Jack in the Pulpit, June 1884

I would be remiss in not including at least one of Mary Mapes Dodge's "editorial" pieces. However, Dodge wanted to spout no polemics at children, and instead created her alter ego, "Jack-in-the-Pulpit." While she did try to instruct using the Jack-in-the-Pulpit column, to do so she encouraged children to explore nature (animals, birds, plants, sea life, fungi, rocks, soil, etc.) in their own backyards and neighborhoods, as well as to research in books to enrich their knoweldge. Around her she created a cast of characters including "the Little School-ma'am" (not "marm," you notice!) and "Deacon Green." The first question she poses is very typical, and the rest of this column is devoted to a question posed in a previous entry. The children's letters are very illuminating of the vocabulary and writing style of the past. Oh, notice the adult reply: a sure sign parents also loved to peruse their children's St. Nicholas issues, or that children asked their parents about questions posed in the magazine!

Here comes the summer, brimful of flowers and birds and child-folk! And I never felt better in my life. What a world of joy it is!

Well, what shall we begin with this time?

I know. You all have slates, and slate-pencils?

You have? How pleasant it is to hear a hundred thousand youngsters reply so promptly!

And where did these slates and pencils come from?

You bought them, eh? I do not doubt that. But where did they come from originally?

Oho! Jack can not hear a hundred thousand clear voices this time. There is a mumbled confusion of sounds such as "don 't know;" "out of the ground;" "slate;" "made out of clay;" "never heard any one say, sir;" but no definite answer. Let your Jack hear from you by letter, one at a time, please. Any day that astonishing Little School-ma'am may ask us where slate-pencils come from, and we may as well all be ready with an answer.

Now for

FACTS FROM PERSONAL KNOWLEDGE
You all may remember that your Jack asked in April if any of you ever had known of a dog over fourteen years of age, or of a horse older than thirty years, a mule older than fifty, or a sheep past nine summers. The Little School-ma'am and I had been informed that these respective ages had sometimes been exceed, but we were not sure of it, and so we asked for information based on personal knowledge. The deacon, too, wished to get some definite facts on these points.

Many replies have come, and your Jack hereby thanks the writers most truly. Apart from the kindness and painstaking they show, these letters have a practical value; for they answer questions that are often asked by others besides the deacon, the dear Little School-ma'am, and myself. Therefore, I show you some extracts which the deacon has selected for you direct from the letters. Here they are:

A BLACK-AND-TAN 16 YEARS OLD.
Orono, Maine.

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: Our next-door neighbor has a black-and-tan dog that will be sixteen the l0th of May. It weighs seven and a half pounds, and is blind at times.

The owner has a daughter of the same age, and that is how they know the age of the dog so well. Of the other animals I know nothing.

Yours truly, Virginia M. Ring.

A SCOTCH COLLIE 17 YEARS OLD.
Manchester, Vt.

Dear Jack: In answer to your inquiries relative to the age of animals, I would say that we have a full-blood Scotch collie that will be seventeen (17) years old the coming June. I base my knowledge on my always having known him, and that our ages have always been called the same. I would add that Mr. Slap, as we call him, is hale and healthy.

Truly yours, N. M. C.

A MONGREL 16 YEARS OLD.
Providence, R. I.

Dear Jack-in-the-pulpit: Mr. Charles H. Collamore, of Warren, R. I., many years ago possessed a small short-legged mongrel dog, white, with yellow spots, which went by the name of Squint. He had raised it from puppyhood; in fact, it was born on his premises and died there. I remember to have seen it myself in its old age. When it died, the local paper deemed the event worthy to be celebrated in verse. The cause of its death was purely old age.

I knew it to have been very, very old; but was not sure of its exact age at the time of its decease. So, yesterday I obtained from Mr. Collamore the necessary information:

Squint died aged 16 years, 4 months, and 10 days.

Yours truly, George L. Cooke, Jr.

A TERR1ER 19 YEARS OLD.
Providence, R. I.

Dear Jack: In reply to your query in the April St. Nicholas, here is an instance that I can vouch for:

The Rev. S. Brenton Shaw, 142 Broadway, of this city, has in his possession a brown Russian terrier 19 years old. Mrs. Shaw chops his food, and in other ways provides for the animal's comfort. The dog suffers no inconvenience, apparently, from his extreme old age. Mrs. Shaw will not have the dog destroyed.

S. F. Blandin, Office Chief Police, City Hall.

P. S.—I take the licenses for dogs in the office of the Chief of Police. I will make some inquiries of dog owners, as they come for their licenses. I license between three and four thousand. - - - - B.

A BLACK-AND-TAN OVER 18 YEARS OLD.
Washington, D. C.

Dear Jack: Our next-door neighbor has a dog that was 18 years of age last August. There is no doubt about his age, because he was born in Mr. Morrison's own house. The name of the dog is Sport. Sport was shot once, and he carried the ball two years, when a gentleman lanced the place and took the ball out. There still remains a lump on Sport's side where the bullet went into his body, though it does not hurt him now. He is a black-and-tan. All the spots that were tan-color are now gray, except the feet, and they are growing gray. Notwithstanding his great age, Sport is still quite active and playful.

I have heard that General Washington's war-horse lived to the age of thirty-six years. When we were in Wisconsin, papa knew of two horses, one twenty-eight years of age and the other twenty-nine, whose owner occasionally drove them to Galena, 1ll., a distance of fifty miles, and returned the next day; and he told papa that when he turned them loose into pasture, they would frolic like young colts. My great-grandmother had a horse that lived over thirty-five years. I am ten years old.

Yours truly, Herbert V. Purman.

A HORSE 33 YEARS OLD.
Closter, N. J.

Mr. JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: We had an old family horse that my father had used twenty-eight years. The horse was five years old when purchased, in 1855. This animal died last August, aged thirty-three years and four months, to the regret and grief of us all, having been remarkable for his intelligence and speed up to the last few months of his existence.

Alas, poor "Meteor," for he seemed like one of the family! How we missed his familiar neigh when we went in the stable! Father had taught this horse to perform a splendid trick act — he would take a flag in his mouth and wave it and trot around waving it, then he would take a snap whip, and when father was running from him, would try to whip him when he got within a few feet. Meteor would get down and pull father's boot off, as much as to say: "You can not go to bed with your boots on." Then the horse would lie perfectly still while the whip was snapped and switched violently over him, and not get up till he was told his oats were ready for him, when he would spring to his feet and shake his head up and down to express his satisfaction. Then he would stand on a box about a foot and a half high and turn around to the right and left, holding one foot up extended,and change his feet when he reversed the movement. He also would keep time to music.

We drove him out every day for exercise, and he would trot real fast for a short distance and then subside into a walk. In conclusion, I would state that I have driven this horse since I was eight years old, being at times all alone in the carriage. - - - - - - J. T.

ANOTHER HORSE 33 YEARS OLD; AND CAT 14 YEARS OLD.
Washington, D. C.

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: My grandfather owned two horses, one of which lived to be thirty, the other thirty-three years of age. I also owned a cat which lived to the age of fourteen. Although I never heard of a dog as old as that, I thought that I would write and tell you what I know personally concerning "the ages of animals."

Yours, Mary R. Church.

A MARE 38 YEARS OLD.
Moorestown.

Dear Jack: You ask, "Has any one ever heard of a horse older than thirty years?" Yes, I have. We have a neighbor who owns a mare thirty-eight years old. Her name is Nelly. Only last summer she was seen to
jump a three-rail fence, and seemed to enjoy her dust bath as much as her son Harry does. He is twenty-one, —just eight years older than I. The Moorestown Chronicle had a paragraph lately referring to old Nelly:

Jonathan Pettit is the owner of a Mayday mare which has arrived at the respectable age of thirty-eight years, twenty-two of which have been spent while in his possession. Though not so spry as she used to be, the animal did plenty of good hard work only last summer, but is used now only as a carriage horse.

I have heard that there is a white mule, now being taken care of at one of our army posts in Texas, which served through the Mexican War, and is now a pensioner of the U. S. Government. Is it true?

Faithfully yours, Jenny H. M.

A MARE 40 YEARS OLD.
Near Bound Brook, N. J.

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: Seeing in the St. Nicholas that you wanted to hear about a horse over thirty, or a dog over fourteen, I will write you of both. We have here at our home a mare which is forty years old. She was bought when she was three years old, for my uncle to ride when he was a little boy. She has been in the family thirty-seven years. She is too old now to ride, but I drive her. I will be happy to show her to any one who would like to see her. My father owned a dog that lived to be fourteen. It was born in his printing-ink factory in 1855 and died there in 1872.

Your young reader, George Mather.

A MULE 63 YEARS OLD.
Newark, N. J.

Dear Jack : The late Professor Mapes had on his farm, in New Jersey, a mule named Kitty,— a hardy, willing worker,— famous throughout the neighborhood for having gone beyond her fiftieth year, and for being quite able to compete with mules not half that age. Kitty Mule, as we called her, lived to be sixty-three years old, and she was in working order up to within one week of her death. Her history was well known. I saw her daily for twenty-seven years. - - - - - P. T. Q.

A HORSE 37 YEARS OLD.
Newton, Iowa.

Dear Jack: I can tell you about a horse that lived to be thirty-seven years old! He was owned by a Mr. Steele, in Derby, Vt. When he was about thirty years old, Mr. Steele gave him to a gentleman in Barton, Vt., requiring him to sign a contract that he should be well kept and kindly cared for while he lived, and when he died should be well buried in a coffin made of two-inch pine plank. A few years after another friend of the fine old horse took him to Glover, Vt., to live with him, and, according to contract, took the best of care of him; giving him hay-tea to drink and pudding and milk to eat.

One day he received a visit from another friend, who, thinking (perhaps) that a change of air would be pleasant for the old fellow, took him home with him to North- field, Vt., where he soon after died, aged thirty-seven years, several months, and some days. His beautiful dark bay coat was taken off, made to look as natural as life, and placed in the Museum at the Capitol in Montpelier. He and all his family were noted for their beauty, lofty style, and great intelligence. My papa has owned several of them, and we have a picture of one.

I have taken the St. Nicholas since I was ten years old, am now thirteen, and think, with St. Nicholas to read and a good horse to ride, a boy ought to be all right.

Your friend, Fred K. Emerson.

The Sapphire Signet, Chapter 4

by Augusta Huiell Seaman, beginning November 1915

CHAPTER IV: A KEY TO THE MYSTERY

The next few days passed in a fever of impatience for Margaret. Each afternoon she besieged the twins for news of Corinne and her progress with the "cipher." And every day their report was about the same:

"She thinks she 's on the right track, but she can't tell surely yet. It's pretty difficult, you know, and Corinne has to study and do other things, too, besides puzzling over that."

"But has she found out any of the letters?" Margaret would demand.

"She thinks so, but she can't be sure till she 's made them all out definitely." And Bess would add, "Now, do be reasonable, Miss President! Your secretary is doing her very best. But if you don't think she's a success, you might take the job away from her and give it to me!" At which Margaret would chuckle derisively.

Truth to tell, the twins were almost as anxious as she for a solution of the mystery. The sudden introduction of this new element into their hitherto wholly athletic and unimaginative existences, they found, to their surprise, even more diverting than the most exciting tennis-match or basket-ball struggle. About a week after Corinne's first visit, all three burst in breathlessly upon Margaret, one cold afternoon, and transported her to the seventh heaven of delight with this exciting news: "Corinne 's got it, at last! Have n't you, Corinne?"

"Yes," she admitted, giving Margaret a big hug of greeting, "I think I 've puzzled out most of the letters now, and I 've even worked out a few of the first sentences—"

"Yes, and she says they 're awfully strange!" interrupted the twins, in chorus. "And she would n't tell us a word, though we begged her hard!"

"Well, Miss President," laughed Corinne, "it seemed to me that this was a thing to be revealed only in a solemn meeting of the club and in your presence. Was I right?"

"Indeed you were!" declared Margaret. "Don't you ever tell them a thing before you 've told me, will you?"

"I won't!" promised Corinne. "It shall be the first rule of our society,—no discoveries told to ordinary members before the president hears them! And now let's get to business!" They all drew up before the cozy open fire.

"Oh, isn't this lovely!" sighed Corinne. She opened the old account-book and placed beside it a paper on which she had written the letters of the alphabet, and next to each the sign that appeared to stand for it.

"I had the worst time puzzling this out!" she said. "I worked and worked over it and changed them all around nearly forty times before I struck anything that seemed just right. But now I guess we 've got it, at last! I 'm sure 'A' is this perpendicular straight line, 'B' the rectangle with the bottom missing, 'C' the horizontal parallels—and so on. Now, as I 've said, I 've made out the first few sentences and they seem awfully strange! Here they are." She turned the paper over and read:

"'This is a house of mystery, and strange, unaccountable dread. I feel daily that something menaces me—that my life is not safe.' " A delicious shudder ran through the listening group.

"Oh, isn't this gorgeous!" half whispered Margaret. "It fills me with—with thrills!" Corinne went on:

"'Therefore I am keeping this little journal from time to time. Should aught evil befall me in this strange land and among these unfriendly people, at least I will leave some record whereby my own kin may trace my fate, perchance, at some future day. I dare not write this out in good English lest it be discovered by those who hate me. So I have invented this secret code, whereof none save myself knows the key. This book I found in the library unused and I have taken it. I trust it will be counted no act of thievery. I keep it hidden in the false bottom of my trunk. The key of the code I have put in another spot. As soon as my memory has mastered it, I will destroy it. 'T is safer.'—And that's as far as I got!" ended Corinne.

For a moment they all sat dumb with amazement.

"What do you make of it?" exclaimed Bess. "Who is it,—a man or a woman? When was it written, and where? Why, I 'm just wild to find out all about it!"

"I confess," admitted Corinne, "that I don't know what to make of it. I 've puzzled and puzzled over it all day—"

"But, good gracious!" interrupted the impatient Margaret, "of course we can't make anything out of it till we 've worked out some more! Come ahead! Right now! We're only wasting time talking about it!"

"That's so!" laughed Corinne. "And when we can find out right away, by getting to work! Here, Margaret! You write, while I spell the thing out!" She thrust the paper and pencil into Margaret's hands, while the twins hung over her as she slowly deciphered the sentences :

"'Would — that — I — had — never — left — my — peaceful — Bermuda — "' Corinne dropped the book suddenly.

"Bermuda!—I 've been there! Oh, this is fine!"

"Have you been to Bermuda?" exclaimed Margaret and the twins, with awe. "When?"

"Last winter, with Father. He was ill, and we stayed six weeks. It was heavenly!"

"You lucky girl!" sighed Margaret. "But, go on! We must find out more, right away!"
Corinne took up the book and began anew: "'But since I did wilfully abandon my home— aye!—and Grandfather, too, even though he does not love me—'"

"'Grandfather'?" interrupted Bess. "He can't be very old, if he has a grandfather living!"

"Does n't seem likely," murmured Corinne, spelling out another word under her breath, then continuing:

"'—and did in venturesome manner contribute my aid to the plot against my country, I must pay the price, I fear. I am watched constantly. I take no walk abroad, even in the grounds, but I feel that I am spied upon. The affection of Madame M. has changed to dislike. She, too, suspects me. 'T is hard for a lass of but sixteen—'"

"A lass!" shouted all four. "And only sixteen!"

"Oh, girls!" cried Corinne, rocking back and forth in her excitement. "She 's just like ourselves—only a year older than I am! What can be the trouble—or rather, what could have been the trouble with the poor little thing?"

"Go on! go on!" ordered Margaret, with glistening eyes. "Let's find out!"

Corinne snatched up the book again: "'-to be alone and friendless in a strange land and to feel so constantly in danger. But I must not complain. I brought it on myself. As I have said, Madame M. no longer appears to care for me. She was so cordial and affectionate at first, partly for Aunt's sake, no doubt, and partly because she really seemed to like me. But since the day when I spoke to Lady ————, at the time her coach broke down, Madame M. has regarded me only with suspicion.'"

"I wish I knew who 'Madame M.' was, and 'Lady Blank,'" put in Margaret. "How mysterious she is—never writing out their full names!"

"Perhaps she did n't dare," said Corinne. "You see, she says she 's in danger. But, oh! —listen to what she says next!—'There is something which weighs right heavily on my conscience. 'T is the matter of the sapphire signet. But of that I will speak later.'"

"The sapphire signet!" breathed the twins in a tone of hushed awe. "Does n't it sound rich and gorgeous and—and mysterious! What's a 'signet,' anyway?"

"I think," explained Corinne, "that it's another name for a seal—something with a monogram or crest or coat-of-arms, used to stamp on sealing-wax. Father has one set in a ring—not a sapphire though—just some ordinary stone with his monogram on. He never uses it, but he told me that in former times they were used a great deal when letters were only sealed with wax. Oh! What do you suppose this matter of the sapphire signet is all about! Isn't it wildly exciting? But, goodness!" glancing at her watch, "it's awfully late again, and I must get home. The time goes so fast, and it takes so long to puzzle all this out!"

"I have an idea!" began Margaret, hesitatingly. "Suppose I do the puzzling out and write it down, now that Corinne has discovered the way. I have so much time that I don 't know what to do with, and this would be so interesting! Then, when we meet again in a couple of days, I could read it right off to you without any trouble. We could get on so much faster!"

"I think that's splendid!" agreed Corinne. "And much as I 'm crazy to find out right away what happens, I 'd rather wait and hear a lot of it read at once. Would n't you all?"

"Yes, that's a good scheme," admitted Bess, "except for one thing. How about Sarah? You 'd have a hard time hiding this from her, Margaret, and you know she simply must n't find out!" For a moment they all looked "stumped." The obstacle seemed almost insuperable, wheTn Jess had a brilliant idea.

"Tell you what! We 'll hide the thing in the bookcase, way back here behind these old encyclopedias,—the account-book, the paper, and a brand-new fat blank-book that I 'll give you to do all the copying in. You can tell to wheel you over to the bookcase because you want to read. Then, when she 's out of the way, you can work to your heart's content. But do hide everything whenever you hear her coming!"

"Oh, good! Just the thing! Sarah'll never suspect in the world!" laughed Margaret. "And there 's no difficulty about hearing her coming—she weighs two hundred and fifty pounds!"

"Well, that's settled then," said Corinne, "and I 'll have to go. But I 'm coming day after to-morrow, if I can manage to wait. It's better than the loveliest book I ever read! Good-by!"

When she had gone, the three sisters sat and looked at one another with an expression of sheer wonder on their faces. In one week, through the agency of this same "queer," quiet girl, their absolutely uninteresting and commonplace lives had been transformed into an unbelievable, round of mystery and discovery and romance. And the strange part of it was that this same mystery had been lying here—right under their noses, so to speak—all these years, and they had never even suspected it, while she had been in the house scarcely half an hour and had run it straight to earth! Some such thought was in Margaret's mind when she presently exclaimed:

"Is n't she just wonderful! I think she 's the most interesting person I ever met in my life!"

"So do I!" echoed Jess.

"Oh, I shall just dream of this all night!" whispered Margaret. "It's the most thrilling thing I ever heard of—this puzzle-story—and the best of it is, it's all our own. We discovered it! To-morrow you may envy me, girls, for I 'll be finding out—all about the sapphire signet, and what happened next!"

to be continued...

Tom, Dick and Harriet, Chapter 4

by Ralph Henry Barbour, beginning May 1907

CHAPTER IV: THE BEGINNING OF A GREAT SCHEME

Dick Somes, or "The Brand," as Chub insisted on calling him, was a success from the start. The circumstances attending his arrival at Ferry Hill enveloped him in a mantle of romance, while to have thrown over Hammond in favor of the rival school at once endeared him to his new friends. Besides this, however, it was hard to resist his personality. As Chub said one day in awed tones: "He 's just about as homely as a mud fence, only somehow you forget all about it." And you did. You remembered only that his look was frank and kindly, his voice wonderfully pleasant, and his laughter infectious. Before he had been at Ferry Hill a week he knew every one of his forty-two companions to speak to, and could call each one by his name without a mistake. The younger boys tagged after him whenever they might, and the older ones were frankly eager to be with him. He could talk interestingly on a hundred subjects, and could be as breezy as a Kansas cyclone or as staid and proper as young Cullum, of the Second Middle, who, on his arrival from Boston the year before, had been promptly dubbed "Culture" Cullum.

Born in Ohio, Dick had moved west with his parents at the age of six years. Then had followed sojourns in a sod house in Nebraska, in a log cabin in Montana, in an adobe shack in Colorado, and in a real carpenter-built house in a Nevada mining town. After that the fortunes of the Someses had mended rapidly until, when Dick was twelve, the family was living comfortably in one of the finest residences of Helena. For two years Dick attended school uninterruptedly, something he had not done before. Then came his mother's death and two years of hotel life at home and abroad for him and his father. So, of course, Dick had seen a good deal of the world for a boy of his age, had a keen sense of humor, plenty of imagination, and could rattle off stories that made his audience sit with wide eyes and open mouths. Dick never spoke of wealth, but the impression prevailed generally that his father was remarkably well off, and the fact that Dick had his own checkbook and could draw money from a New York trust company whenever he wanted to naturally did much to strengthen that impression.

Harry took much credit to herself for Dick's capture, and displayed at all times a strong proprietary interest in him. For his part Dick liked Harry immensely and endured her tyranny with unfailing good humor. At Madame Lambert's School, in Silver Cove, Harry became quite a heroine, and the story of how she had induced a Hammond boy to come to Ferry Hill was in constant demand for a fortnight after school began again.

Naturally enough, Dick's closest friends were Chub and Roy—and, of course, Harry; and I might include Sid Welch. Sid was fifteen and a confirmed hero-worshiper. Last year he had transferred his allegiance from Horace Burlen to Roy, and now appearances indicated that he was about to transfer it again to Dick. Dick was very kind to him, as he was to every one, but Sid's youthfulness prevented him from any save occasional companionship with the three older boys. To be sure, Dick was only sixteen himself, but he seemed older than either Chub or Roy. He had barely managed to convince Doctor Emery of his right to enter the Second Senior class, and was working very hard to stay there.

One morning, a week or so after the beginning of the new term, Dick, Roy, Chub, and Harry were seated, the two former on the grain chest and the two latter on an empty box, in the barn. The big doors were wide open and the morning sunlight fell across the dusty floor in a long path of gold. The cold had moderated and that day the water was dripping from the eaves, and the snow was sliding with sudden excited rustlings from the roofs of the barn and sheds. Beyond the sunlight the floor faded into the twilight of the building wherein the forms of farm wagons and machinery were dimly discerned. From close at hand, to be exact, from tiers of boxes and home-made cages ranged along one side of the barn, came strange sounds; squeaks, soft murmurs, little rustling noises, excited chatters, and now and then a plaintive me-ow. The sounds came from the inhabitants of Harry's menagerie, as Roy had nicknamed the collection of pets. Overhead was the soft cooing of pigeons, and outside in the warm sunlight many of them were wheeling through the air and strutting about the yard. Dick had just been formally introduced to the inhabitants of the boxes; to Lady Grey and her two furry, purry kittens, to Angel and others of his family—white, pink-eyed rabbits these—, to Teety, the squirrel, to Pete and Repeat and Threepete, black rabbits all, to Snip, the fox terrier, to numerous excitable white mice, and, last but not least, to Methuselah.

Methuselah was the parrot, a preternaturally solemn and dignified bird as long as he refrained from conversation. When he spoke he betrayed himself as the jeering old fraud that he was. Just at present he was seated on Harry's arm, his head on one side, and one glittering eye closed. Closing one eye gave him a very wise look, and I fancy he knew it. At Harry's feet lay Snip, stretched out in the sunshine, and at a little distance Spot, an Angora cat and the black sheep of the family, sat hunched into a round ball of furriness and watched proceedings with pessimistic gaze.

"When does the first hockey game come, Roy?" asked Chub.

"A week from Saturday, with Cedar Grove. By the way, Dick, can you play hockey?"

"No, what 's it like?"

"Have n't you ever seen a game?"

"Don't think so. It 's a sort of shinny on the ice, isn't it!"

"Something like that," answered Roy. "You ought to learn. Harry says you 're a dandy skater, and that 's half the battle."

"Oh, I never could play games," said Dick. "I 've tried to catch a base-ball, but I never could do it."

"You come out for practice in a month or so," said Chub, "and I 'll bet you can learn how. Will you?"

"If you like. Do both you fellows play?"

"Yes, Roy plays first base and I play second."

"Chub is captain," added Harry.

"And where do you play?" asked Dick, turning to her.

"They won't let me play," answered Harry disgustedly. "I can play just as well as Sid Welch, though!"

"Oh, come now, Harry," laughed Chub, "Sid played a pretty good game last year."

"So could I if you 'd let me. I can catch any ball you can throw, Chub Eaton, and you know it!"

"Of course you can," said Chub soothingly. "I 'll put you behind the bat this year, Harry."

"How far behind!" asked Roy. "Back of the fence!" Harry made a face at him.

"I would n't think of playing if you bar Harry out," said Dick gravely. "Harry rescued me from a life of idleness at Hammond, and brought me over here where I 'm buzzing my brain out trying to keep up with my class, and I 'm naturally awfully grateful to her. If you don't let her play you can't have my invaluable services, Chub."

"Look here, how about foot-ball!" demanded Roy.

"Me!" asked Dick. "I don't know the first thing about it. The only game I can play is chess."

"But you ought to do something with those muscles of yours," insisted Roy. "Did you ever do any rowing!"

"Never even saw a race," was the cheerful reply. "Oh, I 'm no athlete, me. The only thing I can do is ride and fish and shoot and throw a rope and—and run a little."

"Run?"

"Yes, on my feet, you know. Don't you ever run hereabout?" .

"Yes," laughed Chub, "we run bases."

"I could n't do that, I guess; a mile 's about my measure. Don't you have foot races here?"

"No, we don't do anything in that line. Hammond has a track team, but we have n't. You should have stayed where you were put, if you want to be a runner."

"What 's the matter with getting up one of those things here?" asked Dick. "One of those track teams? You 've got a track, have n't you?"

"Yes, but it 's not much good. We only use it for exercise," said Roy.

"Could n't it be fixed up?"

"I don't believe the Doctor would do it," answered Roy. "You see, it would cost a lot, and I know there is n't much money to spend."

"Why? Does n't the school make money?" asked Dick.

"Oh, yes, but not very much; does it, Harry!"

"Sometimes it does n't make anything; it loses," replied Harry cheerfully. "Then I wear my old dresses in the summer, and we stay here at Ferry Hill; only sometimes I have to go and visit Aunt Harriet Beverly, which is much worse than staying at home."

"Must be a leak somewhere," said Dick. "Why, with forty-three boys at four hundred dollars a year, I don't see why the Doctor does n't make slathers of coin."

"He used to," said Harry; "but everything costs so much more nowadays, you see. Papa says that if we had accommodations for twenty more boys the school would make money."

"What kind of accommodations?" asked Dick.

"Why, places to sleep and eat," answered Harry.

"But if he 's losing money now with forty boys I should think he 'd lose half as much again with sixty," said Chub.

"Did n't you ever hear the saying that it costs as much to feed three persons as it does two?" laughed Dick.

"Papa means," explained Harry, "that the expenses would n't be much larger than they are now. It would take more food, of course, and— and things like that, but there would n't have to be any more teachers, because papa and Mr. Cobb and Mr. Buckman could teach sixty boys just as well as forty."

"I see," said Chub. "But—could he get twenty more boys? The school is n't quite full now, you know."

"He could if he advertised in the magazines and papers," said Harry. "He never has advertised because he says it would n't pay to do it unless he could take lots more boys."

"Well, I like the school as it is," said Chub. "I think there is just enough of a crowd here now. If it was much bigger we would n't hang together the way we do and we would n't have half so good a time."

"Yes, but I 'd like the Doctor to make something," said Roy. "I 'd like Harry to have new dresses in the summer and not have to visit her Aunt Harriet," he continued with a laugh. "Besides, if the school was making plenty of money we could have a new boat-house, and an addition to the grand stand and things like that, probably."

"And a new running track," added Dick. "I 'm in favor of enlarging the school!"

"Objection withdrawn," said Chub. "Go ahead and do it."

"Then, too," said Roy, who had apparently been considering the matter quite seriously, "we 'd have a larger number of fellows to pick our teams from. If we 've been able to win from Hammond in most everything in the long run with only half as many fellows as she has, what could we do to her if we had three fourths as many?"

"Third class in algebra!" murmured Chub. "Mr. Somes may answer."

"Not prepared," said Dick promptly.

"But it 's so," cried Harry. "Why, we could— we could simply lambaste them!"

"Good for you, Harry!" laughed Chub.

"Yes, it is so," pursued Roy earnestly.

"That 's why Hammond can have a track team and we can't. She has nearly ninety fellows this year to our forty-three. That means that she 's got two chances to our one."

"Oh, piffle!" scoffed Chub. "Why does n 't she lick us then! We 've beaten her three times out of four at foot-ball, and we 're away ahead in base-ball victories, and in rowing. No, sir, the reason we 've been able to lick her is just because we have so few fellows that we all stick together and work for the school, and when we get a lot more here it will he different and there 'll be cliques and things like that, and half the school won't speak to the other half."

"That is n't so at Hammond, I guess," objected Dick. "From what little I learned of the place the fellows stick together pretty well."

"Besides, twenty more would n't make much difference," added Roy. "What you say might be so if we had two or three hundred, like some of the big schools; but not with sixty. I cast my vote with Dick; let 's enlarge."

"Yes, indeed," cried Harry, "let 's! How 'll we do it?"

"Well, don't let me interfere," said Chub good-naturedly. "I 'll just sit here and keep still while you do it. But don't be long, because I 've got a lesson in just ten minutes."

"Why, there 's only one way to do it," said Dick promptly. "We must have a new dormitory."

"Oh, is that it?" asked Chub. "I 'll see if I can find one for you." He began to peer around on the floor. "I suppose one slightly used wouldn't do?"

"You dry up and blow away," said Roy. "We 're talking business."

"And if you want to come in on the ground floor," said Dick, "now 's your chance. If you wait you 'll have to pay a big price to join the Society."

"What 's it called? The Society of Hopeless Idiots?"

"No, sir; it 's called the Ferry Hill Improvement Society," replied Dick. "And its objects are to obtain a new dormitory, increased attendance, a new running track and a track team."

"Is that all?" jeered Chub. "It sounds so easy I guess I 'll have to come in. You may put me down for president."

"We 'll put you down for janitor, that 's what we 'll put you down for," said Roy scathingly. "Dick shall be president."

"I decline," said Dick. "I nominate Miss Harry Emery, Esquire."

"No, Roy must be president," answered Harry, "and I 'll be secretary and treasurer, because I have more time than you fellows. And Dick must be vice-president, and Chub—"

"I 'll be referee."

"No, you 'll be second vice-president."

"All right," answered Chub cheerfully. "That 's me. I 'm the one who attends banquets and does the jollying. You folks do the work."

"Look here," said Rob soberly. "Are you fellows in fun or do you— do you really intend to go into this?"

Chub grinned and Harry looked doubtful. Dick, however, answered promptly.

"No, sir, there 's no fun about it!" he declared. "We 're going to do it. Work on the new dormitory begins as soon as school closes in June. Why not? What 's a dormitory, anyhow? Thirty thousand will build it, I guess; and if we can't scrape up that much before June we don't deserve it!"

"I 'll bet you anything he believes it!" said Chub in awed tones.

"Of course I believe it," said Dick stoutly. "We 'll send letters to the graduates asking for subscriptions, and we 'll get the fellows in school interested and make them contribute. I 'll start the ball rolling myself with fifty dollars."

"Gee!" said Chub. "I can't give much more than fifty cents, I guess."

"You 'll give five dollars, anyhow," declared Dick. "No subscriptions received for less than five."

"I 'll give five!" cried Harry eagerly. "I 've got almost that much in my bank."

"Good! Fifty and fifteen are—"

"Is," corrected Chub.

"Mmm- sixty-five," said Dick. "That 's a good starter."

"Sure!" laughed Roy. "We only need twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and thirty-five more!"

"Oh, maybe it won't take thirty thousand," said Dick cheerfully. "I only guessed at it. We 'll find out about that the first thing."

"Well, there 's no harm in trying," said Roy. "And it 'll be good fun whether anything comes of it or not. But I vote that Chub be made president because I 'm going to be too busy during the next two months to attend properly to the duties of the office. You see, hockey does n't leave much time for other things."

"Not me, though," Chub protested. "I never was president of anything, and don't know what you do. Besides, I 'm going to be pretty busy myself in another six weeks. Base-ball candidates are coming out early this year. Dick 's the man for president; he started the trouble and the subscriptions. All in favor—"

"I 'd just as lief serve as president," said Dick, "only I may be busy myself pretty soon."

"What at?" asked Chub.

"Forming that track team. I 'm going to be captain of it, you know. Roy 's captain of the hockey team and you 're captain of the nine, and I 've got to be captain of something, myself."

"Do you really mean that you 're going to try and get up a team?" asked Roy.

"Yes, and I want you fellows to help me. Will you?"

"Sure," cried Chub. "It 's a good scheme, Dick. I 'll wager there are lots of fellows here who will be pleased purple to join."

"Will you?"

"Me? Why, I can't do anything."

"How do you know ? I dare say you can run bases, and if you can do that maybe you can sprint. And Roy ought to make a good distance runner. You say he was in the Cross Country last fall."

"I 'll join," said Roy. "I don't suppose I can do anything, but I 'm willing to try."

"Same here," said Chub. "And while we 're about it, let 's start a few other things. We have n't got a croquet club, nor a sewing circle, you know."

"And if we started those, Harry could join," laughed Dick.

"I should think you might let me join the track team," said Harry. "I can run as fast as anything, Dick!"

"As secretary of the F. H. I. S.," replied Dick, "you will have no time for trivial affairs, Harry. You 've let yourself in for a lot of hard work, if you only knew it. Now, I propose—"

"I propose," exclaimed Chub, jumping up, "that I go to my recitation. When 's the next meeting?"

"The secretary will issue a call for it," answered Dick.

"Seems to me," suggested Eoy, "that the name ought to be the Ferry Hill School Improvement Society; people might think we were trying to improve the Hill."

"Settle it to suit yourselves," cried Chub, making a dash for the door. "I 'm off."

Methuselah, who had been dozing for some time, awoke startled, and broke into angry remonstrances. "Well, I never did!" he screeched hoarsely. "Can't you be quiet? Stop your swearing! Stop your swearing! Stop your swearing!" And the first meeting of the small but very select Ferry Hill School Improvement Society broke up in confusion.

to be continued...

"Towed by Rails"

BY J. S. Bunnell, from November 1878.

A story of when the now-famous cable cars of San Francisco were a novelty.

Clear the track! I want to tell the St. NICHOLAS readers of a decided novelty I came across the other day, in that young giant of a city, San Francisco. Turning a corner, I saw high on the steep hill — for many of these San Francisco streets are steep hills — two car-loads of gay people, gliding rapidly forward without sign or trace of either locomotive, dummy-engine, or horse. Onward and upward went the little train, stopping itself now and then, and starting again, apparently with the greatest ease. No smoke was to be seen, no steam hissed and puffed, no clank of machinery was heard. No confusion of any kind. The motive power, like some of the greatest forces in nature, was hidden. What was it that pulled this pair of city cars along so easily? You shall hear.

In the middle of the track, running its entire length, we find a continuous opening or slit, about as wide as a man's finger, into which fits a flat iron bar, projecting from the under side of the leading car ; while below this opening, and down under the track, continually runs a thick wire cable or rope, in a space about large enough for a small boy to crawl in...The long cable is made to run easily on small pulleys — say, ten feet apart — by a powerful steam-engine located about midway on the route; and this cable always is running down one track, and up the other, into the engine-house, over and around ponderous iron wheels, which keep it in motion.

Whenever a car is to be started, the driver has simply to move a large lever, in the middle of it, shaped like a railroad switch, and the lower end of this lever, beneath the slit in the track, grapples the running-cable, like a vise or jaw, and away move levers, cars, driver, passengers and all...No one is allowed to speak to him, for he must be constantly on the alert, ready for action.

Just imagine, my boys and girls, a long rope extending down the street, trailing along behind a team of horses, on a winter's day; and suppose you wanted a ride on your sled, what more natural than that you should grasp tight hold of this rope, and take a tow, as the sailors say, gliding along with it at your pleasure; and when you choose to stop, you would need but to relax your hold, and your sled would be free immediately.

Now, by this time you should have exactly the idea of the wire-cable railroad, for in this case the wire-cable is the rope and the cars are the sled. Night and day, the endless cable, coated with tar, gliding like a long black snake, runs in and out of the grim engine-house on the hill, upon its long journey, while cars all along the track are continually grappling it and letting go. Think of the twelve thousand people carried over the road daily by this unseen giant power working beneath the ground!

We can start from a crowded street of the city down-town, and in three minutes and a half be carried to the top of a high hill, many blocks away — a hill three hundred feet above the water, half as high again as a tall church spire.

It is the wonder of everybody. The country people gaze, astonished, at the mysterious-looking car, and even the indifferent Chinamen are fairly puzzled over it. They gather in groups, with open months and peering eyes, trying to make out the strange proceeding. In China they would immediately suppose it to be witchcraft, as they did recently in the case of a steam railroad which some foreigners had built,—only twelve miles or so. All their troubles, ills and droughts, were attributed to it, and the people and government tore up the track. The screaming locomotive was an evil spirit.

But to return to our road. The huge engine doing all this work is driven as fast as ninety revolutions a minute by the steam furnished from two large boilers, and is rated as a two hundred and fifty horse-power engine. That you may know something of what that power is, let us imagine two hundred and fifty stout horses, in teams of two. standing in the street; we will allow ten feet for n team, which will make our line one thousand two hundred and fifty feet long. Get your slate and see if it would not. That is very near one quarter of a mile in length, and you can judge how far down your street the line would reach. If these horses should all start pulling at a given signal, think of the power they would exert!

Something would snap, would n't it?

Well, you may imagine three times as many horses, for a so-called two hundred and fifty horsepower engine can do the work of about seven hundred and fifty horses in the course of eighteen working hours. It is a great satisfaction, when riding in the car, to know that poor animals are not pulling and panting and straining heart and lungs to carry us up over the high hills. On one of the hilly railroads of this city many horses used to die of heart disease, so great was the strain upon the willing animals. Now a few tons of coal, and man's ingenuity, do all the work, and thoroughly well they do it.

The huge wheels at the engine-house, already alluded to, are eight feet in diameter, and there are about thirty of them in all, rolling, rumbling, with a grinding din, suggesting the grim prison-house of some mighty spirit, bound, and faithfully serving little man. As the cable comes running swiftly in, it twists, turns, and circles around eight of these wheels, and before going out, takes as many more turns about another set of wheels. This is to prevent the cable from slipping, for the strain on it of many cars with their loads coming up the hill is immense.

All this complicated machinery is located in a dark, gloomy-looking pit, twenty-five feet deep, under the street, arched over beneath the pavement with brick. Here is located an arrangement tor keeping the cable taut at all times. It is a car heavily loaded with five tons of iron, and placed upon a steep, sloping track; a horizontal wheel lies upon this car, and around this wheel the wire cable runs,—thus acting as a heavy pulley, taking up the slack rope.

At each end of the road there is one of these pits with just such a steadying car in it, as well as two in the central pit; for the engine-house is not far from midway of the road.

The length of the entire line is over a mile and a half, running east and west on California street, called by the street boys "Nob Hill," because it has so many elegant residences and gardens.

This is not the only beautiful street in San Francisco. In nearly all of the new parts of the city, elegant residences abound—spacious mansions and tasteful street cottages, all with projecting bay windows and flowery entrances. The business streets, too, with their fine shops and stately warehouses, give an air of enterprise and activity that fully accounts for the net-work of city railroads stretching in every direction. Even the most wretched part of the city, the Chinese quarter, has its railroad—one of the old style, however, and not in the least suggestive of the airy, mysterious cars which we have been considering.

Now let us hear about the cable. It is one inch and a quarter in diameter, say, the size of a baby's wrist, composed of small steel wires, about the size of grandmother's steel knitting-needle, all twisted into strands and these into one large rope. That makes a very strong tow-line, does n't it? But tough as this is, it has stretched fully sixteen feet by the weight of the cars, and has had to be shortened and re-spliced by skillful men, just as sailors splice a rope; all the separate strands loosened and deftly tucked away again, so that the strain will be shared equally by all. A cable like this is estimated to last six months, then it must be replaced by a new one. This is a very knowing cable. If any wire strand should break, it would, by a very ingenious device, which I shall not attempt to explain, telegraph its own disorder to head-quarters, and there ring an alarm-bell, which would insure its immediate repair.

Every two days the cable must be freshly coated with tar, to prevent its being too much worn by the grasping and biting of the iron jaws, as the car-driver takes hold or lets go.

Wire cables are very generally used nowadays in many ways. Elevators are run by them, vessels are partly rigged with them ; they are used for machinery in place of belting, for tow-lines and by tug-boats; and for many purposes they are both cheaper and better than hemp rope.

Money was lavishly spent in laying the roadbed. The projectors, being wealthy men, members of the Central Pacific Railroad Company, took pride in building something that would prove a model road, and they succeeded. First, a trench was dug, three feet and a half deep and the same in width, then large pieces of railroad iron, bent in the shape of a V were inserted in it, about ten feet apart, upon the top of which were riveted and bolted the rails,—the small T rail, such as is in common use by all the steam roads. These, bear in mind, were all riveted together, arranged, and leveled, and supported by temporary timbers, in exactly the places that they afterward were to occupy. Then the whole trench was filled to the top (excepting the space left for the cable to run in) with concrete and cement. This, hardening, the entire mile and a half of road became one long, continued block of stone, over three feet in diameter, lying in its earthy bed as solid as the "eternal hills," holding in its stony grasp the ties, braces and rails. Such a road, they claim, can never spread, never sag nor sink, and scarcely ever will need repairs, save as the rails wear out, and are replaced. So much for doing a thing thoroughly and well at once, though the first cost be great—in this instance, nearly eight hundred thousand dollars.

The cars are models of beauty and comfort. A blue cadet-cap is worn by the employés, and though no talking is allowed with the driver, a smiling conductor makes up for this loss by standing ready to answer questions at the rate, I should say from a brief observation, of about ten thousand a day, more or less.

One feature of the sitting accommodations is that of a low rail, about an inch high, dividing each seat from the next, just high enough to make it uncomfortable to sit upon ; gently hinting to those inclined to crowd their fellows that a seat was intended for one only. The cars are built so low that the feet of passengers are but twelve inches above the street they are traveling, thus giving that charm one experiences when sailing in a low skiff, close to the water, but which is lost on the high deck of a steamboat. The illustration given on this page is made from an instantaneous photograph of the so-called dummy and passenger cars, coming down the grade at full speed. The dummy is a light, picturesque, open car, arranged with outside seats, and is generally preferred by passengers to the close car.

As we ride along, a daintily gloved finger hails the driver, from the sidewalk, and our car comes instantly and quietly to a stand-still, while the gentle maiden mounts the low step and comfortably seats herself; then, at the bell-signal from the conductor, the sturdy driver grasps his lever, clamps down his iron brace grappling the cable, and again we are off, with far less jar and jerk than we receive in a horse-car. Over the hills we go, through a fine broad street, views all about, of shining bay, busy city, and flower-clad mountain, past beautiful private residences kept with a neatness and care peculiar to the front yards of the San Franciscans. Callas bloom luxuriantly among palm-trees, and showy flowers in the gardens regale the eye the year round; and in the summer season the traveler fills his lungs with an air, the purest possible, coming fresh and bracing from the sparkling ocean, laden with the perfume of acres of blue and yellow wild Lupin.

This style of railroad is becoming very popular in San Francisco, where there are already three such lines in successful operation; and others are projected.

Among the oddities here in the car line, is the "balloon car"...with driver and mule attachment. These little "band-boxes on wheels" are intended for turning quickly on their trucks, at the end of a route, without changing the position of the wheels, the driver keeping his seat. A bolt is withdrawn, enabling the mules to pull the upper part of the car entirely around, in readiness for a return trip ; the waiting passengers jump in, and off it starts, a fat, lumbering little thing, in jerky contrast to its elegant rivals so delightfully towed by rail.

"Whittier and the Little Quaker Girl"

by Rebecca Middleton Samson, December 1911

An amusing true story about an innocent little girl whose lack of knowledge of words led to a problem. Poor Mr. Whittier--had he but known... Lucretia Mott was a well-known abolitionist and also fighter for women's rights.

"I as a very little girl when I first met the great poet John Greenleaf Whittier," said the sweet-faced lady to an eagerly listening group of young people gathered about her for one of her interesting stories; "but never have I forgotten him, and his birthday, the seventeenth of December, always brings with it the remembrance of an unusual role the gentle poet once played in a certain small tragedy of my young life.

"You know my people were Quakers," the lady proceeded in answer to clamorous appeals for the story, "and at that time we were living in Philadelphia, where we became intimately acquainted with John Greenleaf Whittier, who was then editor of an antislavery paper.

"We all attended the same Quaker church, of which the members of my family were loyal adherents, my mother being especially distinguished as a brilliant and forcible public speaker.

"About this time, my mother was called away from Philadelphia on business, and, taking advantage of her absence, my grandmother, who lived in the same house with my parents, decided to have torn down an old-fashioned, white marble mantelpiece that stood in my mother's bedroom, and to build in an open fireplace.

"This was done, and under the marble mantelshelf a handsome fireplace was set in with porcelain tiles. I can still recall the delight with which I surveyed the beautiful colors of this tile work, depicting a pastoral scene of English life.

"Before the workmen returned for the final touches, it was decided that the cement holding the tiles in place should be left to thoroughly harden, and it was while the fireplace was still in this soft and unsettled condition, that I stole into my mother's room, and, childlike, picked out one or more of the pretty tiles for playthings.

"My grandmother arrived to find me so occupied, and, in her indignation at the mischief I had done, exclaimed:

"'Thee naughty child! Thee ought to be ashamed of thyself! A little more, and thy mother's mantel would have fallen upon thee!'

"And the enormity of my offense was still more forcibly impressed upon my childish mind by a proper punishment, for my Quaker grandmother was not of the kind to 'spare the rod and spoil the child.'

"Meanwhile, my mother returned from her business trip, and the episode of the mantel was, for the time, forgotten in preparations for an event of great moment. This was the 'Yearly Meeting' of Quakers in Philadelphia, which continued for a whole week, during which several smaller meetings were to be held in private houses, one of them in my father's home.

"The important day arrived, and the big room where the meeting assembled was crowded with guests. So great, indeed, was the crush, that the smaller children, for whom places could not be found, were lifted up and seated upon a raised space or platform at one end of the room.

"I was among these children, and I remember how, as I sat between the legs of the wooden table, which, in accordance with Quaker simplicity, was of the plainest. I would timidly glance up to catch a glimpse of the 'Quaker Poet' as he stood just above me.

"He had a beautiful, gentle countenance; his hair was then very black, and never shall I forget the flash of his wonderful dark eyes as he spoke.

"Another privilege that fell to me upon this eventful day, was that of being chosen to present bouquets of flowers to Whittier and Lucretia Mott, who were the honored guests of the occasion.

"After the meeting, my mother, who had just closed a most beautiful and moving address, presented me to Whittier. He looked at me fixedly with those glorious and wonderfully piercing eyes of his, and, placing his hand upon my shoulder, he said with slow and solemn emphasis:

"'My darling child, I sincerely trust that thy mother's mantle may some day fall on thee.'

"Alas! this beautiful benediction, so thrillingly pronounced, turned me pale with fright; to my childish comprehension, there was but one 'mantel,' and that was the mantel in my mother's bedroom, the one that my grandmother had already predicted might fall upon me. And now here was the great John Whittier voicing the same awful prophecy! Had my grandmother told my mother of my wicked act, and had my mother, in turn, told Whittier, and was this the public expression of the good man's righteous wrath? All this went through my mind.

"Crushed by shame and fear, I held my peace; for I dared question neither my mother nor my grandmother upon the subject; but my troubles were, as I found to my sorrow, far from ended.

"During the week of the Yearly Meeting, my parents invited Whittier to dinner, together with the delegates and other prominent guests of the gathering, and I, as a child of the household, was, of course, expected to present myself at table with the others.

"The prospect of meeting Whittier, forever disgraced as I felt myself to be in his eyes, was more than I could bear, and hiding as best I could the anguish of my poor little tormented heart, I went to my mother and said:

"'I do not think I am old enough to come to the dinner, Mother; I think thee had better let me wait until afterward.'

"'What!' exclaimed my father, who happened to pass as I made the remark; 'not come to the dinner, daughter! Why, we are going to have chicken-pie, and surely thee wants to hear John Whittier tell how he made his first chicken-pie!'

"I was very far from caring to hear John Whittier tell about anything just then, but Quaker children are brought up to obey; so to the dinner I went, and to my unspeakable consternation found myself seated next to Whittier, and directly facing the great Lucretia Mott.

"What I suffered during that dinner is one of the tragedies of my childhood; I struggled hard to hide my emotions, but so apparent was my distress, that my mother noticed it and, as soon as an opportunity offered, drew me aside to inquire into the cause.

"In a burst of tears, I made my confession; I told my mother of my naughtiness in removing the tiles of the fireplace to play with, and how my grandmother, in her anger, had predicted that the mantel would fall upon me, and how on the day of the meeting, John Whittier had said that he hoped this dreadful thing would come to pass!

"How tenderly my dear mother sympathized with me ! How lovingly she soothed me—and yet, how she laughed! And when she told the story to Whittier, how he laughed! And Lucretia Mott laughed! And all the company laughed! And though I wondered that everybody should make so merry, I was comforted, for I felt that. in some mysterious way, which I did not understand, everything was right.

"And when the big dinner was over and the company gone, Whittier went up-stairs with us, and, seating himself before the blazing logs in the new open fireplace, he took my sister and myself each upon a knee, and told us story after story.

"It has been a lifelong regret to me that I was too young at the time to remember these stories, and all I can recollect my mother saying about them, was that they were wonderfully beautiful, and that she had not the slightest doubt but that Whittier 'made them up' as he went along.

"I remember distinctly, too," said the lady, in conclusion, "how the 'Quaker Poet' was revered and loved by every member of my family for his gentleness and the religious beauty of his character; but the memory of the great man that has long remained with me, and always will remain, is the incident that so impressively connected him with my mother's 'mantel.'"

The Sapphire Signet, Chapter 3

by Augusta Huiell Seaman, beginning November 1915

CHAPTER III: THE DISCOVERY IN THE ATTIC

But Sarah continued to circulate around the little tea-table, clattering the cups, pouring the chocolate, and handing about the napkins and plates. And all the while she was scanning Margaret's new visitor with jealous and appraising eyes. Her ministrations seemed fairly interminable to the impatient four, and during the whole time that she was serving the refreshments not one of them uttered a word. So much of a contrast was this silence to their usual volubility, that she delivered this Parthian shot as she was at last taking her departure:

"Ye all seem mighty quiet, though ye were chatterin' hard enough when I come up ! I 'm thinkin' ye must have guilty consciences!"

When she had disappeared, Corinne spoke up: "You girls all seem rather afraid of your maid, if you 'll pardon my remarking it! But I think she seems very good-hearted."

"Why, it's this way," replied Bess. "You see, Sarah 's more than just a maid or a servant. She runs the whole house, really, because Mother 's away so much and just trusts her with everything. She 's awfully good to us children and would do almost anything for us. But she 's very, very particular about her work and her way of arranging things, and she won't be interfered with the least bit. Why, Mother herself would n't think of changing any of Sarah's arrangements, even if she did n't like them, because Sarah would n't stand for it, and we could n't do without her. Jess and I tease her a lot, and she lets us have anything we want to eat; but we must n't on any account interfere with her in other ways, or there'd be trouble!"

Bess did not enlighten Corinne, however, as to the real reason for their consideration of Sarah. It was because of an episode that had happened when she and her twin sister were several years younger. They had rebelled one fine day at what they considered Sarah's tyranny, and for twelve long hours had led her a life of excitement and angry remonstrance. And then that night, just as their mother arrived home, behold Sarah descending the stairs, dressed for departure, a huge carpetbag in each hand. A stormy and tearful scene ensued in which Sarah finally relented at the urgent importunities of the distracted Mrs. Bronson. But she promised to remain only on condition that the twins should obey her implicitly from that moment.

And in the privacy of their bedroom that night Mrs. Bronson had warned the nine-year-old rebels that, should such a scene ever occur again, she would give up their home, put Margaret in a sanatorium and the twins in the strictest boarding-school she could find, and herself find a place to live nearer to her business. The threat had its lasting effect, and nothing of the kind had ever happened since. But this was the true reason why the family lived in wholesome awe of Sarah. And, as the twins were anything but proud of the episode, they never referred to it.

"Sarah will probably do just as she threatened," added Jess, looking meaningly at Corinne, "and lock up the attic. She 's awfully particular about that place! You'd think it was as important as the parlor!"

Suddenly Margaret, who could endure the suspense no longer, burst out:

"If some one does n't tell me quick all about that mysterious thing you found in the attic, I 'll—I 'll go crazy!" Then she dropped back in her chair, overcome anew by shyness at having been so vehement before a comparative stranger.

"Oh, tell her, right away!" cried Corinne. "I know just how she feels!"

"Well, it happened this way," began Jess, between a sip of chocolate and a bite of drop-cake. "Corinne and I were looking at the spinning-wheel—"

"Yes, and it's a beauty, too!" interrupted Corinne. "You ought to have it down here."

"—and then we got to poking around, looking into some boxes and talking about the funny old hooded cradle that Mother brought from her home in Massachusetts. And all of a sudden Corinne spied that little old hair-trunk,—do you remember it, Bess?—and she said she 'd never seen an old trunk like that before. I asked her if she 'd like to look into it. I really did n't remember, myself, what the inside was like or what was kept in it. She said she would, so we started to haul it down. It's rather small, and Sarah had it piled way up on that high shelf.

"Well, I guess we gave it too hard a jerk, for all of a sudden, down it came—smash!—and flew open (you know it has n't any lock now), and everything in it was scattered all over the floor. Sarah had all our winter flannels packed away in it, and you can imagine what a time we had picking them up and trying to fold and get them back so she would n't know what had happened!

"But here 's the queer part of it! Just after we 'd collected all the things and folded them nicely and were going to put them back, Corinne noticed that the bottom of the trunk seemed all wrong. One corner of it was humped up as though it had been knocked through in falling. I tell you I was scared, for I thought Sarah 'd just go wild when she found it out! But when we turned the trunk upside down,—lo and behold! the bottom of it was all right—just as tight as a trivet!

"If we weren't astonished! We just didn't know what to make of it! Then we turned it back, and I put my hand under the part that was poked up, gave it a pull, and—it came right out!—the whole bottom! And there, if you please, was the real bottom of the trunk, underneath! But between the two was lying hidden—this!" Jess ran to the bookcase, pulled out the mysterious object she had concealed there, and crossing the room laid it in Margaret's lap. They all crowded about the chair.

"Why!" exclaimed Bess, in a tone of great disappointment, before the others could speak, "it 's only an old, dusty, disreputable account-book with the back torn off. I don't see anything so wonderful in that!"

"Wait till you've seen what's inside!" remarked Corinne, quietly. Margaret, meanwhile, was fingering the crumbly leather cover, wondering at its queer, mottled aspect. Then she opened it to the first page and suddenly gave a big gasp.

"Well, of all things!" she murmured. "What in the world can it mean? I never saw anything like it before!"

"Neither did I !" agreed Bess, now in a tone of real awe. The other two only smiled, with a rather "I-told-you-so!" expression. Well might they marvel over its strange contents. The pages were yellow with age and mottled with curious brown stains, and some of them were torn. But the writing was still visible, and this is what it looked like: —


with similar characters all down the first page. A glance through the rest of the long thin book revealed the same array of bewildering symbols to the very last leaf, where the back cover was missing.

The four sat for a moment in silent astonishment, trying to make some sense out of the riddle. Suddenly Margaret had an idea.

"I know! It's shorthand! I 've read that that is writing with funny curves and dots and wiggly lines."

"No," Corinne gently corrected her, "I don't think it's shorthand, Margaret. I saw some shorthand that Father's stenographer wrote once, and it was quite different from this. Besides, this seems quite old, as if it were done many years ago, and shorthand's a comparatively modern invention, I think."

"Well, then, it must be Chinese or Syrian or Russian or something like that!" asserted Jess. "I 've seen lots of signs over the stores of foreigners that don't look so very different from this. Or—oh, I know now! it's Greek!"

Corinne laughed. "No indeed, it isn't Greek!" she declared. "Father taught me the Greek alphabet when I was a tiny girl, and made me learn to know the letters. I 'm going to study it when I go to college. This is entirely different. I don't believe they're letters of any other language, either."

She sat in frowning thought over the strange page for several minutes, while the others watched her in breathless interest. They, having no further solutions to offer, threw themselves unreservedly on her greater resourcefulness. Jess, meanwhile, refilled the chocolate-cups, and Bess passed the cake, while Margaret reveled in such excitement as she had never before experienced. Corinne still remained thoughtfully turning the pages. Suddenly she exclaimed:

"I have it!—at least, I think so!"

"What? what? oh, quick!" they begged.

"I think some one has written all this in what they call a—a 'cipher.' I Ve heard of such things. Father told me people often send messages over the telegraph or cable in cipher—"

"But what is that? How?" demanded Margaret.

"Why, they have certain words or expressions which stand for other words or even whole sentences. And you can't understand the message unless you have the 'code' or explanation. For instance, a man may cable just the words 'Pay Smith' to his broker, and that may mean 'Buy me five thousand bushels of wheat to-day.'"

"Yes, but that is n't a bit like what's here," argued Margaret.

"No, but it's the same idea," Corinne declared. "I think in this case some one has taken certain signs to represent the different letters of the alphabet. First I thought that perhaps each sign might stand for a different word. But that could hardly be, because there are so many words, one could hardly find signs enough to go round. And besides, I notice in looking through the book that there are comparatively few signs, and they are constantly repeated." She fell to gazing silently at the book again, while the others watched, still more fascinated by the discoveries she was making. Presently she looked up again.

"I 've found out something else, I think. Do you see that sign of the triangle? Well, if you notice, that occurs more frequently than any of the others. In the first five lines there are more than fourteen of them, and no other sign happens as frequently as that. Now, if these signs stand for letters, that couldn't be a letter, even if it were one of the commonest, like 'A' or 'Y' or 'V'—"

"What can it be then?" whispered Margaret, in a voice so tense that they all laughed.

"I think it means the space between the words!" vouchsafed Corinne. "You see, there 'd have to be something to indicate spaces. You could n't have the words all jumbled up together. It wouldn't make sense!"

"Well, you are wonderful!" sighed Jess, sitting back on her heels. "I never would have thought of it in a century!"

"Oh, no!" laughed Corinne. "There's nothing wonderful about that. It's only common sense and puzzling it out like a riddle. Now see! If we take it for granted that the triangle means a space between the words, this sign of the dot between two triangles must be either the letter 'A,' 'I' or 'O,' for those are the only words of just one letter. But you can't tell which it is till you 've puzzled out some more. And—after all, this idea may be all wrong. It may be something quite different, for all we know!"

"But what can it all be about?" began Jess, going off on another tack. "And how under the sun did the thing get hidden away in our old trunk under a false bottom. It's awfully mysterious!"

"Tell you what I think," volunteered Corinne. "Whatever it is, it's been in that trunk for years and years—hidden there, perhaps, when the trunk belonged to some one else. Do you know where it came from—the trunk, I mean?"

"No, I don't even know whether it was Father's or Mother's," answered Jess. "But I can ask Mother. Maybe she'd know."

"I 'd like to puzzle this thing out!" mused Corinne. "Who knows! Perhaps we'd find it was something awfully interesting. It's simply full of mystery and— and possibilities!" At this point, Margaret, who during all the latter conversation had been fidgeting with impatience, began:

"Now, girls, look here! I 've just had the most delightful idea! We 've made the discovery of something awfully interesting, probably, if we could only find out what it's all about. Why not let's form ourselves into a secret society—just we four—with the purpose of finding out all about this mystery? We won't let another soul into the secret—not even Mother. Oh, it 'll be such fun! Do, please!"

She looked imploringly at the twins, and for once they did not appear to object—even looked a trifle interested. For it was the ambition of Margaret's pitiful, limited little life to be the member of a "secret society." She had read much of school fraternities and clubs, and the fascinating idea had taken a firm root in her mind. Of course for her—poor helpless little invalid that she was—there could be no such thing as membership or participation in the real organizations. In place of this, she was forever begging her sisters to form a tiny society of their own, just the three, and have meetings and secrets and all the paraphernalia of the big school "frats."

But the idea had never appealed to the twins. They had no interest in any of the school clubs except the basket-ball and tennis teams. And to have a make-believe one at home with no earthly or apparent object was something they had never yet brought themselves to consider, much as they loved their invalid sister. But here was something a trifle different! Margaret, quick to see her advantage, hastened on:

"Oh, yes! Do let's have one! Wouldn't it be a good idea, Corinne? Think of the fun we 'd have, meeting and puzzling out this queer old book! Perhaps it might lead to something important, too. And I 've even thought of a name for it,—we could call it the Antiquarian Club!"

The latter idea captured Corinne. "That's a dandy name for it,—'Antiquarian Club'! I like that! And besides, it's true, too, for if this is n't an antiquity, I 'd like to know what is! Yes, let's have the club!" Corinne was moved to accept the idea by two impulses. The notion really did appeal to her, but even if it had n't, she would have pretended it did for the sake of the pathetic little figure in the invalid-chair, who was rapidly taking a firm hold of her heart.

"Oh, goody! And you do like the idea, too, don't you, girls?" exclaimed Margaret. The twins capitulated unreservedly.

"Yes, we do," said Bess. "I 've always detested such societies because they seemed so useless. But this thing is really worth having a club for!"

Margaret, however, had something else on her mind. "Oh, just one thing more," she added, a little shyly. "Could I—could I be— president? All clubs have to have a president. I would so love to be!"

"Indeed you shall!" spoke up Corinne before either of the others had a chance. "We elect you at once—unanimously—don't we, girls? And now, Miss President, you can appoint the rest of us to other offices!"

Margaret flushed with pleasure. "I appoint you, Corinne, to be secretary. There always has to be one of those. And there usually is a treasurer, if there is any money to handle. But there won't be here, for we won't have any dues. So I don't know what to call the others."

"Let's just be plain members, for the present," suggested Bess. "And now, what are we going to do about this book, Miss President?"

"I think we ought to let Corinne take it home and see if she can puzzle out any more of it before next meeting," decided Margaret. "That would be all right, would n't it ?" They all agreed.

"I 'd like to show it to Father and ask him what he thinks—" began Corinne, but Margaret hastily interrupted:

"Oh, no! You mustn't do that! You know it's a secret society, and we are n't going to tell any one about anything in it. And besides—"

"Yes, and besides," put in Jess, "if we tell any one about this book, it might somehow leak out and get back to Sarah what we 'd done in breaking the trunk, and then there might be trouble!" She looked meaningly at Bess.

"Oh, no!" assented the latter hastily. "We mustn't tell a soul!" Plainly the twins still lived in dread of the awful threat made so many years ago. They knew that Sarah was even yet fully capable of putting it into execution—under sufficient provocation!

"All right," agreed Corinne. "I won't breathe a word of this, then, and I 'll see what I can do to make head or tail of the thing. But, mercy!" glancing at her watch, "it's nearly six o'clock, and I ought to have been home long ago. I 'll take the car at the corner, I guess." She hurried into her wraps, gathered up the precious "find" with her school-books, and bade the girls good-by.

"It's been a remarkable afternoon for me!" she declared as she kissed Margaret. "I feel like a real antiquarian now. Hurrah for the Antiquarian Club! Let's have another meeting as soon as I 've made some progress with this!" She tapped the old account-book significantly and hurried away.

"Oh!" sighed Margaret, blissfully, settling back in her chair, "this is positively the most wonderful day I ever spent in my life! Can I ever wait for the next meeting?" The twins stood by her chair, looking thoughtful. They too were strangely stirred out of their usual unimaginative selves.

"Well, I confess, I never dreamed of anything so queer happening in this old ranch!" marveled Bess. "It's all Corinne's doings."

That night Mrs. Bronson came home very late from business, but she went in, as was her invariable custom, to peep at her little invalid daughter before she herself retired. To her surprise, she found Margaret still awake.

"Dear, you 're not ill, are you?" she inquired anxiously. "You 're usually asleep at this time."

But Margaret only laughed a happy little laugh. "No, Mummy, I 'm all right,—only just too interested to sleep! Do you remember what you once said about an adventure turning up? Well, it has,—the loveliest kind of a one! But I can't tell you about it, because it's a secret. You won't mind, will you?"

Mrs. Bronson smiled. "No indeed, I won't mind! Just as long as you 're happy and contented, I don't mind a thing! Did the twins' new friend come to see you to-day? And did you like her?"

At this, Margaret entered on such a vivid and enthusiastic account of Corinne, that Mrs. Bronson heaved a sigh of thankfulness for the new interest in her little girl's empty life.

An hour later Margaret fell asleep to dream, the night through, of strange, hieroglyphic symbols, and all the weird things they might stand for. But not a thing she dreamed of was as curious as the reality that Corinne was soon to disclose!

to be continued...

Tom, Dick and Harriet, Chapter 3

by Ralph Henry Barbour, beginning May 1907

CHAPTER III: THE BRAND FROM THE BURNING

"Well, you old duffer! I thought you were going to meet me at the station for the eleven o'clock."

"I really meant to, Roy," answered Chub Eaton, "but my train was nearly an hour late and I got in just four minutes after you 'd gone. How are you? Did you have a good time Christmas?"

"Bully," answered Roy Porter. "Did you?"

"Oh, swell! I wish you 'd been out with me."

"I wanted to go," answered Roy gravely, "but my folks were afraid I 'd get lost in the smoke. I told them that was hard on Pittsburg, but—"

Roy rolled over backward on Sidney Welch's bed just in time to avoid the slipper which Chub hurled.

"But they said they knew the place, Chub," he ended.

"You run away and play," grunted Chub as he returned to the task of unpacking his trunk.

They were in the Junior Dormitory and up and down the two sides of the long room was bustle and excitement and noise. The last train arriving before six o'clock was in and had brought its load of students. Trunks and bags were being unpacked, greetings exchanged and adventures related, and every one was doing his best to get settled before dinner-time. Roy, who had arrived on an earlier train and whose belongings were already stowed away in his locker in the Senior Dormitory on the floor above, had met Chub on the arrival of the coach and had carried one end of the battered steamer trunk up-stairs. Now he was reclining comfortably on Sidney's bed in direct violation of the dormitory rules, and bothering his chum as much as possible. Sid, by the way, a short, chunky boy of fifteen, was down at the far end of the hall swapping marvelous tales of vacation experiences with Chase; his voice, which was at the changing period, alternately dying away in gruff whispers and soaring shrilly to a squeaky falsetto.

"Just listen to Sid," chuckled Chub as he rolled a brown sweater up and stuffed it into the locker. "Sounds as though he were knocking up flies with his voice, does n't it?"

"Yes," answered Roy. "Say, Chub, did I ever tell you about the man who went to Pittsburg?"

"Oh, you dry up," answered Chub good-naturedly.

"But it 's a true story, honestly, Chub! Of course the man did n't go there just for fun; he had to; it was a matter of life or death, I guess. Well, when he got back some one asked him if he 'd seen Pittsburg. 'No,' says he, 'but I 've been there!'"

"Go on," answered Chub. "Have a good time. I don't mind. I 'd rather live in Pittsburg where you can't see than in New York where you don't want to."

"I guess maybe that 's humor," said Roy thoughtfully; "but it 's—er—subtle, Chub, awfully subtle. Could you give me a hint? Just tell me what letter the answer begins with!"

"I 'll tell you what letter your name begins with," laughed Chub. "And it comes between E and G."

"What am I? A musical note?"

"No, a flat!"

"I suppose you think you 're sharp!"

Chub Eaton groaned loudly as he slammed the lid of his trunk down. He was seventeen years of age, and looked older; was a trifle thick-set, had brown hair that was almost brick-red, alert brown eyes, a good-looking, expressive, good-humored face, and an ease of manner and a self-assurance which his enemies called conceit and which his friends loved him for. He was in his last year at Ferry Hill and consequently in the First Senior Class. The preceding spring he had succeeded himself as captain of the base-ball team. While well-liked by almost every fellow in school, he had not attained to the popularity which his companion commanded.

Roy Porter lacked his chum's air of self-sufficiency and in looks and manner unconsciously invited friendship. He was the school leader, and reigned supreme with none to dispute his title. Besides that, until the election following Ferry Hill's defeat of Hammond on the latter's gridiron, a few weeks ago, he had been captain of the football team, an honor alone sufficient to turn his head had that appendage not been very stiffly attached. Unlike his predecessor in the office of school leader, one Horace Burlen, who had left school the previous spring and was now playing the precarious role of freshman in a near-by college, Roy ruled with a gentle hand and maintained his sway by honest, manly service in behalf of the school and his fellows. The younger boys worshiped him, secretly resolved to be Roy Porters when they grew up, and meanwhile copied his ties and stockings and cocked their hats as he wore his.

Roy also was a First Senior and would graduate in June; and like Chub—whose real name, by the way, was Thomas—was seventeen years old. He was tall, well-built, athletic, with wavy light-brown hair, a frank good-looking face and a pair of attractive gray-blue eyes.

"Say, Chub," he exclaimed suddenly; "I almost forgot to tell you. What do you suppose Harry 's been up to now?"

"Ask me something easier," begged Chub.

"Swiping students from Hammond!"

"What!"

"Fact! She was down at the station and told me about it. It 's the funniest thing you ever heard, Chub!" And Roy laid himself back on the bed and laughed consumedly.

"Funny 's no word for it," said Chub soberly. "I shall die of laughing in a moment."

"W-wait till I tell you!" gasped Roy.

"I am waiting, you gump! Stop that fuss and tell me! Don't keep a fellow waiting all day."

"Well, listen." And Roy recounted Harry's meeting with Dick Somes, embellishing the tale as fancy dictated, until Chub too was struggling with his laughter.

"But-but she did n't land him after all?" asked Chub.

"She does n't know yet. She told him he 'd have to be here by six o'clock to-night. She pretends she 's sure he 'll be here, but I guess he was just fooling her."

"Too bad," said Chub. "Would n't it have been great if he had left Hammond and come here, eh! Would n't we have had a peachy joke on them?"

"And would n't they have hated Mr. Dick Summers, or whatever his name is? But is n't Harry the limit?"

"She 's plucky, all right," answered Chub with a grin. "Fancy having the cheek to try and—"

"Pluck a brand from the burning," suggested Roy.

"Exactly! Suppose we run over to the Cottage and see if he 's shown up?"

"Oh, he has n't come," answered Roy, glancing at his watch. "It 's two minutes of six now."

"What of it ? He might have come half an hour ago and—" Chub, who was facing the dormitory door, stopped and stared over Roy's shoulder. "Hello!" he ejaculated. Roy turned and followed his gaze.

Just inside the doorway stood a big, broad-shouldered, blond-haired youth of apparently sixteen years of age. He wore a fur cap, a gray sweater and dark knickerbockers, while in one hand was a suit case and in the other a pair of skates. In spite of the fact that the entire hall was observing him silently and curiously he appeared not the least bit embarrassed; in fact his self-possession was then and afterward something to wonder at. After a slow glance about the hall he had turned his gray eyes on Chub and Boy. There was a careless, good-humored smile on his singularly homely and at the same time perplexingly attractive face.

"Where do I live, do you suppose?" he asked.

"I don't know," answered Roy, rising to go to him. "But I guess you belong on the next floor. Did the Doctor tell you which dormitory you were to go to?"

"Have n't seen the Doctor," was the calm reply. "I just got here. What time is it, anyway?"

"Just six," answered Roy.

"That 's all right then." The newcomer set his bag down and placed his skates on top of it. Then he threw his fur cap and gloves on to the nearest bed and started to get out of his sweater.

But Chub, who had said no word so far, but upon whose countenance a beatific grin had been growing and spreading with each instant, broke the silence explosively.

"Where 'd you come from?" he shouted.

"Across the river," answered the other.

"From Hammond?"

"Yep. From Hammond."

Chub gave a whoop and hurdled the two intervening beds, landing on top of the suit case, sending the skates clanging across the floor and violently grasping the hand of the astounded youth.

"It 's he, Roy!" he yelled delightedly. "It 's the Brand from the Burning!"

"That 's me," laughed Dick Somes. "Did she tell you I was coming?"

"She said she expected you," answered Roy; "but-well-"

"We did n't think you 'd have the cheek to do it," ended Chub admiringly. "Were they mad? How did you get away from them?"

"Oh, easy enough. I had n't entered, you see. So I paid them for two days' board and lodging, sent my trunk across by sleigh and pulled my suit case after me. It was quick work,—had to be—but the only way I could manage it. It scratched the suit-case up a bit, but that does n't matter. I guess I 'd better go and see the boss now and get my ticket punched."

"What ticket?" asked Roy.

"Oh, I mean see the Doctor, take out my papers, register, put my name down, get enrolled, whatever you call it," explained Dick. "Miss Emery said I 'd have to be here by six and I thought I was n't going to make it. I lost my bearings skating across and headed away downstream. That made me late. When do we feed?"

"Eight away," answered Roy. "But you 'd better go over to the Cottage first. Chub and I 'll show you the way. This is Chub here; his full name 's Mr. Thomas Eaton. By the way, your name 's Summers, is n't it?"

"Somes," was the reply. He shook hands warmly with Chub. "Glad to meet you," he said. Then he turned to Roy. "You 're Roy; I 've forgotten your last name, but Miss Emery spoke about you. Hope we 'll be friends." Then he faced the rest of the fellows who had edged as close as politeness would allow and who had been watching the proceedings with unconcealed interest. "My name 's Dick Somes," he announced smilingly, "and I 'm glad to meet all you chaps. We 'll get acquainted later. Now if you 'll lead the way," he suggested to Roy, "I 'll get my name down on the pay-roll."

"Say, Somes," said Chub, as they clattered down-stairs and across the hall, "I don't usually welcome strangers in quite such a demonstrative way, you know, but Roy had just been telling me about Harry and you, and it seemed such a blamed good joke that I just had to let out."

"That 's all right," Dick laughed. "I 'm tickled to death to find some one with what they call human emotions. Why, say, you chaps, I 've been hibernating over at Hammond for two whole days with a dozen wooden Indians who would n't even say 'Good Morning' to me until I shouted it! Talk about your frozen faces! Phew! But you fellows act as though you had blood in your veins! I thought maybe I could stand it over there, but when the push began to drift in this afternoon I saw that I 'd either have to get out or do murder. They looked me over as though I was some sort of a dime museum freak until I thought I 'd have to eat glass to please 'em. The first bunch feased me; I did n't wait to see what the rest looked like, but grabbed my pack and hit the trail, and here I am. All I ask is kind treatment and a comfortable home."

"Well, here we are," laughed Roy. "I hope the Doctor will let you stay."

"Oh, he will. I 've got the money right here and a bunch of letters that thick. And if he wants any more references I 'll refer him to Hammond.''

Roy rang the bell and in a moment the door was thrown open by Harry.

"Hello, Chub!" she cried. But then her eyes wandered past him to Dick Somes and her face lighted up. "Oh, it 's you!" she cried. "Father! He 's here! It 's Dick Somes!"

"The Brand from the Burning," murmured Dick as he followed the others into the little parlor. Then Harry came dancing back and beckoned him to the Doctor's study. The door closed and Harry returned alone.

"I told you he would come!" she whispered excitedly to Roy. Roy nodded. Then they sat, the three of them, like a trio of conspirators and waited. Once in a while they exchanged smiles, and Harry and Roy applauded Chub as he read from a blank sheet of paper, with widely fantastic gestures, an imaginary letter recounting Dick's virtues. Then the door opened and the Doctor and Dick appeared together in the hall.

"Ah, boys," said the Doctor, "I 'm glad to see you again. You spent a pleasant vacation, I hope. Now will you kindly take Somes over to Mr. Cobb and ask him to assign him a bed in the Senior Dormitory? Thank you. Good evening. I will see you here in the morning, Somes."

They left Harry, jubilant, on the porch and returned through the darkness to Burgess.

"How did it go?" asked Chub.

"All right," answered Dick soberly. "Say, the Doctor 's fine, is n't he?" The others concurred and Dick went on:

"He was n't going to take me at first; said it would n't be quite fair to the Hammond folks. But I told him it was all off between them and me and that if he would n't take me here I 'd go somewhere else. Then I showed my credentials and he said finally that if I was in earnest about it and really wanted to come here to learn and would abide by the rules and all that he 'd take me; and I said I would and we shook hands. Then he laughed and said he guessed I 'd get on."

"Good enough," said Roy. "We 'll find Cobb and then go down to supper. Are you hungry?"

"Hungry! Man, I 'm starved! I 've been living on apple-sauce for forty-eight hours! Why, I only have to close my eyes to imagine myself a Golden Russet!"

"Golden Russet be blowed!" laughed Chub. "You 're a peach!"

to be continued...

"The Beautiful Red Squirrel"

by F.W. Haskell, November 1911

A plea for kindness to animals is at the heart of this fanciful little story. Mrs. Squirrel isn't much of a conversationalist, is she?

One day in the early spring little Ben found, near the barn, a rat-trap which had lain under the snow all winter and had become badly rusted.

This trap was not one of the cruel kind that catches the rat by snapping together its two jaws of pointed teeth. That kind of a trap sometimes snaps the poor rat in his neck or body and kills him; but sometimes it catches his leg and breaks it, causing the poor rat great pain. And then sometimes the trap catches only the tail of the rat.

The trap that little Ben found was not one of those cruel ones, but was a nice big wire cage with a little platform something like a front porch. A piece of cheese or meat is put on the little porch, Mr. Rat steps on the porch to get the dainty morsel, when, flop! the porch drops from beneath him, and he falls into the cage; and, flop! the porch flies back, and he can't get out.

When Ben found the trap he thought it would be a great thing to catch a rat, so he put some cheese on the little porch, and then he watched the trap to see a rat go into it; but the rat did not come, and Ben grew tired, went away, and soon forgot all about the trap.

Late that afternoon Ben's governess was looking out of the window, when suddenly she said: "Oh, Ben, there is something flying around in your rat-trap. It looks like two or three birds!" Ben looked, and, sure enough, there was something in the trap flying around at a great rate.

Ben and his father ran out on the lawn, and what do you suppose they found in the trap? A rat? No! A beautiful red squirrel with a big, bushy tail!

Ben carried the trap into the house so that his mother could see the squirrel. Mr. Squirrel flew madly around in the trap, up and down, back and forth, around and around, so fast that you could not tell which end was his head and which was his tail, for they seemed all jumbled up together.

Ben wanted to keep the squirrel in a cage; but when his father told him how Mrs. Squirrel and the little squirrels were anxiously waiting at home for Mr. Squirrel, lie willingly consented to let Mr. Squirrel go.

So they took the trap outdoors again and put it on the grass. Then Ben opened the door in the trap, and Mr. Squirrel was free to run home. Mr. Squirrel was, however, the most badly frightened squirrel that ever lived. He was so very much frightened that he continued to fly around the trap so fast that for quite a while he did not see the open door. Finally he turned a little, darted through the door, and, zip! there was a little red streak across the lawn and up a tree!

Poor little Mr. Squirrel reached the topmost limb of the big elm-tree, and there he sat, trembling with fear, until it was dark, when with great caution he went slowly home: and when he reached home, I think this is what happened:

As Mr. Squirrel entered the round front door of his house in the southeast limb of the horse- chestnut tree. Mrs. Squirrel ran quickly to him and said: "Oh, Red Coat! I am so glad to see your dear face again! You have been gone so long that I feared something had happened to you."

"Well, Scamper, I should say something has happened to me. I have had the most wonderful adventure that ever befell a squirrel."

"Oh, you noble squirrel! You must tell me all about it. But you must be tired and hungry. Lie right down here on these leaves, and eat these lovely chestnuts I have saved for you; and when you are fully rested I will listen to the story of your adventures."

After Mr. Squirrel had eaten his chestnuts and had rested himself, he called Scamper to sit by his side, and told her his adventures in the following words:

"When I left you this morning I determined to bring you something unusually fine for dinner, so I started out by the tree-limb boulevard and went all through the great woods, and then I ran down to the ground and went all around the forest, hunting under all the leaves which fell off last fall."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel. "Were n't you awfully tired?"

"Not a bit," said Mr. Squirrel. "On my trip I found several very good nuts, but nothing fine enough to bring to you, for I was determined you should have the very best there was in the world."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel.

"I was feeling rather disappointed, and had reached that great, bare field to the north of our tree, when I noticed something I had never seen before. It was a peculiar structure made of great bars, and was about twice as big as our house."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel.

"I approached the structure and found it was very handsome and was made of bars of the strongest steel, each bar being about as big around as my rear legs."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel.

"At one end of the structure was an arch, under which was a large, smooth platform; and lying on the platform was a large piece of the most delicious-smelling food I have ever smelled."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel.

"I thought, 'This is just the thing for my dear Scamper,' so I stepped boldly onto the platform, when it suddenly gave way under my great weight, and I was violently precipitated into the lower part of the structure."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel. "What does 'precipitated' mean?"

"Thrown down," said Mr. Squirrel.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel.

"In some strange way the platform flew back, and I was locked in a large room whose walls, floor, and ceiling were made of terrible steel bars placed so close together that I could not even poke my nose through them."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel. "Were you terribly frightened?"

"Not a bit," said Mr. Squirrel, condescendingly.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel. "You are certainly the bravest squirrel in the whole world."

"I am," said Mr. Squirrel. "Well, I looked carefully around the room and was just about to commence to escape, when two of those queer two-legged giants came across the field. One of the giants was about half as high as our tree, while the other was so big that his head reached to the top of the trees."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel.

"The two giants made noises like thunder, and then the biggest one picked up the iron house in which I was confined, and carried it away, the smaller giant following, all the time keeping up the awful noises which those giants make."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel.

"The giants carried me into an enormous cavern, which I am sure is another world. Some parts of it were very dark, and some parts were light. The grass in some places was red, and the sky was yellow. It was wonderful."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel.

"The giant who was carrying the steel house with me in it must have become tired, for he finally put the house down and called two other giants. The four giants then looked at me in the most ugly manner. They kept up their horrible noises all the time, and then the biggest giant came close to the steel house with the intention of killing me."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel.

"Just as the great giant was about to put an end to me, I fixed my eyes upon him and gave him a very stern look. He started back in fright. I continued to gaze upon him so fiercely that he became filled with alarm, and roughly catching up the iron house, carried it out of the great cavern, placed it in the field, and ran away in terror."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel. "You certainly are the fiercest squirrel that ever lived."

"I am," said Mr. Squirrel. "As soon as I had frightened the giant away, I started to cut the steel bars with my teeth; but the bars were covered with something that did not taste good, so I simply took one bar in one paw, and another bar in the other paw, and exerting my great strength, pushed the bars apart, which made a space large enough for me to walk through."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel. "You certainly are the strongest squirrel that ever lived."

"I am," said Mr. Squirrel. "After leaving the iron house, I waited near by until dark, hoping the giant would come again so that I might frighten him to death; but he did not come, and as I feared you would be anxious about me, I came home."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel. "Did you bring home the delicious-smelling food you found on the platform of the iron house ?"

"No," said Mr. Squirrel. "It did not taste good, after all; and so I did not bring it."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Squirrel.

Well, the next day Scamper told Mrs. Gray Tail and Mrs. Fuzzy all about Red Coat's wonderful adventures; and they told Mr. Gray Tail and Mr. Fuzzy, and they told all the other squirrels, and then they told their cousins, the chipmunks; and gradually the woodchucks, and the foxes, and hares, and all the other animals heard of Red Coat's great fight with the ugly giants. And one day all the animals of the forest held a great convention, and it was resolved that Red Coat was the bravest, the fiercest, and the strongest animal that ever lived, and they all wanted to do him honor; and that is how it came about that the king of all the forest is a beautiful red squirrel with a great bushy tail.