wild and wild ones tame. Scat! I say.”

Margot was coming through the rooms, holding Reynard by the collar she made him wear whenever he was in the neighborhood of the hen-house, and Tom limped listlessly along upon her other side. There was trouble and perplexity in the girl’s face, and Angelique made a great pretense of being angry with the cat, to hide that in her own.

But Margot noticed neither her nor Adrian, and sitting down upon the threshold dropped her chin in her hands and fixed her eyes upon the darkening lake.

“Why, mistress! The beast here at the cabin, and it nightfall! My poor fowls!”

“He’s leashed, you see, Angelique. And I’ll lock the poultry up, if you like,” observed Adrian. Anything to delay a little an interview from which he shrank with something very like that cowardice of which the girl had once accused him.

The housekeeper’s ready temper flamed, and she laid an ungentle touch upon the stranger’s shoulder.

“Go, boy. When Master Hugh commands, ’tis not for such as we to disobey.”

“All right. I’m going; and I’ll remember.”

At the inner doorway he turned and looked back. Margot was still sitting, thoughtful and motionless, the firelight from the great hearth making a Rembrandt-like silhouette of her slight figure against the outer darkness and touching her wonderful hair with a flood of silver. Reynard and the eagle, the wild foresters her love had tamed, stood guard on either side. It was a picture that appealed to Adrian’s artistic sense and he lingered a little, regarding its effects, even considering what pigments would best convey them.

HER PETS STOOD GUARD ON EITHER SIDE

“Adrian!”

“Yes, Angelique—yes.”

When the door shut behind him, Angelique touched her darling’s shining head, and the toil-stiffened fingers had for it almost a mother’s tenderness.

“Sweetheart, the bed-time.”

“I know—I’m going, Angelique; my uncle sent me from him to-night. It was the first time in all my life that I remember.”

“Maybe, little stupid, because you’ve never waited for that, before, but were quick enough to see whenever you were not wanted.”

“He—there’s something wrong, and Adrian is the cause of it. I—Angelique, you tell me—uncle did not hear, or reply, any way—where is my father buried?”

Angelique was prepared and had her answer ready.

“’Tis not for the servant to reveal what her master hides. No—all will come to you in good time. Tarry the master’s will. But, that silly Pierre! What think you? Is it fifty dollar would be the price of they tame blue herons? Hey?”

“No; nor fifty times fifty. Pierre knows that. Love is more than money.”

“Sometimes, to some folks. Well, what would you? That son will be havin’ even me, his old mother, in his show—why not? As a cur’osity—the only livin’ human bein’ can make that ingrate mind. Yes—to bed, ma p’tite.”

Margot rose and housed her pets. This threat of Pierre’s, that he would eventually carry off the foresters and exhibit their helplessness to staring crowds, always roused her fiercest indignation; and this result was just what Angelique wanted, at present, and she murmured her satisfaction.

“Good! That bee will buzz in her ear till she sleeps, and so sound she’ll hear no dip of the paddle, by and by. Here, Pierre, my son, you’re wanted.”

“What for, now? Do leave me be. I’m going to bed. I’m just wore out, trot-trottin’ from Pontius to Pilate, luggin’ salt, and—” he finished by yawning most prodigiously.

“Firs’-rate sign, that gapin’. Yes—sign you’re healthy and able to do all’s needed. There’s no rest for you this night. Come—here—take this basket to the beach. If your canoe needs pitchin’, pitch it. There’s the lantern. If one goes into the show business he learns right now to work and travel o’ nights. Yes—start—I’ll follow and explain.”

[TO BE CONTINUED]

By Julia McNair Wright

NEITHER age, learning, nor fortune are needed to enable one to love and admire these gracious children of beauty—the flowers.

When the chill winds of autumn sound a knell for their departure, we have a sense of loneliness and loss. As the winter passes we long for the days when the blossoms shall come again.

The first tiny blossom of the star-flower; the first little tasseled bloom on the birch; the first adder’s tongue, or violet, or broad, white salver of the mandrake flower; the snowy banners of the dogwood; the gray-white of the brave little plantain-leaved everlasting, fill all hearts with delight.

The life object of the flower is the production of seed. All the parts of the flower are in some way fitted to further that end. What is the story of the flower?

The stem and branches having developed a certain amount of leafage, may at length put forth blossoms. These spring, as leaves do, from the tips or axils of the branches. In truth, a flower is a modified branch, and all its parts are modified leaves. We will pass over this distinction of science, and will consider the flower as we popularly think and speak of it, the beautiful producer of seeds.

What is called a perfect flower we will examine in the common buttercup of the fields. At the top of the stem we find a cup or calyx of five narrow, separate green leaves, called sepals; these form the outer wrapping of the bud, and maintain and protect the more delicate inner parts of a flower. Within the calyx is the corolla—five glossy, yellow, roundish petals, set in a circle; within this we have another ring of downy, bright-yellow stamens, and still within these, protected by all the others, certain yellow pistils, fewer and firmer in texture than the stamens.

All of these four rings of parts are placed upon the fleshy, enlarged top of the stem, which is called the receptacle. The yellow of this flower is very yellow, and the stem and leaves are very green. The stem and leaves of our buttercups are hairy; the whole plant is provided with a sharp, stinging juice.

The buttercup, as we have seen, is made up of four circles, each composed of several distinct parts.

A flower with several petals is called polypetalous.

Other flowers have but one petal; they are styled monopetalous. In fact, in such one-petaled flowers a number of petals have simply grown together. Let us take the morning-glory as an example. Pull off the calyx; it comes off as a whole, but is cleft half way down into five lobes, showing that it is truly composed of five united petals. Now pull the corolla from another calyx cup; it comes as a whole, and is not cleft as the calyx is, but it has five stripes, and at each stripe the margin has a little point, and we can make out very plainly that here are five prettily-pointed petals united into one, with a long tube made of the claws, and a beautiful wide margin made of the banners. Four-o’clocks, stramonium, Canterbury bells, phlox, and many other flowers have these one-petaled corollas. Such corollas differ greatly in shape, owing to the length and diameter of the tube and margin.

In the polypetalous corollas we have the rich splendors of roses, from single to the fullest double, where cultivation has changed all stamens and pistils into petals. The polypetalous tribe give us also the lovely, perfume-filled chalices of the lilies; the peas, with their many-colored banners; the charming violets, with their spurred petals; the columbine, with its horns of plenty.

Color of some kind is one of the distinguishing features of blossoms.

Fragrance is another marked characteristic of plants, and is chiefly in the flower.

There are plenty of scentless plants, yet the majority are full of perfume. Some few have a very disagreeable smell. Fragrance in plants comes from certain oils or resin laid up in different parts of the plant, whether in the leaves, bark, wood, fruit, seeds, or blossoms.

In the month of May flowers crowd upon us in numbers so great that we are at a loss for a time to study them. Even if April has been cold, the matchless arbutus has found time to bloom above last year’s protecting leaves and has passed away, leaving only a memory of its fragrance and rosy beauty. The dandelions—jolly, popular, child-beloved gold of the spring—have bloomed, and in May the grass is covered with their delicate clocks; we still, in early May, find the oxalis almost making a carpet for the pasture lands or sunny hillsides. When the oxalis grows in damp shade its flowers and leaves are larger and of a deeper color, but the blossoms are fewer. The leaf of the oxalis is three-divided, like the coarser leaf of the clover.

Some hold that it was the oxalis and not the shamrock leaf which good St. Patrick took to prove the possibility of Trinity—one in three. Some think that really the oxalis and not the clover was the shamrock of the ancient Irish.

May brings us an abundance of wild violets; the blue violets and the beautiful tri-colored pansies come in April, but the blue violets linger, growing larger and richer, while their cousins, the dainty white and the branching yellow violets, appear in the cool, damp woods. The wild violets are scentless, except for the spicy “woods odor” that seems to hang about all wild flowers.

NATURE’S FAVORITES

A much humbler flower than the violets greets us on the roadsides—the bright yellow cinquefoil, its vine leaves, and blossom bearing resemblance to the strawberry, so that the county people call them “yellow-flowered strawberries.” Common as the cinquefoil is, it belongs to a noble, even royal, family among flowers—the rose. It is a poor cousin of the garden’s queen.

WITH THE EDITOR

FOR our name we have chosen Youth. This word is the fullest expression of our ambition. It stands for that period of human life toward which the very young folk look forward with pleasant anticipations, and the old look back with something like regret. It contains the suggestion of hope, vigor, and buoyancy—the ideal requisites of America’s young folks. Surely we might have looked far for a more fitting title.

Although a new name to many, and therefore lacking in that esteem which only long acquaintance can give, we have every reason to expect the same generous greeting which we have heretofore received.

Indeed, beginning with this issue, we shall have with us many who have known Youth in its earlier home. We offer them a hearty welcome and promise to do our utmost to deserve a continuation of their stanch support.

A great many well-meaning people seem to regard childhood and youth in the light of an ailment. This is painfully apparent in their views of juvenile literature. As they might forbid a particular diet to all invalids, so, just as rigidly, they prohibit the reading of this or that form of literature by those afflicted with youthfulness.

Like the doctors who deal with our physical bodies, these very earnest people seldom agree among themselves as to the proper remedies and measures of prevention.

What, most unfortunately, they do agree in, is that the best attention must be given to the supposed ailment instead of to the individual boy or girl. No young person should be allowed to read fairy stories, says one. Nor stories without an immediate moral purpose, declares another. Nor stories of adventure, insists a third.

Now, upon behalf of the young people themselves, we wish to enter our most solemn objection to this kind of reasoning.

There are books, of course, which should not be read by young people, but as a rule these same books should not be read by grown people, either. They are essentially bad, and no one will defend them.

We admit, moreover, that no highly improbable fiction is healthy as a regular diet. But we do assert that for a child of undeveloped imagination—one who is inclined to take the world too literally—there is, perhaps, nothing better than a well-written fairy-story. It tends to awaken that faculty of the brain which gives life half its pleasure. What, again, can better counteract the thoughtless cruelty of childhood than such a story as Black Beauty? And yet, in the great essential of possibility, Black Beauty is a fairy tale.

Finally, to one whose mind is over-perplexed by studies or who is inclined to brood over the common occurrences of daily life, what can bring happier relief than some stirring narrative of adventure? Such a story at such a time, even if it has no moral aim, is not without its moral result.

In short, each of these forms of fiction has its own special and valuable function, and those who would make the best use of juvenile literature must recognize the fact and avail themselves of the principle.

Telephoning Without Wire

According to late newspaper accounts, one of the most striking efforts in the direction of wireless communication is that of Mr. Nathan Stubblefield, residing near Murray, in the State of Kentucky.

Mr. Stubblefield holds the theory that sound waves, as well as vibrations of ether, can be conveyed from one point to the other without the use of wires. To prove this, he has invented an apparatus of apparently simple construction, consisting of a transmitter and receiver. Its only metallic contact with any solid object is by means of a wire rod, which is sunk into the ground at the desired point. Through this the waves of sound are conveyed from the transmitter to the ground, and from the ground to the receiver of the other station.

To show that water as well as land will conduct these vibrations, Mr. Stubblefield established communication between a boat some distance from the shore and a station on the land. From the boat, the strains of a musical instrument playing on the shore could be distinctly heard and recognized.

Mr. Stubblefield believes that it is only upon the question of obtaining a high voltage that the unlimited application of his system depends.

The many persons who have viewed his experiments are fully convinced that Mr. Stubblefield will do much toward furthering the possibilities of wireless communication.

The Oxford Scholarships

In the will of the late Cecil Rhodes, provisions were made, setting aside $10,000,000 for the founding of free scholarships for the benefit of students from the British colonies, Germany, and the United States. Of these, the United States is to have two for each State and Territory. The conditions of these scholarships are that the candidates must possess the necessary educational qualifications, manly qualities, a fondness for out-of-door sports, and an “exhibition during their school days of moral force of character and instincts to lead and take interest in their schoolmates.”

Mr. Rhodes’ purpose is to concentrate the scattered forces of the Anglo-Saxon race, which, he believes, contributes the greatest influence for good upon humanity.

Terms of Peace in South Africa

The Edinburgh Evening News of April 12 has stated that Mr. Kruger, in behalf of the Boers, desires peace on the following conditions:

Absolute independence will not be made an issue if otherwise a satisfactory form of government can be reached.

The proclamation of banishment must be canceled, the confiscated property restored to its owners, and all other property destroyed by the British soldiers must be paid for by their government.

The recognition of both languages in the schools and courts.

The pardon of rebels and the release of political prisoners.

All prisoners of war are to be returned to South Africa on a fixed date.

The foregoing terms and conditions are to be carried out under the supervision of one or more of the powers friendly to the Boer cause.

Negotiations have now reached such a point as to promise a speedy termination of the war in South Africa.

General Miles’ Plan for the Philippines

In the recent correspondence between Lieutenant-General Miles and the Secretary of War, the former asked for authority to take with him to the Philippines ten Cubans and Porto Ricans, for the purpose of illustrating to the inhabitants of those islands the beneficial influence of the United States.

A representative group of Filipinos would then, on the return journey, be brought to this country, to familiarize them with our civilization. In this way it was hoped to establish a more amicable understanding between the two peoples.

After a careful consideration of General Miles’ plan, the Secretary of War stated his disapproval of it on the ground that it would be impracticable.

The Decline of Great Salt Lake

The Great Salt Lake, which for a number of years past has been gradually diminishing in size, is now causing some little apprehension to the people of Utah. Although not well understood, it is thought that the diversion of the streams which formerly fed this interesting body of water, for the purpose of agriculture, is partly responsible for its decrease. The cutting away of forests also is supposed to have had its effect in diminishing the water supply of the region.

The Great Power House

The largest power house in the world is that recently erected in New York City by the Manhattan Elevated Railroad. The total energy of its entire system of engines is 1,000,000 horse-power. This is capable of being converted into a force of 600,000 electrical horse-power, in which form it will be used for propelling the trains of the elevated railroad.

IN-DOORS

PARLOR MAGIC

By Ellis Stanyon

PROGRAMME AND COIN.—The effect of this experiment is as follows: The performer borrows a marked half-dollar from a stranger in the audience, immediately handing it to a gentleman to examine the mark, date, and other items. While this is being done, the performer obtains the loan of a programme, which he tears in half, laying one half on his table. The gentleman is now requested to place the coin in the half of the programme held by the performer, who wraps it up and gives it to him to hold. He now goes to his table for a piece of sealing-wax, which he passes several times over the packet held by the gentleman, when immediately it is transformed into a packet of three envelopes, made from the programme, all gummed and sealed, one inside the other, with the marked half-dollar in the smallest one. As the gentleman cannot see how it is done, the performer repeats the trick for his benefit with the other half of the programme, but the result is the same. This time, however, the gentleman is requested to take the last envelope to the owner of the money, that he may open it and satisfy himself that it actually contains his own coin.

The six envelopes are now rolled up and given to the gentleman to hand to the lady, to keep as a souvenir of the entertainment, but before he has proceeded far the performer tells him he has dropped one of them (he has not really done so), and, failing to find it, he very naturally begins to count those in his hand, when he discovers to his astonishment that he holds the programme restored.

Explanation.—After the performer has borrowed the half-dollar, in the act of handing it to the gentleman for examination he adroitly changes it for one of his own, bearing the mark of a cross, which mark, is, of course, taken for that of the owner of the coin. The performer now asks for a programme, and while it is being procured he drops the actual borrowed coin into the smallest of the three envelopes, which are placed one inside the other and concealed by a book or some other object on the table. To facilitate the introduction of the coin, a tin tube, with a rather wide mouth, just large enough for the coin to pass through, is placed in the smallest envelope. After this coin has been introduced this tube is withdrawn, left in its concealed position, and the envelopes closed.

The flaps of the envelopes are sealed with wax beforehand and prepared with the best gum arabic, which is allowed to dry. They are moistened with the tongue just before the performance of the trick, and, if cut as in Fig. 7, can all be closed at once while lying on the table. This packet is laid on the table under cover of the half of a programme used in the second stage of the trick.

Fig. 7

To begin, the performer palms a similar packet of envelopes containing another half-dollar marked in exactly the same way as the one he handed to the gentleman, and it is hardly necessary to say, having the same appearance and bearing the same date. When rolling up the programme the performer retains it and hands the gentleman the packet of envelopes; and when going to his table for the wax leaves half of the programme and the half-dollar thereon. By the time the first coin is taken from the envelopes the packet containing the actual borrowed coin will be dry and ready for use.

The remaining portion of the trick will now be understood. When the performer goes for the other half of the programme he takes the packet of envelopes with it and substitutes it as before, and the trick proceeds as described. When collecting the six envelopes for the final effect, the performer palms a duplicate programme which has been lying on his table behind some object, and substitutes this as before when giving the gentleman the envelopes to hand to the lady.

Filtrated Coin.—Borrow a half-dollar from one of the company, wrap it up in a handkerchief, and request some one to hold it over a glass of water.

Presto! The coin is dropped into the glass and heard to jingle. When the handkerchief is removed the half-dollar has disappeared, apparently dissolved in the water. This very effective trick is accomplished by means of a glass disc of the same diameter as a half-dollar. The modus operandi is as follows: Borrow a half-dollar and while holding it in your hand throw a handkerchief over it. Under cover of the handkerchief exchange the coin for the glass disc which you have concealed in your palm. Now get some one to hold the disc by its edges through the handkerchief, directly over the glass of water. He naturally supposes that he is holding the coin.

Pronounce your magical phrase, and command your volunteer assistant to drop the half-dollar into the glass. It will fall with a jingle similar to that of a coin, and will lie invisible at the bottom of the glass. You may even pour off the water, but the disc, thanks to the power of suction, will remain in the same position, firmly attached to the drinking-glass. To complete the effect the genuine half-dollar should then be produced from under the table or from the pocket of the volunteer assistant.

THE OLD TRUNK

For the month of May we will award a year’s subscription to Youth for each of the best three original puzzles submitted to us before June 1st. The names of the successful competitors, together with the prize-winning puzzles, will be published in an early number of the magazine. Of the remaining puzzles, all of those which show merit will also appear in the succeeding issues. This offer is open to every one.

The correct answers for the April puzzles are given below:

(1) Deprive farewell of head and tail and leave expire; (2) the usual covering of the head, and leave atmosphere; (3) on fire, and leave whim; (4) distant, and leave a note in the musical scale; (5) collections of regulations, and leave song; (6) an image of false worship, and leave a verb of action; (7) employed for money, and leave anger; (8) free from obscurity, and leave meadow.

When the above words have been correctly guessed and then beheaded and abridged, their initials, when placed one above each other in the order given, will spell the name of a well-known garden flower.

—O. T. M.

DIAMOND

1. a letter; 2. a bank; 3. women; 4. specimens; 5. a quarrel; 6. to discern; 7. a letter.

—Ruth.

SUBSTITUTION

Supply the objects described in the parentheses and read by sound:

If a great storm were (a body of water north-west of North America) down on the British Isles, do you suppose you could ring a (city in Ireland) and make the (body of water west of England) the (a watch manufacturing town of the United States) the city of (the bark of a kind of oak)?

—Sidney M.

CHARADE

THE BOUQUET

In the following sentences there are eight flowers. Can you identify them?

Alyar rowed his best, but Fox, a listless oarsman on most occasions, won the race.

Can Nature be excelled on Easter day?

For the table of the Pope, onyx is brought from afar, but usually unpolished.

“Hannibal,” Samuel remarked, looking up from his book of prose, “was the world’s greatest general.”

ENIGMA

YOUTH

An Illustrated Monthly Journal for Boys and Girls

Edited by HERBERT LEONARD COGGINS

Single Copies 10 Cents  Annual Subscription $1.00

Sent postpaid to any address. Subscriptions can begin at any time and must be paid in advance.

The publishers should be promptly informed of any change of address.

Remittances may be made in the way most convenient to the sender, and should be addressed to

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
923 Arch Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

CHANGE OF NAME

As most of our readers are aware, the name originally used for this magazine was only temporary, to be continued until a better one might be found. Many other names have been suggested, but none of them seemed to be just what was wanted. A name that has been in our minds from the beginning was Youth, but, for the reason that it had already been used with another publication, we could not adopt it. We have now purchased the right to use this name, and shall continue it henceforth. It has the advantage of being a title of but one word, a short one at that, and one that is catchy, suggestive, and easily remembered. We hope that it will meet with cordial favor at the hands of all our subscribers.

WELCOME TO OUR NEW FRIENDS

We have not only purchased the right to use the name of Youth, but we have also arranged to fill out with this journal the unexpired subscriptions to the magazine formerly published at Buffalo, N. Y. We hope that our new friends will not only be satisfied with this arrangement, but that they will be so well pleased as to permanently remain with us.

MANUSCRIPTS

The publishers of Youth will be glad to examine manuscripts submitted for publication. They should, if possible, be type-written, with the name and address of the writer appearing on the first page. Stamps should be enclosed for their return if unavailable. Prompt attention will be given to all manuscripts, and such as are found available will be paid for upon acceptance, not upon publication. While all manuscripts will be examined impartially, we shall, of course, be disposed to consider with greater favor those submitted by our subscribers, as we wish to encourage them as much as possible to contribute to our columns.

DATE OF PUBLICATION

It will be noticed that, this month, the magazine reaches our subscribers much earlier than any former issue. We now have everything in such working order that we shall be able to do even better with succeeding numbers. It is our intention to eventually have the magazine in the hands of our subscribers by the first of the month.

$100 PRIZE STORY

In order to encourage our readers to literary effort, we have decided to offer a cash prize of $100 for the best short story for young people, from one to five thousand words in length, suitable for publication in this magazine. Full particulars in regard to this offer will be found in the advertising pages of this issue. The offer is confined exclusively to subscribers of Youth, and we hope to see a large number of stories entered from them for competition.

TELL YOUR FRIENDS

If you are pleased with Youth, we hope you will tell your friends about it, and thus aid very substantially in increasing our circle of acquaintances. In case you have any criticisms or suggestions, we shall be very glad to receive them. Youth is published in the interest of its subscribers, and while we have many ideas which we will carry out in the immediate future, we would be glad, nevertheless, to receive the criticism and advice of our subscribers. It is our purpose, as far as possible, to meet their views.

50c. FOR TWENTY-FIVE NAMES

Anyone who will send us the names and addresses of twenty-five of his friends, boys or girls, and fifty cents additional, will receive a year’s subscription to Youth. The magazine will be sent to any desired address. This is a very easy way for any person, young or old, to obtain a year’s subscription. We wish the twenty-five names for the sole purpose of distributing sample copies of Youth. They will be put to no other use, so that no one need have any hesitation in sending the list.

AN EASY WAY TO EARN MONEY

In order to increase the circulation of Youth as rapidly as possible, we have decided to make some exceptional inducements to boys and girls to obtain subscriptions. The work can be done after school hours, and on Saturdays and holidays. The arrangement we make for doing the canvassing renders the work very agreeable, and the commission offered is so large that it cannot fail to be an inducement.

To such of our readers as would like to earn a considerable sum of money with little effort, we suggest that they send us their names and addresses, and we will at once forward full particulars.