"Yep, me sabby. Allee same me no likee."

"Sorry, but I can't help it. And you want to hustle 'em along too, for we are going to sail in half an hour. Got the stuff ready?"

"Yep, all leddy. Two hun'l poun'."

"Good enough. Send it right along with us."

A few minutes later our lads had left Won Lung's queer hotel and were out in the quiet streets accompanied by two Chinese coolies, who bore heavy burdens slung from the ends of stout bamboo poles carried across their shoulders.

As Bonny seemed disinclined to talk, Alaric refrained from asking questions, and the little party proceeded in silence through unfrequented streets to the place where their sloop lay. Here the burdens borne by the coolies were transferred to the cabin, where this part of the cargo was left with Captain Duff, and Alaric had no knowledge of where it was stowed.

While the Captain was thus busy below, Bonny was giving the crew his first lesson in seamanship by pointing out three ropes that he called jib, throat, and peak halyards, showing him how to make them fast about their respective belaying-pins, and impressing upon him the importance of remembering them.

Shortly after this the score of long-queued passengers arrived with their odd-looking packages of personal belongings, were taken aboard in silence, and stowed in the hold until Alaric wondered if they were piled on top of one another like sticks of cord-wood.

Then the mooring-lines were cast off, and the Fancy drifted noiselessly out of the slip with the ebbing tide. Once clear of it the jib was hoisted, and she began to glide out of the harbor before a gentle off-shore breeze.

CHAPTER X.

PUGET SOUND SMUGGLERS.

The great landlocked body of salt water known as Puget Sound, penetrating for nearly one hundred miles the northwestern corner of Washington, the Northwest State, is justly termed a smuggler's paradise. It pierces the land in every direction with a perfect net-work of inlets, channels, and bays lined with endless miles of forest, frowning cliffs, and snugly hidden harbors. The upper end of the sound, where its width entitles it to be called a gulf, is filled with an archipelago of rugged islands of all sizes and shapes, thinly settled, and offering innumerable secure hiding-places for small boats. Here and there along the shores of the sound are Indian reservations uncleared and unoccupied save by dwindling remnants of the once populous coast tribes. These Indians, though retaining their tribal names among themselves, are all known to the whites under the one designation of "Siwash," a corruption of the French sauvage.

On the eastern side of the sound are the important American cities of Seattle and Tacoma; while at its extreme southern end stands Olympia, Washington's capital. On its western side, and just north of the Strait of Juan de Fuca that connects the sound with the ocean, is located the Canadian city of Victoria, from which all the smuggling operations of these waters are conducted.

From Victoria to the American island of San Juan on the east, the largest of the archipelago already mentioned, the distance is only twelve miles, while it is but twenty miles across the Strait of Fuca to the American mainland on the south. These two points being so near at hand, it is easy enough to run a boat-load of opium or Chinamen over to either of them in a night. For such a passage each Chinaman is compelled to pay from $15 to $20, while opium yields a profit of four or five dollars a pound. Smuggling from Victoria is thus such a lucrative business that many men of easy conscience are engaged in it.

Both the island route and that by way of the strait present the serious drawbacks of having their landing-places so remote from railroads and cities, that though the frontier has been passed, there is still a dangerous stretch of territory to be crossed before either of these can be reached. In view of this fact it occurred to one of the more enterprising among the Victoria smugglers to undertake a greater risk for the sake of greater profits, and run a boat nearly one hundred miles up the sound to some point in near vicinity to one of its large cities.

He had just the craft for the purpose, and finally secured a captain who, having recently lost a schooner through seizure by the American authorities for unlawful sealing in Bering Sea, was reckless and desperate enough for the new venture. As this man undertook the run for a share of the profits, he was inclined to reduce all expenses to their very lowest limits, and had already made a number of highly successful trips. Although the fare to each Chinaman by this new line was $25, it offered such superior advantages as to be liberally patronized, and the boat was always crowded.

In the mean time the American authorities had discovered that much illegal opium and many illegal Chinamen were entering their country through a new channel that seemed to lead to the vicinity of Tacoma. The recently appointed commander of a United States revenue-cutter determined to break up this route, and capture, if possible, these boldest of all the sound smugglers. For some weeks he watched in vain, overhauled and examined a number of innocent vessels, and with each failure became the more anxious to succeed. At length he sent his third Lieutenant to Victoria, of course out of uniform, to gain what information he could concerning any vessel that seemed likely to be engaged in smuggling.

This officer, after spending several days in the city without learning anything definite, was beginning to feel discouraged, when one afternoon, as he was strolling near the docks, he noticed two lads walking ahead of him who looked something like sailors. One of them had evidently just purchased a new outfit of clothing, and carried a canvas bag on which his name was painted in black letters. Making a mental note of this name, the officer followed the lads out of curiosity to see what kind of a craft they would board.

When he saw the Fancy he said to himself: "Tough-looking old packet. I wonder if that young chap with the bag can be one of her crew?"

Without approaching the sloop so closely as to attract attention, he lingered in her vicinity until Alaric went uptown to procure supplies, when the officer still kept him in sight. He even entered the store in which the lad was dealing, and here his curiosity was stimulated by the young sailor's varied and costly order.

"That sloop must make an extraordinary amount of money somehow," he reflected.

So interested had he now become that he even followed Alaric while the lad made his subsequent purchases. Finally he found himself again near the sloop just as the lad who had excited his curiosity was ordered to the wharf to air himself after his unfortunate experience with the bottle of cologne. At length the officer addressed him, and by dint of persistent questions became confirmed in his suspicions that the dingy old sloop cruised to the sound with Chinamen and opium.

Having gained the information he wanted thus easily and unexpectedly, the officer returned to his hotel for supper and to write a despatch that should go by that night's boat. After delivering this on board the steamer he determined to take one more look at the suspected sloop; and strolling leisurely in that direction, reached the wharf just in time to see her glide out from the slip and head for the open sea.

Here was an emergency that called for prompt action, and running back to the hotel, the young man paid his bill, secured his bag, and gained the steamer just as that fine American-built vessel was about to take her departure for ports of the upper sound. Shortly afterwards, a little beyond the harbor mouth, the big brilliantly lighted steamer swept past a small dimly outlined craft, on whose deck somebody was waving a lantern so that she might not be run down.

Of course it has been understood long ere this that the sloop Fancy was a smuggler. She was not only that, but was also the boldest, most successful, and most troublesome smuggler on Puget Sound. The one person at all acquainted with the shabby old craft and as yet unaware of her true character was Alaric Todd. His slight knowledge of smugglers having been gained through books, he thought of them as being only a sort of half pirates, either Spanish or French, who flourished during the last century. Thus, although he did not approve of either the sloop's passengers or cargo, it did not occur to him that they were being carried in defiance of law until about the time that steamer's lights were disappearing in the distance.

The boy's hands were still smarting from an unaccustomed hauling on ropes that had resulted in hoisting the big mainsail, and now he lay on deck well forward, where he had been told to keep a sharp lookout and report instantly any vessel coming within his range of vision. Before a fresh beam wind the Fancy was slipping rapidly through the water, with Captain Duff steering, Bonny doing odd jobs about deck, and the passengers confining themselves closely to the hold. After the young mate had waved his signal lantern to the steamer, he extinguished both it and the side lights that had been burning until now, leaving the binnacle lamp carefully shaded as the only light on board. With nothing more to do at present, he threw himself down beside Alaric, and the boys began a low-voiced conversation.

"What made you put out those lights?" asked the latter. "I thought all ships carried lights at night."

"We don't," laughed Bonny. "They'd give us away to the cutters, and we'd be picked up in less'n no time. I'm mighty glad that steamer isn't a revenue-boat."

"Why?"

"Because she's so fast. There's only one craft in the sound can beat her, and that's the Flyer, running between Tacoma and Seattle. The City of Kingston is a good one, though. She used to be a crack Hudson River boat, and came out here around the Horn; or rather not exactly that, but through the Strait of Magellan. That's a tough place, I can tell you."

"I suppose it is," replied Alaric. "But, Bonny, tell me something more about those cutters. Why should they want to catch us?"

"For running 'chinks' and 'dope.'"

"What harm is there in that? Is it against the law?"

"I should rather say it was. There's a duty of ten dollars a pound on one, and the others aren't allowed in at any price."

"Then I don't see how we are any different from regular smugglers."

"That's what some folks call us," replied Bonny, with a grin. "They are mostly on the other side, though. In Victoria they call us free-traders."

"It doesn't make any difference what anybody calls us," retorted Alaric, vehemently, "so long as we ourselves know what we are. It was a mean thing, Bonny Brooks, that you didn't tell me this before we started."

"Look here, Rick Dale! do you pretend you didn't know after seeing the 'chinks' and the 'dope' and all that was going on? Oh, come, that's too thin!"

"I don't care whether it's thin or thick," rejoined Alaric, stoutly. "I didn't know that I was shipping to become a pirate, or you may be very certain I'd have sat on that log till I starved before going one step with you."

"What do you mean by calling me a pirate?" demanded Bonny, indignantly. "I'm no more a pirate than you are, for all your fine airs."

In his excitement Bonny had so raised his voice that it reached the ears of Captain Duff, who growled out fiercely, "Stow yer jaw, ye young swabs, and keep a sharp lookout for'ard—d'ye hear?"

"Ay, ay, sir!" responded the young mate, rising as though to end the conversation, and peering keenly into the gloom.

But Alaric was not inclined to let the subject drop; and, with an idea of continuing their talk in so low a tone that it could not reach the Captain's ears, he too started to rise.

At that moment the sloop gave a quick lurch that caused him to plunge awkwardly forward. He was only saved from going overboard by striking squarely against Bonny, who was balancing himself easily in the very eyes of the vessel, with one foot on the rail. The force of the blow was too great for him to withstand. With a gasping cry he pitched headlong over the bows and disappeared from his comrade's horrified gaze.

[to be continued.]

BICYCLE-TOURING DURING SUMMER VACATIONS.

Wheeling has become such a universal matter now that it may prove of interest to give some practical hints to riders who have not yet realized what health and enjoyment, as well as experience, may be gained by taking something more than a day's ride in the vicinity of home and daily work. By far the greater number of those who own wheels are, or rather have been up to the present, satisfied to take afternoon runs of from ten to fifty miles in length, or, at most, to ride out of town to some friend's house, returning the next day. In those cities and towns of the United States which admit of it hundreds of men, young and old, ride every day to school or college or business, but until this year there has been comparatively little of the two weeks' or two months' touring—that is the best use to which a wheel can be put. Naturally one of the reasons for this has been that but few people have time to go off on fortnightly trips. The chief reason probably has been the difficulty of getting good accommodations, good roads, and good opportunity for repairs in case of accidents. It has become the custom to ride through England or France, and thus combine a sight-seeing tour with a long bicycle ride, rather than make similar runs at home, and why not here?

If a tour is possible in Europe, it certainly is possible in America, and to him who has eyes to see there is much to see and learn about his own country, if he goes on a wheel, that never can be seen in any other way. Now, too, the facilities for such a trip are greatly improved over anything in the past. There is not a village of any size, to say nothing of towns and cities, that has not one repair shop at least, and in New England and the Middle States, and all along the northern part of the United States, out beyond Chicago, a wheelman can get to one within an hour, except, perhaps, in some isolated instances where there are long stretches of woodland. A five or ten mile walk with a badly broken wheel is an unpleasant job; but if you are on any reasonably important thoroughfare you are sure to get a chance to ride on some passing wagon, and then, once the repair shop is reached, the wheel can either be repaired, or another one hired until your own is in good order again.

Hotels are now accustomed to bicyclists. There was a time when many a hotel had a regulation that no one in bicycle costume was permitted to enter the dining-room, but such inns are fast getting behind the times. All hostelries are in existence to make money, and the moment—which is now arrived—that a sufficiently large number of men and women ride to them on bicycles they will open dining-rooms and the whole hotel to them. Then, again, the League of American Wheelmen is doing a great deal for this touring of the bicyclist. The League is not a money-making affair in any way; most of its officials give their services free, and the endeavor is merely to pay expenses, while the object is to unite wheelmen and make them a sufficiently strong body to urge the different governments of the States, cities, etc., to build good roads and pass reasonable laws for the bicyclist. If you join this L.A.W. you secure for your initiation a ticket which in most large towns and cities admits you to at least one hotel for a somewhat reduced price. At any rate, on a two weeks' tour the wheelman will get his initiation fee back again half a dozen times over. Besides his ticket the member also is presented with a road-book of his State, which not only gives the best routes all over the State, but tells him also the hotels which give reduced rates, gives distances from one place to another, and other information of this kind. It also suggests good runs from 50 to 500 miles in length. With the improvement in the strength, durability, and lightness of the bicycle itself, the information of L.A.W. road-books, and the increase in repair shops, the great difficulties of touring have vanished. It turns out, therefore, that the facilities for touring are really better in the United States than in Europe, the one real disadvantage being that English and French roads are in better condition than those in America.

The difficulties to be overcome, then, are those of the bicyclist himself. How shall he fit out? Where shall he go, at what rate, and by what route? These questions, hard to answer as they may seem to any one who has not travelled much, are not difficult if they are taken up in detail. The real objects of such a trip should be amusement, comfort, sight-seeing, and out-door exercise. The speed at which you go should be comfortable to you, and you yourself must therefore settle that. Some men want to do seventy or eighty miles a day. Others are tired if they do more than ten. The distance, however, is or should be absolutely of no importance. If you feel like doing a good bit one day, it is possible. If you feel like staying abed the next day, or taking a walk, that is possible, too. In either case the idea of bicycle-touring does not or should not be concerned with distance at all. One man will have quite as good a time on a two weeks' tour covering a hundred miles as another will in covering a thousand.

In laying out the trip, some general idea of its course ought to be decided upon, such as a run from Boston to New York and return, from New York to Washington, New York to Buffalo and Niagara, Chicago to Buffalo, Chicago to St. Louis, and so on; or a trip to the White Mountains in New Hampshire, or the Berkshire Hills in Massachusetts, from any of the places named. The words "mountains" and "hills" have a dangerous sound to wheelmen, but the beauty of scenery, the visions of long even coasts, and pleasant variations from the continual revolving of wheels to walking up the next slope, all mean a great deal more than mere hilly roads. Once the trip is laid out, however, all idea of the different stages must be forgotten or never figured out. That planning to reach this town on Monday, and another on Tuesday, and the next on Wednesday, is ruinous to pleasure and to the nerves. The constant strain to get there, or the still greater vexation of getting there in the middle of the afternoon and feeling like going on, is bad.

At any rate, there is not much pleasure in running on railroad time. If the week or fortnight at your disposal is up before the journey is done, take a train and go home, with the wheel in a baggage-car; but on no account hurry. You have your road-map with you, and can see at a glance that Johnstown is three miles further on, and Brownstown is ten. If at Johnstown you don't want to stop, make for Brownstown. If you grow weary five miles out, stop at the first decent-looking house and tell the housewife you are on a pleasure tour, that you want to rest, or hope for a glass of milk or a dinner or a bed. She will help you out if you pay, and often if you don't; but should she refuse, try the next house after suggesting to her that she should ride a bicycle; for as sure as there is a wheel resting up against the house anywhere, you will be received and comforted. Some of the pleasantest incidents of a trip, some of the kindest friends, are found in these little unexpected stops. In any case be pleasant, be considerate; take the baby on your knee, show Johnny how the wheels go round, and scratch the cat's back. All these will open the spare bedroom and the larder, to say nothing of the hostess's heart, and they will even save money.

Suppose, for instance, the trip is to be from New York city to Boston along the Connecticut coast, and back through Massachusetts, over the Berkshire Hills, and down the Hudson—a trip that it will be difficult for any one to surpass anywhere else in the United States for variety of scenery, historic interest, and for good roads and accommodations. You leave New York city, run out through Stamford, New Haven, New London, in Connecticut, thence through Providence to Boston, taking a side trip, if there is time, to Newport, Rhode Island. From Boston the run is westward through Worcester and Springfield, and then, winding about through Lenox, Pittsfield, Stockbridge, and all the Berkshire towns, it finally crosses the border into New York State, until the Hudson is reached; thence it extends down the east bank of the river to New York city. The whole trip has a good name for roads, is full of historic interest, combines sea and mountain air, and gives you a glimpse of old New England life as well as of modern country life of the most advanced type. There are towns and repair shops in plenty, and not many hills as such tours go. You can do it in two weeks or less, or you can easily take a month to it, and at any time you can reach New York city in one night by rail.

There are other trips that in some ways would prove more interesting to different men, and any one, wherever he lives, provided it is somewhere in the northern or eastern part of the United States, or on the Pacific or Atlantic coast, can lay out such a tour from his road-books or his own head. Suppose, for the moment, this trip is to be taken, however, how shall a bicyclist fit out? The questions which require solution are how to carry sufficient clothing for exigencies, and to have it weigh as nearly nothing as possible; and how to travel at as near no cost as possible. There is a well-known system for carrying baggage on a walking tour which is eminently suited to bicyclists; this is to have two pieces of baggage. The first is a large valise or small trunk, containing clothing of all kinds needed for an ordinary two weeks' trip by rail, besides toilet articles, and so on. The materials for the other is composed of a similar set of toilet articles, and one or at most two sets of underclothing, besides an extra pair of shoes or slippers—moccasins pack easily and are very serviceable. This last is packed in a leather case set into the diamond frame of the wheel, or into a knapsack carried on the shoulders. If the diamond-shaped portmanteau is properly made it is better. Luggage seems lighter on the wheel than on your back.

The trouble with the average portmanteau is that it is too thick, making it necessary for the wheelman to straddle it instead of giving him the free use of his limbs to press up and down on the pedals perpendicularly. If you will take the trouble to have this portmanteau made to order and carefully measured, so that it will not come outside a line drawn on either side of the bicycle from the sides of the saddle to the inside of each pedal when at its lowest point in a revolution, you will find no trouble with it. This, however, necessitates its being narrower at the top than at the bottom. On arriving at a hotel for the night, it is unstrapped from the wheel and taken up to your room. Then after your bath there is the change of clothing, the slippers, the toilet articles in a little case by themselves, and your repair kit, which may be wanted in the evening for some little repairs on the wheel. The portmanteau will always be full, so take only what is absolutely necessary, otherwise you will find that some important thing has been left behind, and a useless appendage brought only to occupy valuable space, and be thrown away in disgust. Always carry soap and a towel. They are sometimes hard to find, and oftener so bad that one goes dirty rather than use them. Then, too, a good wash by a stream is only satisfactory when soap and towel are at hand. If you have been compelled to repair a puncture by the way, such a wash with soap and towel is everything. If you stop for a bath in some stream, the towel comes in again.

Another good addition is one of the tiny cameras that are sold nowadays for a small amount. For if you cannot sketch well they bring back with you little reminders of a journey which are invaluable, and they do not take the time in preparation that a sketch does. Of course it would be foolish to attempt to state that photographs are better than good sketches. Any one who can draw reasonably well has something of the greatest value with him. For the average mortal a camera must take its place.

All this time nothing has been said as to the use to be made of the large valise or small trunk. It contains several changes of clothing, extra shoes, extra suits, extra everything, and is sent from New York by express to the Narragansett House at Providence, or to Newport, or even to Boston. On the first day's ride you make Stamford, thirty miles away, or New Haven, forty-one miles further on. The next day New London is far enough. Perhaps you want to stay there an extra day, or perhaps you spend two or three days getting to Providence. At any rate, in three or four or five days you are in Providence, and there is the valise awaiting you with a fresh supply of clothing for the portmanteau. Next morning it goes to Boston, and you follow it the same day, or the next, or three or four days later, just as you wish. In Boston all the clothing can be laundered in a day, and a new start made. From this city the valise goes by express to Springfield or Lenox or Stockbridge, and you follow on at your leisure. If at any time you decide not to pass through the city or town holding your valise for the time being, send a letter and order it sent elsewhere, paying the required amount and a little more by money-order enclosed. Such transactions are safe in any good hotel; but always have the valise marked "to be called for by John Brown, expecting to arrive by bicycle about such and such a date."

It is not improbable that you may want the valise at once. In that case the best plan is to get on a train and ride to it. It will never be more than four hours away, and instead of covering the distance you ride in the train on your wheel, you can add some unexpected and therefore interesting detour to your programme.

From Lenox the valise goes to Hudson or Poughkeepsie, or even to New York city again, and the trip is finished, as it was begun, in pleasant irregular stages, with stoppages wherever desirable, and long runs whenever wanted. And this suggests another word as to the regulation of habits on the road. Don't eat and drink in every town you happen to pass through. Eat a hearty breakfast, and then read a paper for an hour. With breakfast, at eight, the start will be at nine. Then run along at any gait that suits you, only remembering that an easy start means a pleasant and a long run. Stop at twelve or thereabouts, as the town appears and the spirit moves, wash up, and eat a big noon dinner. After another hour's rest—sometimes including a nap—start out again, going slowly usually, or rest till four or five o'clock if it is midsummer and very warm.

When a hill is reached, remember that a little walk is a great rest and recreation, and a ride up a short hill is equal to a long stretch of level road. It is really wiser and pleasanter to walk up all hills that are steep. If you see a pretty brook and a shady tree near it, and the spirit again moves, dismount and read a volume out of the portmanteau, or lie quietly, enjoying one of the privileges of a bicycle trip—a little communion with honest nature, far removed from the railroad, the hotel, the guide, and the summer tourist. If it rains, ask the first man to take you in—and so on.

One man can enjoy such a trip hugely. Two, if they are congenial, can, also; but never go with three, and usually not with four or more. Somebody is always getting punctured, or falling ill, or not waking up, or wanting to rest. If you are alone you can usually agree with yourself, though sometimes that is hard work, and even two make the agreeing more difficult.

The best trips in the northern and eastern part of the United States are briefly: 1. The tour already mentioned. 2. The run from New York city, up the east bank of the Hudson, crossing at Albany; thence through the highly interesting and historic valley of the Mohawk, through Utica, Syracuse, Rochester, and so on to Buffalo; thence to Niagara, Detroit, and Chicago. 3. From New York city or Albany or Boston (in the latter cases reaching New York city as described), across Staten Island to Tottenville and Perth Amboy; thence through Princeton, Trenton, Philadelphia, Baltimore, to Washington. 4. From Boston, northward through Lowell, Concord (New Hampshire), Manchester, and on to the White Mountains, or through Portsmouth, Portland, and out along the Maine coast towards Bangor or Bar Harbor or Eastport. Most of these trips have been given in the Round Table Bicycle Department, and can be had by any one from the publishers, by ordering the numbers in the foot-notes accompanying that Department. They can practically all be secured by purchasing the different road-books issued by the L.A.W.

Of course there are hundreds of other tours, and, indeed, each man can make up a good tour for himself by merely studying his road-books. These trips are comprehensive in many ways, and as they are much more ridden, and therefore more accurately described, it is wiser to take one of them for your first tour than to begin exploring on your own account at once.

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

EASTER FROLIC.

s it true that the sun dances Easter morning, and that all the stones turn upside down, and that if I will climb to the top of that hill"—pointing to a high hill that was in the immediate neighborhood—"I can see it all?"

"Sure an' ye can, miss. It's meself that has seen 'em many's the time, only ye must be up airly, for the sun niver dances after five in the mornin'."

The getting up was indeed a difficult task, for I was a regular "lie-a-bed"; but I had never seen the sun dance or stones turn over, and, being a credulous child, I resolved to try. The only question was, "How was I to waken?" for my head, once on the pillow, lay there generally, without even turning over, for a stretch of twelve hours. Bridget suggested that I tie my hand to the bedpost, but not thinking this a very safe precaution, I settled the matter by giving her an order to wake me at half after four o'clock. This she consented to do, provided I would "niver tell me mither." And I did not until breakfast-time, which was my very first opportunity, and at the moment I was so annoyed at the dolt this Irish cook had made of me, that I would have told a dozen mothers, had I only had the chance. Instead of waking me at half past four, she woke me at four o'clock. Oh, how sleepy I was! I remember dreaming of a short red-faced fairy shaking me and saying, "Hurry, child! stones turning, sun dancing! Hurry-scurry, or you'll be too late!" And on opening my eyes there stood our old red-faced Bridget.

I dressed as fast as I could, begging her to button my shoes. I was all in a quiver of excitement for fear of being late, and as soon as it was light enough to see my way, without waiting for hat or jacket, I rushed wildly along and up the lane, unto the hill and so on, never pausing until reaching the very top.

There I sat down on a big stone, so making sure of that one at least, and with an occasional turning of my head to watch all the other stones lying around, and especially one big rock over which the apple boughs swayed, I awaited the sun's rising.

It finally rose, much after the fashion, I suppose, of any other spring morning. I thought maybe it danced, but my mother didn't agree with me; she said I was faint and dizzy because I was unaccustomed to rise so early and go out without breakfast. But the stones never turned, not even the smallest one; of that I was assured. And so at a quarter before eight o'clock a very disappointed, tired child wandered down the hill and along the lane, so reaching home.

That the Irish serving-maid had been making fun of me I did not dream until I heard a loud, hard laugh, accompanying the words, "What a fool that child is!" Therefore it was no strange thing I was angry enough to make full confession.

And now that I have older grown, I have learned how fraught with superstitions the beautiful Easter day is. Not alone in Ireland, but in almost every country some qualities of the miraculous or uncanny may be discovered.

The time for Easter amusement is during the week which follows Easter day, and it would be a pretty idea at such a season to give a short tableau entertainment in connection with music and games, the tableaux indicating the superstitions of various countries.

When the tableau is shown, announce what it is intended to represent; for example, in Russia the Easter festival might almost be termed the "kissing festival," for beginning with the Emperor, who on Easter day kisses various generals and even privates in his army, the singular contagion spreads throughout the empire, apparently affecting both aristocrat and plebeian.

Tableau.—A boy representing the Russian Emperor kissing a member of the army.

In the olden days of France it was the custom for a Christian to give a Jew an Easter box.

Tableau.—Two boys, one representing the Christian, the other the Jew. The Christian must be in the act of boxing the Jew's ear.

Follow this with the France of to-day.

Tableau.—An interior of a church, extravagantly trimmed with flowers, and brilliant with lighted candles. It should be crowded with boys and girls, mothers and fathers, all in brand-new clothes.

Show Spain as a dark-haired girl, with a mantilla over her head, kneeling in a church before a mammoth candle—the Paschal candle, nine feet long. In order to make it seem taller, stand it on a marble pedestal.

Rome, with a procession of gayly attired children, and a boy representing the Pope, in the most elegant of robes, carried in a crimson chair, over which is a canopy. This chair must be preceded by two other boys, each carrying white ostrich-feather fans.

Germany, with a group of dancing girls and boys, the girls wearing small close-fitting white caps, full white aprons over dark gold-braided skirts and white sleeves; the boys with knee-breeches, white stockings, showy vests, and gold buttons. Or show a hare running from a nest filled with colored eggs, before which two little children kneel. The nest should be placed under a bush, and one of the children should wear a laughing face, for she holds up an egg.

England, with a crowd of boys and girls returning from Hampton Court, Kew Garden, or Stoke Pogis, with their arms literally filled with willow-boughs and branches of blossoms—yellow, pink, and white—with which they will decorate the church for Easter Sunday. Switzerland, with a band of musicians carrying guitars, and going from house to house singing some sweet carol, their hats and caps wreathed with flowers.

A very pretty way to amuse children of all ages is to hide eggs in the grass or under bushes, and then have an egg-hunt. All eggs found may, of course, be carried home. Give five minutes for the hunt, and it will prove great sport for lookers-on also.

For another game, raise a tent decorated with flags, cheese-cloth streamers, or ribbons. Opposite the tent in which the guests are to be seated, and ten feet distant, is a post or tree on which to put the prize. At the base of the post put a basket of thin glass balls, and also one at the tent door, only fill this basket with excelsior. The game is to find the person that will throw the largest number of eggs from one of the baskets into the other and not break them. Whoever wins is rewarded by the prize.

For little children, form a ring, and pitch to the centre of the ring a hard-boiled egg, and let them scramble for it. For larger children, let them pair off, a boy and girl; thus alternating, they form a ring. Then start thirteen china or glass eggs, one after the other, from hand to hand, taking the egg in the right hand, passing it to the left, and so on around the ring. If an egg drops it must stay where it falls until the other eggs have gone around the ring three times. It may chance by that time that all the eggs have dropped. When the third time around is complete, immediately a grand chain is formed, and the children dance, and go back to position, picking up the eggs as they dance. If the egg is not picked up, keeping time to the music, which is being played throughout the game, that person cannot retain it, but must give it to the one following. Sometimes no eggs fall, then the game is kept up until all the eggs have passed rapidly around three times. But when dropped and picked up, they must then go around once, and after this final circuit the game is concluded.

Boil a dozen or more eggs in logwood of different strengths of dye; they will then be colored violet or purple. Give these eggs, with a large pin or pen-knife, to young people to decorate. Offer a prize for the best decoration within fifteen minutes.

Still another game is to knock eggs. Hold an egg so that the small end is shown between the forefinger and the thumb. Sit or stand opposite to the person with whom you are playing. Then knock each other's eggs. The knock should be swift and hard, and whosesoever egg is the first to crack must now be given to the opponent. When starting, each should have equal number. Whoever has the most eggs after playing ten minutes has won.

The Game of Cluck.—Perhaps this is the jolliest game of all, and it is essentially for boys. Whoever gives the party should ask each of his friends to bring a chicken—a real live chicken—and if he is sure he would not recognize her when with a barnyard of others, he must tie a ribbon around her neck; he must also bring some hard-boiled eggs. The court used should be surrounded with a high netting, and the centre of the court marked with a cross.

At a signal all the players, each with his fowl in his arms, must enter the court, and the host, going to the centre, now becomes auctioneer, and taking each offered fowl in turn, he loudly calls, "How many eggs am I bid for this chicken?"—two eggs, three, or whatever the number may be; no one must bid what he cannot pay, and the chicken is given to the boy offering the largest number, and the eggs are given to the previous owner of the chicken. He may put them wherever he pleases, only they must be somewhere within the netting.

The sale being over, the "cluck" commences, for it is now each one's aim to recover his chicken, which can only be done by finding the requisite number of eggs given for her. This is much easier said than done, for the boys will have hidden them in their pockets and other peculiar places. Meanwhile, the chickens, running in every direction, are very apt to "cluck" loudly.

The Bird's Nest.—Put a bird's nest in a room; hunt for it as you "Hunt the Slipper," only instead of saying "warm, warmer," and so on, you cluck, cluck, cluck soft or loud as the party goes toward or from the nest. Only one person hunts at a time; everybody else clucks.

Never rob a bird's nest, no matter how much the pretty eggs may tempt you. Think of the sorrow of the mother bird when she returns and sees it empty. Think, too, of the time when these little shells would break, and a blue or yellow bird, or maybe an oriole, would rise out and sing sweetest song to you.

Have you ever seen among the variety of confectioners' eggs those trimmed with roses—the kind that seems near of kin to the Æolian-harp?—for blow on the roses ever so softly, listen, and you'll hear a bird.

LEARNING BY DEGREES.

Any out-door or vigorous exercise to which a girl is unaccustomed it is best she should be content to learn by degrees. This is the best rule for pleasure as well as for health. If you take so long a tramp to-day that you cannot walk again for a week because you became "tired to death," the walk was of no benefit to you, but a positive injury. You have overstrained your muscles, you feel exhausted, and you conclude that walking for pleasure is hard work. There is "no fun in getting played out," you say.

Surely not. But you have mistaken the cause of your failure to find "the fun." You began by trying to do too much at first. If you have heretofore been lazy, and have ridden everywhere, when you should have used the means of locomotion which nature has given you, you had better begin by doing only a short distance—perhaps only a mile a day—at first. Do not take any risk of tiring yourself. The distance can be gradually increased, and this course will so harden and develop the muscles used that no sense of fatigue need be felt at any time. Instead, you feel the pleasure that comes of being able to do what you undertake.

The same rule holds with regard to rowing, riding, or any form of sport or bodily training. "Begin with a moderate amount, and keep it up persistently until you become used to it;" this is what all common-sense authorities say on the subject. One's muscles are usually tired after an exercise, just because they are unused to it and don't understand their work. They are like lazy little servants, who need to be taught their duty and forced to do it.

By that time Tom Chist had grown into a strong-limbed, thick-jointed boy of fourteen or fifteen years of age. It was a miserable dog's life he lived with old Matt Abrahamson, for the old fisherman was in his cups more than half the time, and when he was so there was hardly a day passed that he did not give Tom a curse or a buffet or, as like as not, an actual beating. One would have thought that such treatment would have broken the spirit of the poor little foundling, but it had just the opposite effect upon Tom Chist, who was one of your stubborn, sturdy, stiff-willed fellows who only grow harder and more tough the more they are treated ill. It had been a long time now since he had made any outcry or complaint at the ill-treatment he suffered from old Matt. At such times he would shut his teeth and bear whatever came to him, until sometimes the boozy old Abrahamson would be driven almost mad by his stubborn silence. Maybe he would stop in the midst of some ill-treatment that he was administering, and, grinding his teeth, would cry out: "Won't ye say naught? Won't ye say naught? Well, then, I'll see if I can't make ye say naught." When things had reached such a pass as this Molly would generally interfere to protect her foster-son, and then she and Tom would together fight the old man until they had wrenched the stick or the strap out of his hand. Then old Matt would chase them out of doors and around and around the house for maybe half an hour until his anger was cool, when he would go back again, and for a time the storm would be over.

Besides his foster-mother, Tom Chist had a very good friend in Parson Jones, who used to come over every now and then to Abrahamson's hut upon the chance of getting a half-dozen fish for breakfast. He always had a kind word or two for Tom, who during the winter evenings would go over to the good man's house to learn his letters, and to read and write and cipher a little, so that by now he was able to spell the words out of the Bible and the almanack, and knew enough to change tuppence into four ha'pennies.

This is the sort of boy Tom Chist was, and this is the sort of life he led.

In the late spring or early summer of 1699 Captain Kidd's sloop sailed into the mouth of the Delaware Bay and changed the whole fortune of his life.

And this is how you come to the story of Captain Kidd's treasure-box.

II.

Old Matt Abrahamson kept the flat-bottomed boat in which he went out fishing some distance down the shore, and in the neighborhood of the old wreck that had been sunk on the Shoals. This was the usual fishing-ground of the settlers, and here old Matt's boat generally lay drawn up on the sand.

There had been a thunder-storm that afternoon, and Tom had gone down the beach to bale out the boat against the morning's fishing.

It was full moonlight now, as he was returning, and the night sky was full of floating clouds. Now and then there was a dull flash to the westward, and once a muttering growl of thunder, promising another storm to come.

All that day the pirate sloop had been lying just off the shore back of the Capes, and now Tom Chist could see the sails glimmering pallidly in the moonlight, spread for drying after the storm. He was walking up the shore homeward when he became aware that at some distance ahead of him there was a boat drawn up on the little narrow beach, and a group of men clustered about it. He hurried forward with a good deal of curiosity to see who had landed, but it was not until he had come close to them that he could distinguish who and what they were. Then he knew that it must be a party who had come off from the pirate sloop. They had evidently just landed, and two men were lifting out a chest from the boat. One of them was a negro, naked to the waist, and the other was a white man in his shirt sleeves, wearing petticoat breeches, a Monteray cap upon his head, a red bandanna handkerchief around his neck, and gold ear-rings in his ears. He had a long plaited queue hanging down his back, and a great sheath-knife dangling from his side. Another man, evidently the captain of the party, stood at a little distance as they lifted the chest out of the boat. He had a cane in one hand and a lighted lantern in the other, although the moon was shining as bright as day. He wore jack-boots and a handsome laced coat, and he had a long drooping mustache that curled down below his chin. He wore a fine feathered hat, and his long black hair hung down upon his shoulders.

All this Tom Chist could see in the moonlight that glinted and twinkled upon the gilt buttons of his coat.

They were so busy lifting the chest from the boat that at first they did not observe that Tom Chist had come up and was standing there. It was the white man with the long plaited queue and the gold ear-rings that spoke to him. "Boy, what do you want here, boy?" he said, in a rough hoarse voice. "Where d'ye come from?" And then dropping his end of the chest, and without giving Tom time to answer, he pointed off down the beach, and said, "You'd better be going about your own business, if you know what's good for you; and don't you come back, or you'll find what you don't want waiting for you."

Tom saw in a glance that the pirates were all looking at him, and then, without saying a word, he turned and walked away. The man who had spoken to him followed him threateningly for some little distance, as though to see that he had gone away as he was bidden to do. But presently he stopped, and Tom hurried on alone, until the boat and the crew and all were dropped away behind and lost in the moonlight night. Then he himself stopped also, turned, and looked back whence he had come.

There had been something very strange in the appearance of the men he had just seen, something very mysterious in their actions, and he wondered what it all meant, and what they were going to do. He stood, for a little while thus looking and listening. He could see nothing, and could hear only the sound of distant talking. What were they doing on the lonely shore thus at night? Then, following a sudden impulse, he turned and cut off across the sand humps, skirting around inland, but keeping pretty close to the shore, his object being to spy upon them, and to watch what they were about from the back of the sand hummocks that fronted the beach.

He had gone along some distance in his circuitous return when he became aware of the sound of voices that seemed to be drawing closer to him as he came toward the speakers. He stopped and stood listening, and instantly, as he stopped, the voices stopped also. He crouched there silently in the bright glimmering moonlight, surrounded by the silent stretches of sand, and the stillness seemed to press upon him like a heavy hand. Then suddenly the sound of a man's voice began again, and as Tom listened he could hear some one slowly counting. "Ninety-one," the voice began, "ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one"—the slow monotonous count coming nearer and nearer to him—"one hundred and two, one hundred and three, one hundred and four," and so on in its monotonous reckoning.