"PAPA HAYDN."

THE BUTTERFLY'S FUNERAL.

WHY DICK DROVE THE CAR.

THE GEESE AND THE CAPITOL.

MR. THOMPSON AND THE OWLS.

THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.

WHAT THE SHOWMAN DID NOT TELL.

THE BARRINGTON TOLL-GATE.

SCHOOL'S BEGUN.

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE

vol. iii.—no. 152. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents.
Tuesday, September 26, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance.

YOUNG HAYDN SINGING BEFORE THE TWO GREAT MUSICIANS.

"PAPA HAYDN."

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

One day nearly a hundred and fifty years ago two elderly gentlemen were dining together in an old house in Hamburg, Germany. They were music-masters of great note in those days. Herr Franck was the host; the guest was Herr Reuter, Capellmeister at Vienna. Their conversation very naturally was on music, and the new and old musicians, singers, and conductors. Suddenly Franck declared he had in his house a prodigy, a boy of nine, whom he had brought from the country. Reuter was delighted. The boy was summoned from the kitchen, where he was dining with the cook, and no doubt enjoying his Sunday pudding with great relish, for he worked hard and did not fare too well.

I like to think of that picture: the old wainscoted dining-room, the grave musicians looking up from their dinner as the door opened on a small dark-haired, brown-skinned boy, a dainty, delicately modelled child, who came in shyly, and stood at a distance from the table, with his hands behind him, and his head bent down, until his teacher, Herr Franck, bade him sing. And then the boy's voice broke all the bonds of restraint. He threw back his little head and sang. It was an irrepressible burst of melody, and Reuter, the old master, sprang up, exclaiming, "He shall come to my choir; he is just what I want."

It was a wonderful step onward for the child; but Reuter little knew the future of the boy whom he took that day, and never dreamed that his name, Francis Joseph Haydn, would be famous in every civilized country of the world.

Reuter carried young Haydn off to Vienna, where he was placed in the cathedral choir, and where his sweet young voice, a marvellous soprano, filled all the town with delight. His parents gave him freely in charge to old Reuter; but the master was selfish and exacting. The boy longed to compose, but Reuter refused to allow him to take lessons in composition, and made him give his whole time to choir practice. Haydn had very little money, but he hoarded every penny for a long time, and when he was thirteen years old he purchased two treatises on music, and having studied them diligently, actually composed a mass.

I don't suppose it was very fine music, but at all events it showed a great desire for work, and it was too bad that Reuter should have roared with laughter over it, and given the eager boy no encouragement. It seems as though from that time the old master was determined to thwart and annoy his pupil. The lad found choir work a slavery, but did not know how to free himself. A piece of idle mischief led to his escape. One day in a frolic he cut off the tail of the wig of a singer in the choir. Reuter flew into a rage, turned Haydn out then and there, actually expelling him from choir, board, and lodging. It was a cruel winter's night. The lad wandered about the streets of Vienna, until he remembered the one person who had ever encouraged him. This was a barber named Keller, and to his humble abode Haydn directed his steps. Keller gave him a cordial welcome, though he had but little to offer: a loft—in which, however, stood an old harpsichord—and a seat at his simple table. In the wig-maker's family Haydn went joyfully to work. He had some sonatas of Bach's, he picked up odd bits of music here and there, mastered the science of those who had gone before him, and though often cold and hungry, was never cheerless. Now and then he went into the shop, where Keller and his daughter Anne were at work on wigs, and where Haydn's assistance was quite acceptable. Anne Keller was a plain dull girl, who knew nothing of the great art of her father's lodger, yet Haydn was grateful for her rough sort of kindness to him. He became engaged to her, and later, when he was more prosperous, married her.

It was not long before the young musician had made a circle of friends. He played on the violin and the organ, sometimes in the churches, and occasionally in the salons of some great ladies, but his chief enjoyment was a little club of wandering minstrels. They were a band of enthusiastic youths who wandered about Vienna on moon-light nights to serenade famous musicians.

One night they directed their steps to the house of Herr Curtz, the leader of the opera. Under his windows they began one of Haydn's compositions, the young musician's violin slowly filling the moon-lit garden with melody. No demonstration from old Curtz was expected, but suddenly a window was flung open, out came Curtz's head, and his voice screamed to know who was playing.

Back came the answer. "Joseph Haydn."

"Whose music is it?"

"Mine."

Down came Curtz, collared the astonished young man, and brought him upstairs to a big candle-lit room, where stood a fine piano littered with music. There, when the two had regained their breath, Curtz explained that he wanted Haydn to compose some music for a new libretto he had written. Now this was certainly an important moment. Haydn sat down to the piano, banged away, tried various ideas, and at last hit upon the right thing. Before daylight he had arranged with Curtz for the music, for which he was promised one hundred and thirty florins.

It was his first real success, and from that moment prosperity attended him. He wrote his first symphony when he was twenty-eight, in the year 1759. Soon after he received an appointment in the household of Prince Esterhazy, where his duty was a curious one. He was obliged to have a piece of music ready to lay on his patron's breakfast table every morning. This may seem drudgery, but in reality these years were among the happiest of Haydn's life, marred only by his marriage with the barber's daughter, Anne Keller, whose wretched temper at last forced him to separate from her. He cared for her tenderly, however, and she was well content with her lot in life.

Around Haydn in England, France, and Germany gathered a band of younger musicians, eager to watch his developments in music, and to whom he was familiarly known as "Papa Haydn." It was Mozart, the then youthful composer, that gave him the endearing title. Between them existed the most touching friendship, broken only by Mozart's early death.

I can not tell you of all of Haydn's works. His greatest were his Symphonies. In these he developed instrumental music until he made it something far greater than it had ever been before; and for this all generations will owe him thanks and praise.

His oratorio, The Creation, was composed in 1799, and with its performance, nine years later, is associated one of the last scenes in Haydn's life.

The public of Vienna wished to pay their honored musician a tribute, and so the oratorio was given with every possible brilliancy of effect and performance. Haydn was an old man, and very feeble, and he was obliged to be carried into the theatre; but there he sat near his dear friend Princess Esterhazy, while all eyes turned lovingly and reverently toward him.

When the music reached that part in which the words "Let there be light" occur, Haydn rose, and pointing heavenward, said, aloud. "It comes from thence"; and indeed all knew that the master's work was always a subject of prayer and humble supplication that he might be able to do the best for the good of all.

After that evening Haydn never left his house. He grew feebler daily, but suffered little pain. One day, when he was thought to be past consciousness, he suddenly rose from his couch, and by a superhuman effort reached the piano.

There, in a voice which yet held the cadences of the boy chorister of long ago, he sang the national hymn, and so, his hands drooping on the keys, he was carried gently to his bed and to his peaceful death. This was in May, 1809. Francis Joseph Haydn, born in 1732, died in his seventy-eighth year.

As I told you, his great work was to reform and partially reconstruct instrumental music. He followed in the wake of Bach. To him we owe the symphony as we have it to-day, and with this little sketch of the dear master I want to tell you what a symphony is.

Properly speaking, a symphony is a long and elaborate composition for a full orchestra. It contains various movements,[1] and any number of instruments may be employed in its execution. Voices are also occasionally added. The movements of a symphony are the allegro, the andante or adagio, minuet or scherzo, and the allegro or presto. To the first movement are two themes or subjects (we might say ideas), and these are given in two different keys. The andante movement is usually in some key related to the original key. When you study thorough-bass, you will find what beautiful effects this arrangement can produce. It would be an excellent little study to take one of the simplest symphonies of "Papa Haydn," and read it carefully—four hands are better than two. Study the first movement. See how the theme is worked out, back and forth, up and down; find out when and how it all returns to the original key, and then observe how the theme is carried on throughout the whole work. Above all, remember that the perfection to which the symphony has been brought we owe first to Haydn, then to Mozart, and finally to Beethoven.

THE BUTTERFLY'S FUNERAL.

BY MARY A. BARR.

All July and August, so glad and so gay,
The Butterfly's feasts they were crowded each day;
But alas for all pleasures, the summer's at end,
And the guests of the banquets now mourn for their friend.
Poor Butterfly's dead.

The Emmets and Flies will no longer advance
To join with their wings in the Grasshopper's dance,
For see his fine form o'er the favorite bend,
The Grasshopper mourns for the loss of his friend.
Poor Butterfly's dead.

And hark to the funeral song of the Bee,
And the Beetle who follows as solemn as he;
And see where so mournful the green rushes wave,
The Mole is preparing the Butterfly's grave.
Poor Butterfly's dead.

The Dormouse he came and stood cold and forlorn,
And the Gnat he wound slowly his shrill little horn,
And the Moth, being grieved at the loss of a sister,
Bent over her body and silently kissed her.
Poor Butterfly's dead.

The corpse was embalmed at the set of the sun,
And inclosed in a case which the Silk-worm had spun;
By the help of the Hornet the coffin was laid
On a bier out of myrtle and jessamine made.
Poor Butterfly's dead.

In dozens and scores came the Grasshoppers all,
And six of their number supported the pall;
And the Spider came too, in his mourning so black,
But the fire of the Glow-worm soon frightened him back
From Butterfly dead.

The Grub left his nutshell to join in the throng,
And solemnly led the sad Book-worm along,
Who wept his poor neighbor's unfortunate doom,
And wrote these few lines to be placed on the tomb
Of Butterfly dead:

"To the Butterfly Maid.

"At this solemn spot where the green rushes wave
Is buried fair Butterfly deep in the grave;
A friend unto all, she has run her short race:
Like a flower on wings with its beauty and grace
Was this Butterfly Maid."

WHY DICK DROVE THE CAR.

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.

"I wonder what I am good for, anyway?" muttered Dick Winworth to himself as he sucked the finger he had caught in the gate, and gazed ruefully at the butter stain on his sleeve.

It was just after dinner on a warm summer's day, and at the table Dick had displayed more than usual awkwardness, for he had upset the salt in taking his seat, trod on his aunt Phœbe's tenderest foot in getting up, scalded his tongue with hot soup, and broken a decorated plate belonging to an old set, which his sister appeared to value more highly than if it were new. It was in a fit of despair over the latter catastrophe that the usually gentle maiden had uttered an exclamation or two, which led her brother to ask the above mournful mental question.

The first delicious freshness of vacation had worn off, and now that Town Bergen, Dick's great "chum," was away on a visit, young Winworth had begun to find time hang rather heavy on his hands, especially as he had just finished a very interesting book, and was quite sure he couldn't find another as good.

Pondering in his mind as to whether long holidays were such desirable things after all, Dick strolled on through the quiet village street, which had been lately dignified by being chosen as the thoroughfare of the only horse-railroad in the place.

The terminus of the route was not far from the Winworths', at the entrance to the little park, and as Dick in his walk came in sight of the latter, he suddenly resolved to take a trip into town and back.

"That'll keep me out of mischief for an hour at least, and besides, I've been meaning to ride in on the cars all the week," and the boy quickened his steps in order to catch the "bobtail" he saw standing there.

However, he need have been in no sort of hurry, as he soon discovered that the horse appeared to be asleep, with the lines wound around the brake, while there were no signs of the driver anywhere.

There were not more than a dozen cars on the road, and these ran at intervals of several minutes, and as here at the outskirts of the village there were as yet very few houses, it was not considered necessary to have a waiting-room, nor even a starter's box.

"But where can that driver be?" mused Dick, as he gazed admiringly up, down, and across the neatly painted vehicle, for the cars were all new and of the latest patent. "However, I seem to be the only passenger; but no, I guess here's another," as his attention was attracted toward a very stout old lady, all decked out in holiday attire, with artificial flowers in her bonnet, fresh roses in her belt, and a huge bouquet in her hand, who came panting across from the Park gate.

"Hi! hi! wait a minute!" she cried, frantically waving her parasol, and evidently under the impression that the car had already started off at a gallop.

Dick moved away from the step to allow her plenty of room to get in, when she exclaimed, "Oh, boy, can you tell me how long it will be before this car leaves?"

"No, ma'am," he replied, much gratified because she had not called him "little boy," for he had just entered his teens.

"Oh deary me, I'm in such a hurry! I think I'll speak to the driver. But I don't see any—why, where is he?" and the old lady bustled about from one side of the car to the other so impatiently that it danced upon its springs again.

Then she sat down for a minute, wiped her face with a perfumed handkerchief, took a sniff from her smelling-bottle, and began fanning herself with a fan which Dick thought she'd never finish opening out.

"I know I shall be too late, after all my promises, too!" and now there was more of regret than impatience in the old lady's tones.

Meantime Dick had gone on an exploring expedition, and presently came running back with the news that the driver had "a fit or something," and was lying on the kitchen floor of a farm-house around the corner.

"How did he get there?" asked the old lady, in her short way.

"He must have felt it coming on and started for the house, for they found him just outside the gate," replied Dick. "I didn't see him, but a boy who was running for the doctor told me about it."

The lady looked serious for a minute, took another sniff from her bottle, and then began: "Look here, boy, if you'll drive this car for me down to Clayton Street, I'll give you a crisp, new one-dollar bill, and a great many thanks besides. A friend of mine, whom I haven't seen since she was a little girl, is going to be married at three o'clock, and I've always promised I'd come to her wedding, even if I were three thousand miles away, and here I am, less than three, and likely to miss it after all!"

"I should think she'd wait till you come, ma'am," Dick ventured to suggest, consolingly.

"Oh, bless you," continued the old lady, "she thinks I'm in California. She sent the invitation to me out there, and it arrived just as I was unexpectedly called back to New York, so I determined not to let them know a word about it, but just walk in on them at the wedding. And now, if you'll only drive me down to Clayton Street, I think I can do it yet. I'm not afraid."

That last sentence nearly spoiled the effect of all the others, for Dick didn't like to have anybody think he couldn't drive a car-horse if he wanted to; but he graciously overlooked the blunder, promised to do the driving if his passenger would be responsible to the company, and then stepped out upon the front platform, feeling as if he had been asked to ascend the throne of an empire.

As for the old lady, she settled herself comfortably back in a corner, and began to button her white kid gloves.

Much impressed by this proof of the confidence reposed in his horsemanship, Dick untied the lines, gave the brake a twirl, chirped to the lazy nag, and, presto! the bell on the latter's neck commenced to jingle as loudly as when the regular official held the ribbons.

What fun it was, to be sure! No steering out of ruts and around puddles, the sole duties of the post being to slap the reins on the horse's back now and then, and keep a hand on that fascinating brake. Dick's only regret was that he had lost the opportunity of using the turn-table, but having found the car headed in the right direction, there was no help for it.

The street, as has been said, was a quiet one, especially so at that time of day, and thus no one saw and wondered at the sight of Dick Winworth, only son of the prominent lawyer, driving a "bobtail" car. As for Dick himself, he had never imagined so much enjoyment could be had by such simple means. The tinkle of the bell and the grating of the wheels on the track were as music in his ears, while the task of keeping the vehicle from running on to the horse's heels at down grades furnished most enchanting occupation for hand and eye.

On a sudden the latter chanced to light on the green tin box fastened to the dash-board, and he recollected that his passenger had not yet paid her fare. So, with a very broad smile, he rang the "reminder" bell, which caused the old lady to look up and smile too, as she handed him a dime. Dick having shut the door that he might have the fun of giving change through the "flap."

It was while he was thus engaged that he drove past a switch without noticing it, and at the next corner a young lady held up her finger as a sign for him to stop.

"What shall I do?" he called through the open window; for he felt that in a sense the old lady had hired the whole car, and ought therefore to be consulted before he admitted anybody else.

"Oh, let her get in, by all means," was his passenger's hospitable response; and to Dick's infinite delight, she pulled the bell.

However, when the young lady had taken her seat, and begun gravely fishing in her long knit purse for five cents, the serious side of his situation rather troubled the boy, and for a while he kept his eyes fixed steadily between the horse's ears, as if trying to see how this queer sort of an adventure was going to end, when the sharp ring of the bell over his head caused him to give a very undriver-like jump as he turned to find out what was wanted.

"Here," whispered the old lady, as she slipped the promised crisp bill through the flap, "this is Clayton Street. I'm ever so much obliged, and please stop just as short as you can, for I've only five minutes to walk to the house."

Then she hastened to the rear platform, and almost before the car came to a stand-still she had stepped off, and was hurrying up a side street, the white ribbons of her flowery bonnet streaming out behind.

And what was Dick to do now? He had completed the task intrusted to him, and been paid for it, but he could not very well walk off and leave the car standing there.

But if he should keep on, what would they say to him at the dépôt? and how could he refer to the old lady, when she had forgotten to give him her address? And there was the young lady patiently waiting inside.

Concluding that the finger of duty pointed onward, Dick was about to start the horse, when he heard the jingling of a bell down the street ahead of him. And then it flashed through his mind about the switch, and he realized that here was another car coming on the same track in an opposite direction.

What was to be done? For an instant the boy felt a strong inclination to jump off and run away, but then that would be cowardly; besides, there was the passenger. So he stuck to his post and the brake, and calmly awaited the crisis.

VERY NEARLY A COLLISION.

It arrived in due course, and came near being a collision as well, for the other driver, who was behind time, had whipped up. There was a curve in the street just there, and as Dick's car was standing still, there was no sound of bell to give warning.

However, no harm was done; but how that driver did scold when he saw the state of affairs!

Dick's young lady passenger fled in terror at the outbreak of the storm, while Dick himself stood up as if under a shower-bath of cold water.

And now, to make matters worse, two more cars arrived from down town, where it seemed there had been a blockade.

"The driver had a fit up at the Park," cried Dick, when he could make himself heard; and then he told his story of the old lady and the wedding, exhibiting the new dollar bill as proof of its truth. The three drivers shook their heads over the story, but looked more respectfully at the bill, which gave Dick an idea.

"Here," he cried, waving the dollar above his head, "you can divide this amongst you to pay for any trouble I've made. Will that do?"

They all exclaimed at once that it would. Then a passenger appeared, who knew Mr. Winworth, and who promised to explain matters to his neighbor, the superintendent of the road.

Then they— But Dick didn't wait to see how they got the cars straightened out. He walked back home as fast as he could, wondering if that dollar wouldn't have bought a pretty plate to replace the one he had broken. However, he consoled himself with the thought that it was easier to keep from breaking them in future than it was to earn whatever they might cost by driving a car.

THE GEESE AND THE CAPITOL.

THE GAULS MOUNTING THE WALLS OF THE CAPITOL.

Geese are not remarkable for bravery or for thoughtful care of the interests of their owners, yet the Romans firmly believed that geese once saved their Capitol from capture.

The Gauls, a savage people coming from the North, once captured the city of Rome, and burned it. Some of the Romans fled to Veii, a town not very far distant, and others shut themselves up in the Capitol, which was a strong building on the top of a steep and rocky hill. The Gauls encamped at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, and resolved to wait until the Roman garrison should be forced to surrender through hunger. One night a young Roman came from Veii, and climbed up to the Capitol to encourage his countrymen to resist the Gauls until help should come. In the morning the Gauls saw the foot-prints of the young man, and said to themselves that they could climb wherever he could. So the next night a strong party of Gauls tried to capture the Capitol by climbing up the rocks.

Now a temple, sacred to Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, three of the divinities of the Romans, stood on the top of the hill close to the place where the Gauls were stealthily climbing. There were some geese in the temple that were supposed to belong to Juno, and although the Gauls made so little noise, that neither the Romans nor their watch-dogs heard them, the geese knew that something was wrong, and they set up a noisy cackling. This awoke Marcus Manlius, a brave Roman soldier, who seized his sword and shield, and calling to his comrades to follow him, rushed upon the Gauls, and hurling one of them backward who had just reached the top of the hill, he so alarmed the other Gauls that they hastily retreated. Some years afterward the brave Manlius was cruelly put to death by the Romans on a false charge of treason, but the Romans always professed to feel great gratitude to the geese.

There is good reason for believing that this story is not strictly true, and it is probable that it was invented in order to account for the fact that among the Romans geese were sacred to Juno. Still, it is so good a story that people will always be quite willing to believe it.

MR. THOMPSON AND THE OWLS.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

Mr. Thompson says that he was sitting under an old oak-tree, not far from the Long Island Sound; he had been watching the sunset, and was now musing, with his eyes wandering from the gold and crimson clouds to the blue water and the ground at his feet. Suddenly his attention was arrested by a globular object by his side, about the size of a small marble. He poked it attentively with his cane, and murmured: "Owls' pellets; there must be a nest in the tree. Now those owls must be strange birds; they eat a mouse or bird entire, and then spit out the bones and skin, or feathers, in a round ball like this. Let me see," he continued, turning the pellet over carefully with his knife; "this fellow has been eating a mouse, for here is the skull and skin. I wonder where the nest is? I'd get the young ones, and—and—" and Mr. Thompson began to nod—"and give 'em to—"

"To who-o?" inquired a voice just above his head.

"To—to—to Miss—" continued Mr. Thompson, drowsily.

"To who?" repeated the voice.

"Who-o-o-o?" echoed Mr. Thompson, in strong nasal tones, and his head dropped on his breast.

"Now you begin to talk," said the voice. "I have watched you for a long time, and I knew you must be a relation of ours from your looks and actions, and now it is proved by your voice, though you don't speak loud."

Mr. Thompson says that the moment he nodded he was perfectly aware of all that was going on, and looked up to see who was speaking. There on a branch just above his head sat a large white owl, with his great eyes staring directly at him.

"Come up here," said the owl.

"How?" inquired Mr. Thompson.

"Fly, stupid!" replied the owl.

Mr. Thompson flapped his arms obediently, and for a moment was somewhat surprised to find that he had become transformed into an owl.

"That was done very quietly," he murmured.

"Of course; owls do everything quietly."

Mr. Thompson settled himself on the branch, and fluffed up his feathers as naturally as if he had been used to it all his life.

"So you have had field mice for dinner," he said, after a few moments' hesitation.

"Yes," answered the owl, "and very good eating they are, too. Do you know," he continued, reflectively, "I can't see why the farmers are so opposed to us. We eat up lots of mice and grubs of different kinds."

"And young chickens sometimes," ventured Mr. Thompson.

"Barely," replied the owl; "not when we can get anything else. But come down-stairs and see the family;" and leading the way into the hollow tree, the owl climbed down to the nest. It was quite at the bottom of the tree, and was made of dried grass and feathers. In it were four young owls, and comical-looking birds they were, too, with their great round eyes and fluffy gray down.

After complimenting the old owl on the beauty of his family, Mr. Thompson remarked, "I notice that your feathers are not like other birds', but a sort of soft furry down."

"That is in order that we should make as little noise as possible when flying, so that we can come upon our game unaware of our presence," said the owl, climbing out of the nest. Mr. Thompson followed, and seated again on the limb, he seemed for a moment to be lost in thought.

Presently the owl remarked, reflectively: "It seems strange that every one should hate us as they do. If I fly near the house in the evening, the farmer shouts, 'Shoot the owl! he is after the chickens.' If I sit on a tree during the day, all the birds find me, and bother me half to death. And some naturalist comes along and tries to take my children away."

"I don't see how they can get them at the bottom of that hole," said Mr. Thompson.

"Well, you see, everybody don't know how," replied the owl, "but Frank Buckland, the great English naturalist, gives the best way. You see, our two weapons of defense are our beaks and our claws, so if we can't get the better of an enemy with our beaks we turn over on our backs and clutch it in our claws, and we don't let go in a hurry either. So you see this Buckland lets down a ball of worsted into the nest, and keeps it bobbing up and down till we catch hold of it; then he draws it up."

"That makes me think," said Mr. Thompson, aloud, forgetting the presence of the owl, "that I wanted one of the young ones to take to Miss—"

"To who?" interrupted the owl, angrily.

"To Miss—"

"To who-o-o-o?"

"To Miss Angelina," answered Mr. Thompson.

The owl puffed his feathers angrily, and the movement so disconcerted Mr. Thompson that he lost his balance and fell from the branch. As he picked himself up, the owl uttered a derisive "To who," and flew away. It was quite late, and as Mr. Thompson walked slowly home, he murmured, "I'll try that ball and string method of catching owls to-morrow, but if they do more good than harm it seems a shame to disturb them, though I do want to give one to—"

"To who?" came the voice of the owl from the depths of the woods.

Mr. Thompson paused. "I guess I'll leave them alone," he muttered, as he strode along again.

"Good for you-u-u," shouted the owl, which last reply settled Mr. Thompson's resolution, and Miss Angelina had no young owl.

THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[2]

BY W. L. ALDEN,

Author of "The Moral Pirates," "The Cruise of the 'Ghost,'" etc., etc.

Chapter VII.

A council was held at the hotel, and a dozen different water routes were discussed. As the boys still wanted to carry out their original design of making a voyage to Quebec, they decided to take the canoes by rail to Rouse's Point, and from thence to descend the Richelieu River to the St. Lawrence. The railway journey would take nearly a whole day, but they thought it would be a pleasant change from the close confinement of canoeing.

As it would have taken three days to send the canoes to Rouse's Point by freight, the canoeists were compelled to take them on the same train with themselves. They went to the express office on Monday morning, and tried to make a bargain with the express company. The agent astonished them by the enormous price which he demanded, and Harry, who acted as spokesman, told him that it was outrageous to ask such a price for carrying four light canoes.

The man turned to a book in which were contained the express company's rates of charges, and showed Harry that there was a fixed rate for row-boats and shells.

"But," said Harry, "a canoe is not a row-boat nor a shell. What justice is there in charging as much for a fourteen-foot canoe as for a forty-foot shell?"

"Well," said the agent, "I don't know as it would be fair. But then these canoes of yours are pretty near as big as row-boats."

"A canoe loaded as ours are don't weigh over one hundred and ten pounds. How much does a row-boat weigh?"

"Well, about two or three hundred pounds."

"Then is it fair to charge as much for a canoe as for a row-boat that weighs three times as much?"

The agent found it difficult to answer this argument, and after thinking the matter over he agreed to take the canoes at half the rate ordinarily charged for row-boats. The boys were pleased with their victory over him.

At ten o'clock the train rolled into the Sherbrooke station. To the great disappointment of the boys, no express car was attached to it, the only place for express packages being a small compartment twelve feet long at one end of the smoking-car. It was obvious that canoes fourteen feet long could not go into a space only twelve feet long, and it seemed as if it would be necessary to wait twelve hours for the night train, to which a large express car was always attached. But the conductor of the train was a man who could sympathize with boys, and who had ideas of his own. He uncoupled the engine, which was immediately in front of the smoking-car, and then had the canoes taken in through the door of the smoking-car and placed on the backs of the seats. Very little room was left for passengers who wanted to smoke; but as there were only four or five of these, they made no complaint. The canoes, with blankets under them to protect the backs of the seats, rode safely, and when, late in the afternoon, Rouse's Point was reached, they were taken out of the car without a scratch.

There was just time enough before sunset to paddle a short distance below the fort, where a camping ground was found that would have been very pleasant had there been fewer mosquitoes. They were the first Canadian mosquitoes that had made the acquaintance of the young canoeists, and they seemed to be delighted. They sung and buzzed in great excitement, and fairly drove the boys from their supper to the shelter of their canoes.

Harry had a long piece of mosquito netting, which he threw over the top of his canoe tent, and which fell over the openings on each side of the tent, thus protecting the occupant of the canoe from mosquitoes without depriving him of air. None of the other boys had taken the trouble to bring mosquito-netting with him, except Charley, who had a sort of mosquito-netting bag, which he drew over his head, and which prevented the mosquitoes from getting at his face and neck.

As for Joe and Tom, the mosquitoes fell upon them with great enthusiasm, and soon reduced them to a most miserable condition. Tom was compelled to cover his head with his India-rubber blanket, and was nearly suffocated. Joe managed to tie a handkerchief over his face in such a way as to allow himself air enough to breathe, and at the same time to keep off the mosquitoes. Instead of covering the rest of his body with his blanket, he deliberately exposed a bare arm and part of a bare leg, in hopes that he could thus satisfy the mosquitoes, and induce them to be merciful. At the end of half an hour both Tom and Joe felt that they could endure the attacks of the dreadful insects no longer. They got up, and stirring the embers of the fire, soon started a cheerful blaze. There were plenty of hemlock-trees close at hand, and the hemlock boughs when thrown on the fire gave out a great deal of smoke. The two unfortunate boys sat in the lee of the fire and nearly choked themselves with smoke; but they could endure the smoke better than the mosquitoes, and so they were left alone by the latter.

GETTING BREAKFAST UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

The wind died down before morning, and the mosquitoes returned. As soon as it was light the canoeists made haste to get breakfast and to paddle out into the stream. The mosquitoes let them depart without attempting to follow them; and the boys, anchoring the canoes by making the ballast bags fast to the painters, enjoyed an unmolested bath. As they were careful to anchor where the water was not four feet deep, they had no difficulty in climbing into the canoes after the bath. Joe's mishap on Lake Memphremagog had taught them that getting into a canoe in deep water was easier in theory than in practice.

Later in the morning the usual southerly breeze, which is found almost every morning on the Richelieu, gave the canoeists the opportunity of making sail. The breeze was just fresh enough to make it prudent for the canoes to carry their mainsails only, and to give the canoeists plenty of employment in watching the gusts that came through the openings in the woods that lined the western shore.

About twelve miles below Rouse's Point the fleet reached "Ile aux Noix," a beautiful island in the middle of the stream, with a somewhat dilapidated fort at its northern end. The boys landed, and examined the fort and the ruined barracks which stood near it. The ditch surrounding the fort was half filled with the wooden palisades which had rotted and fallen into it, and large trees had sprung up on the grassy slope of the outer wall. The interior was, however, in good repair, and in one of the granite casemates lived an Irishman and his wife, who were the entire garrison. In former years the "Ile aux Noix" fort was one of the most important defenses of the Canadian frontier, and even in its present forlorn condition it could be defended much longer than could the big American fort at Rouse's Point. The boys greatly enjoyed their visit to the island, and after lunch set sail, determined to make the most of the fair wind, and to reach St. John before night.

The breeze held, and in less than three hours the steeples and the railway bridge of St. John came in view. The canoeists landed at the upper end of the town, and Harry and Charley, leaving the canoes in charge of the other boys, went in search of the Custom-house officer whose duty it was to inspect all vessels passing from the United States into Canada by way of the Richelieu River. Having found the officer, who was a very pleasant man, and who gave the fleet permission to proceed on its way without searching the canoes for smuggled goods, Harry and Charley walked on to examine the rapids, which begin just below the railway bridge. From St. John to Chambly, a distance of twelve miles, the river makes a rapid descent, and is entirely unnavigable for anything except canoes.

The first rapid was a short but rough one. Still, it was no worse than the first of the Magog rapids, and Harry and Charley made up their minds that it could be safely run. The men of whom they made inquiries as to the rapids farther down said that they were impassable, and that the canoes had better pass directly into the canal, without attempting to run even the first rapid. Harry was inclined to think that this advice was good, but Charley pointed out that it would be possible to drag the canoes up the bank of the river, and launch them in the canal at any point between St. John and Chambly, and that it would be time enough to abandon the river when it should really prove to be impassable.

Returning to the canoes, the Commodore gave the order to prepare to run the rapids. In a short time the fleet, with the Sunshine in advance, passed under the bridge, and narrowly escaping shipwreck on the remains of the wooden piles that once supported a bridge that had been destroyed by fire, entered the rapid. There was quite a crowd gathered to watch the canoes as they passed, but those people who wanted the excitement of seeing the canoes wrecked were disappointed. Not a drop of water found its way into the cockpit of a single canoe; and though there was an ugly rock near the end of the rapid, against which each canoeist fully expected to be driven as he approached it, the run was made without the slightest accident.

Drifting down with the current a mile or two below the town, the boys landed and encamped for the night. While waiting at St. John, Joe and Tom had provided themselves with mosquito netting, but they had little use for it, for only a few mosquitoes made the discovery that four healthy and attractive boys were within reach. The night was cool and quiet, and the canoeists, tired with their long day's work, slept until late in the morning.

Everything was prepared the next day for running the rapids, which the men at St. John had declared to be impassable. The spars and all the stores were lashed fast; the sand-bags were placed in the after-compartments; the painters were rove through the stern-posts, and the life-belts were placed where they could be buckled on at an instant's notice. After making all these preparations it was rather disappointing to find no rapids whatever between St. John and Chambly, or rather the Chambly railway bridge.

"It just proves what I said yesterday," remarked Charley, turning round in his canoe to speak to his comrades, who were a boat's-length behind him. "People who live on the banks of a river never know anything about it. Now I don't believe there is a rapid in the whole Richelieu River except at St. John. Halloo! keep back, boys—"

While he was speaking, Charley and his canoe disappeared as suddenly as if the earth, or rather the water, had opened and swallowed them. The other boys in great alarm backed water, and then paddling ashore as fast as possible, sprung out of their canoes and ran along the shore to discover what had become of Charley. They found him at the foot of a water-fall of about four feet in height, over which he had been carried. The fall was formed by a long ledge of rock running completely across the river; and had the boys been more careful, and had the wind been blowing in any other direction than directly down the river, they would have heard the sound of the falling water in time to be warned of the danger into which Charley had carelessly run.

His canoe had sustained little damage, for it had luckily fallen where the water was deep enough to keep it from striking the rocky bottom. Charley had been thrown out as the canoe went over the fall, but had merely bruised himself a little. He towed his canoe ashore, and in answer to a mischievous question from Joe, admitted that perhaps the men who had said that the Chambly rapids were impassable were right.

Below the fall and as far as the eye could reach stretched a fierce and shallow rapid. The water boiled over and among the rocks with which it was strewn, and there could not be any doubt that the rapid was one which could not be successfully run, unless, perhaps, by some one perfectly familiar with the channel. It was agreed that the canoes must be carried up to the canal, and after two hours of hard work the fleet was launched a short distance above one of the canal locks.

The lock-man did not seem disposed to let the canoes pass through the lock, but finally accepted fifty cents, and, grumbling to himself in his Canadian French, proceeded to lock the canoes through. He paid no attention to the request that he would open the sluices gradually, but opened them all at once and to their fullest extent. The result was that the water in the lock fell with great rapidity; the canoes were swung against one another and against the side of the lock, and Charley's canoe, catching against a bolt in one of the upper gates, was capsized and sunk to the bottom, leaving her captain clinging to the stern of the Sunshine.

[to be continued.]

"O NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WI' ME?"

WHAT THE SHOWMAN DID NOT TELL.

BY WILLIAM H. RIDEING.

When the showman came to our town, he told the audience a great many things as he passed from cage to cage in his combined circus and menagerie. He told them of the great wangdoodle, two of which were brought from South Africa in three ships, and he told them other stories, which made the very little people open their eyes and mouths wide, but which the intelligent boys and girls only smiled at.

He was a great humbug—there is no doubt about it. But one day I found him alone, and cornered him. Then he told me what he didn't tell to his audiences, and that was much more interesting than a great part of his lecture. When he found that I did not believe in the immense sums which, according to his posters, some of his articles cost, he said:

"But we do pay big prices for good curiosities, and no mistake, though our posters and show-bills do tell some pretty big stories. I once paid twenty-five thousand dollars for a baby hippopotamus, and if I could get another one to-day, I'd pay just as much, or more. A full-grown hippopotamus is pretty expensive too. That one over there cost us four thousand dollars. Elephants, as a rule, are not dear, and you can usually buy a fine specimen for about two thousand dollars. A giraffe costs all the way up from one thousand to five thousand; a tiger or a lion, about five hundred; a zebra, fifteen hundred; and a polar bear, about a thousand dollars. Polar bears," he added, meditatively, "are delicate. 'Why don't you dye him black?' said a fellow in the audience to me once. 'Because,' said I, 'he'll die quick enough.' They do like a good cold snap, with the thermometer away down below zero, the polars do.

"'Is the wild-beast trade a reg'lar business?'" he said, repeating a question of mine. "I should say it was, and more than one large fortune is invested in it. Some of it is done in Hamburg, a good deal in the sea-ports of Holland, some in Falmouth, and some in London. Probably more of it is done in New York than anywhere in Europe. There's a man in Falmouth who boards every ship approaching the English coast off the Lizard, and buys most of the curiosities the sailors have brought with them from the foreign lands in which they have been. But only a very small part of the whole supply comes through sea-captains and sailors. Expeditions go out into Africa and South America to hunt and capture the wild beasts of those continents, and there is one man whose last camp included ninety-two servants, seventy-two camels, twelve mules, twenty-seven horses, and three donkeys.

"This dealer is a Maltese, who, when a boy, used to knock about the docks, and seeing the strange animals on board some of the ships, promised himself that he would make wild-beast-hunting his trade when he became a man. He has lost more than one fortune, and is probably poor now. It's a wonder that he's alive; the business is full of dangers, and there is no certainty of profit in it.

"He usually goes from Alexandria to Suez, and down the Red Sea to Khartoum. The natives expect animal buyers, and nearly always have a stock to sell. 'Buy my little lion,' they will say, 'and I will throw into the bargain a young boy or girl.' The lions are carried in cages slung between two camels, and until the camels have become used to the growling of their burden they give the greatest trouble. Sometimes the natives are not friendly, and between their attacks and the ravages of fever, the expedition loses many of its men.

"The cost of such an expedition is not less than thirty thousand dollars, and while the buyer may double this sum in selling, he may lose all. Leaving Africa with a stock worth one hundred thousand dollars, it is not likely to be worth more than half that when it reaches Malta. The risk is so great that a monkey which can be bought for five cents in Africa is worth twenty dollars in New York, and the increase in the value of large animals is proportionate. You can buy a very good lion in Africa for the price that you would give for a monkey here."

The showman gossiped on in this way for some time, and had begun to be something of a bore, when a little man entered from a side door—to speak properly from one of the canvas folds of the tent, in the middle of which the showman and I were seated before a brazier of glowing coals. He was pale-faced and delicate-looking, but his dress was striking, consisting of a jaunty little velvet jacket, yellow corduroy breeches, and Hessian boots with enamelled leather tops.

"He," said the showman, "is Señor Delmonio, the Emperor of the Jungle, the greatest lion-tamer in the world." I had heard of this celebrity, whose name and portrait appeared in gigantic posters of the show, with the announcement that his services only had been obtained at an outlay of several thousand dollars a week. "Bill," he called out, "here's a gentleman interested in the business."

"What did you call him?" I asked.

"Well, you see," was the answer, "he's a Boston man, and his name is Bill Smith."

Señor Delmonio, or Bill Smith, came toward us and shook hands, and then quietly went to the back of a cage containing a pair of savage and uneasy lions. He was out of sight for a moment, but re-appeared entering the cage from the rear. The lions did not pounce upon him, as I shiveringly feared they would do. They curled themselves against the bars, and uttered low growls, as if they were anxious to avoid him; they sat on their haunches at his command, and leaped through hoops which he had taken into the cage with him; they showed docility, but it was with an unwillingness that made itself known in continuous growls.

This was a rehearsal, and when it was finished, the "Emperor of the Jungle," as quiet as ever, came back to where we were sitting. He seemed low-spirited.

"Yours is dangerous work," I said, not having any liking for those exhibitions in which the peril of the performer is what attracts the audience.

"Yes," he answered, with a sigh, "I suppose it will end badly for me some time; it usually does end badly. You see it's against nature. I know that very well. The beasts don't like it, and sooner or later they take their revenge on poor fellows who, like me, trifle with them. It's the whip alone that keeps them under control. If I dropped my whip while I was in the cage with them, they would fancy that I had lost my power, and they would attack me in a moment. How do I begin in training them? Well, the usual way is to make acquaintance with them from the outside, by doing chores around the cage, and getting them familiar with your face, and above all with your voice. It's pretty ticklish to enter the cage for the first time. I expected to come out bleeding, if not dying. But they behaved well, and I've not been afraid since.

"When they are accustomed to you and you to them," he continued, "the next thing is to teach them tricks, and this takes a good deal of time and a good deal of whipping. The lions are the smartest. You can train a lion to do the ordinary tricks, such as jumping through hoops and over gates, in about five weeks, and a lioness in about six weeks. The leopard is next in intelligence to the lion, and learns almost as readily. A tiger would take eight weeks to learn what the leopard learns in six, and a tigress would take nine weeks for the same work. The hyena is the stupidest, and you can't do anything with him in less than four months. The most difficult thing of all is to teach a wild beast to let you lie on it without eating you. I do this every night with one of the tigresses, but she don't like it one bit; it aggravates her inwardly.

"The great secret of wild-beast taming is to know when to use the whip and when not to use it. But as a matter of fact there is no such thing as really taming a tiger or a lion. A man may have some influence over it, but he is never quite safe with it. No wild beast has ever been actually tamed. A lion will tear you merely out of bad temper occasionally; but a tiger is more vicious, and will attack you from sheer love of blood."

It was now time for the exhibition, and I wished the showman and Señor Delmonio good-day. Some time afterward, when I again met the latter, he had abandoned the foolish business of trifling with the angry passions of wild beasts, and was devoting himself to the more sensible business of training horses.

THE LITTLE PIE-PLANT GATHERER.

THE BARRINGTON TOLL-GATE.

BY ELIOT McCORMICK.

Jennie Bartlett's father and mother had been suddenly called away for the night to Parnassus Centre, where Mrs. Bartlett's sister had been taken very ill, and Jennie was left to keep the toll-gate alone. It was not a difficult task, for scarcely any one travelled over the Barrington Road after nine o'clock, and those who did passed through the open gate without paying toll.

But even if it had been harder, Jennie would have been equal to it. She had lived at the toll-gate ever since she was a baby, and knew perfectly well what to charge, and how to make the proper change. Indeed, she often kept the gate for her father when he was at home, and people passing through would be apt to wonder how so bright and pretty a girl could grow up in so lonesome a place. Jennie, however, did not mind the lonesomeness. Her dearest wish was to go off to boarding-school; but so long as she was at home it mattered little to her that Barrington was three miles off on the one hand, and Leicester ten miles on the other, and that there was scarcely a house between. She even liked the solitude, and was almost sorry when the telephone connecting Barrington with Leicester made a connection by the way with the toll-gate. Before, they seemed to be out of the world, and the people coming through the gate were like visitors from another sphere; now, the frequent ringing of the call-bell reminded her that civilization was not so far distant, after all.

On this particular night there were not likely to be even the usual number of passers-by. It was dark and threatening. Looking out of the door about nine o'clock, Jennie could hardly see more than a hundred feet either up or down the road. It would be a bad night, she thought, for the gate to get accidentally shut; anybody coming along might run into it without warning; for that matter, people might run into the posts on either side. She hung a lantern on one post to prevent this accident, and going in the house, locked the doors and went to bed. The fact that she was alone in the house did not disturb her in the least, and in ten minutes she was fast asleep.

Some time in the night she was suddenly awakened by the ringing of the telephone bell. She listened confusedly to hear if it rang three times, which was the toll-gate signal, or oftener, to call up some of the other people on the same wire. Two of the connections she knew were in Leicester, the third was their own, the fourth was in the Barrington Bank, the fifth in the tannery, and the sixth in the central office at Barrington. In her bewilderment Jennie could not at first determine how many times it did ring; but at last she decided it was six—for the Barrington central office. That did not mean the toll-gate, and Jennie prepared to turn over for another nap, when a sudden thought aroused her. It was certainly after midnight, and the central office did not keep open later than twelve o'clock. The bank, too, was shut up, and so was the tannery; on the whole line she was probably the only person who could hear the bell. What if it should be something important! Indeed, it would hardly ring at that time of night unless it were important. Quickly jumping out of bed, she ran to the instrument, put the receiver to her ear, and called through the transmitter, "Hello! hello!"

A voice came back to her, so distinct that it seemed almost in the same room, saying, "Hello! is that the central office?" The tone was quick and sharp, and Jennie felt sure that something must have happened.

"No, sir," she called; "it's the toll-gate. I'm Jennie Bartlett."

"Tell your father to come here right away," the voice said; "it's very important."

Jennie felt a little sinking at her heart. "Father's away," she said, "and I'm here alone."

She heard the voice exclaim something in an impatient tone, and then the sound of two or three other people talking as though there was some doubt as to what could be done.

"Can I do anything?" she inquired, almost hoping that she could not.

Another conversation followed, which Jennie this time overheard; the speakers were no doubt nearer the telephone.

"Why do you want to let them get into Barrington at all?" one voice asked. "Why not stop them at the toll-gate?"

"To be sure!" said another. "If they get past the gate, like as not they'll turn down the Riverton road, and throw Allen off the track. They can't turn off before they get to the gate; we're sure of them as far as that."

"Tell the girl—" and then the speaker turned away, and Jennie caught only a confusion of sounds.

Presently she heard another "Hello!"

"Hello!" she responded.

"The Leicester Bank has been robbed," the voice went on, hurriedly, "by two men with a wagon and a white horse. They have driven toward Barrington, with Mr. Allen and two constables in pursuit, half an hour behind. You must—" Here the voice stopped as suddenly and completely as though it had had an extinguisher put over it. Even the hum of the electricity was checked, and Jennie knew enough about the telephone to be aware that in some way the connection had been abruptly cut off. It was in vain that she rang the bell and called "Hello!" No one answered. Jennie felt once more the old sense that she was out of the world. Leicester seemed all at once removed hundreds of miles away.

But what was it that she must or must not do? Why had not the connection lasted only a minute longer, when her instructions would have been complete? When were the robbers to be expected? Jennie made a little calculation. If they had been gone thirty minutes before any one started in pursuit, that would carry them, by fast driving, half-way to the toll-gate. If ten minutes had gone by before the telephone bell had rung, she might look for them within a quarter of an hour. What was she to do? The conversation which she had overheard came to her mind. "Stop them at the toll-gate," one of the voices had said. Very likely they would have told her to do that if the telephone had kept on. But how could a little girl arrest two armed and desperate men?

By this time she began to feel chilly. She could not go back to bed with this responsibility upon her, even though she did not know how to meet it; so, dressing herself, she opened the front door, and looked and listened. The night was darker than ever. A little space around the gate was lit up by the warning lantern. It would not help in stopping the burglars, she suddenly thought, to illuminate their way; so, going over to the light, she blew it out, and left the road in total darkness. That was at least one step toward the desired end.

All at once she thought of the gate. "How stupid!" she said to herself. "Why didn't I think of that before?" It was fastened back against the front of the house, but in a moment she had unhooked it and swung it around, until it stretched completely across the road. There was only a latch on the gate, but going in the house she brought out of one place a padlock, and from another a chain, with which she fastened it so securely that no ordinary strength could force it open. "They can't get through that," she said to herself; "and there isn't any way of getting around it." Then she went in the house, locked and bolted the door, rolled a bureau up against it, fastened all the windows, pulled down the shades, and waited in the dark for the sound of wheels.

It was not long before they came, but to Jennie every minute seemed an hour, while every rustling leaf outside sounded like a man's stealthy tread. When at last she heard them coming, far up the road, her heart stood still. Nearer and nearer they came. Would they not see the gate? she wondered. The horse still kept on; and instantly there was a sudden exclamation outside, a crash as though something had come into collision with the gate, the sound of splintering wood, and the noise of a plunging horse. Jennie did not venture to move; she dared not go to the window, but sat in the middle of the room, shaking with fear, and listening anxiously for what might happen next. Presently steps sounded on the planks outside, and in a moment there was a rap on the door.

Jennie remained perfectly quiet, though her heart beat so loud that she thought they must hear it outside. In a moment the knocking ceased.

"Folks asleep," she could hear one of the men say.

"Asleep, or dead, or run away," the other one growled.

"Shall we try the window?"

Jennie trembled all over, but the sash held firm.

"Oh, come on!" exclaimed his companion. "Don't let's waste time here; we can splice the shafts with the halter."

They moved off again, and Jennie breathed more freely. If the shafts were broken, it would be a work of some minutes to mend them, and the pursuing party might yet arrive in time. Mr. Allen, who Jennie knew to be the president of the Leicester Bank, had the fastest horses in the county, and ought to be able to make up at least ten minutes in ten miles. For a while there was quiet outside. The men were evidently working at the shafts, and only the stamping of the horse's feet gave any signs of life. Jennie began to get nervous, and to listen more intently for the pursuers' approach. By this time they could not be far off. Finally, unable to sit still any longer, she crept upstairs, and sitting down on the floor by the open window of the attic, ventured to look out. The white horse was quite distinctly visible as it stood by the gate, but the men, bending over the wagon, were hardly more than an outline. Presently they seemed to have finished, and backing the horse around, proceeded to hitch him in the shafts. Would the others never come? The gate was not yet opened, but Jennie began to fear that burglars would not find that a serious difficulty. Suddenly through the woods came the sound of horses' hoofs galloping as if for life. Did the men hear it too?

Apparently they did.

"Open the gate," she heard one of them say.

His companion went to it and vainly tried to pull it open. "It's padlocked," he exclaimed, after a minute.

The other muttered an angry oath. "Pick it!" he cried. "They've put up a job on us here. I knew we didn't cut that wire quick enough."

It was a minute before the burglar's skill could pick the lock, and by that time the pursuing wagon was dangerously near.

"Open the gate!" shouted the first man, pulling back his horse to escape its sweep.

The other pushed, and the great bar swung slowly back. But before it had opened wide enough to let them through, the other wagon had dashed in upon the scene.

"Stand where you are," Jennie heard Mr. Allen's voice call out, "or I'll shoot you down!"

What immediately followed Jennie did not see, for leaving the window, she rushed down-stairs, lit the lantern, rolled back the bureau, unlocked the door, and went out. When she had gained the road, the two burglars, captured and tied, were being guarded by the constables, while Mr. Allen was investigating the contents of the wagon, and making sure as far as he could in the darkness that all was right. At Jennie's approach he looked up.

"Ah!" he said. "Are you the toll-gate keeper's daughter? Just ask your father to step out here, won't you?"

Jennie smiled. "Father isn't at home, sir," she said.

"Oh, well, your mother, then, or any one who keeps the gate."

"Mother isn't at home either, sir; I am keeping the gate."

The gentleman looked at her in surprise.

"You!" he exclaimed. "What made these fellows stop here?"

"They broke their wagon, sir."

"How did they happen to do that?"

"The horse ran into the gate, sir."

"Was the gate shut?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't usually shut the gate nights?"

"No, sir, but I did to-night."

He looked at her for a further explanation, and Jennie, who never liked to tell of her own exploits, was obliged to go on.

"They telephoned me about it from Leicester, sir," she said, briefly.

"Did they tell you to shut the gate?"

"No, sir; the telephone stopped before they got as far as that; these men cut the wire, and I had to think for myself what I should do."

"And you thought of that?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she said, modestly.

"Well," he said, "you are a thoughtful little girl. You've saved me a great deal of money to-night, and I'll never forget it."

And he never did. The directors of the bank passed a vote of thanks, at their next meeting, to Miss Jennie Bartlett "for her prompt and efficient services in arresting the burglars who feloniously entered the bank building on the evening of September —, and abstracted the valuable contents of its vault"; and more than that, sent her a purse of money, with which she was able that winter to carry out her long-cherished plan of going to school. It was a disagreeable experience to go through, but Jennie will always date whatever success she has in the world from that night at the Barrington toll-gate.

Merrily, merrily dancing away,
Who is this dancing the long summer day,
Over the meadow and through the lane,
Then through the orchard, and then back again?
Who is this girlie that's dancing away,
Who but our own little Edith, I pray.

Swinging, swinging, swinging,
Here I sit and swing,
But I'm only resting,
Now each weary wing;
Very soon you'll see me fly,
Upward, upward, oh, so high;
Onward, onward through the air,
But I'll never tell you where.

Sleep, my baby, angel forms
Are bending now above you,
And mother dear is watching here,
Who'll always guard and love you.
Safe her baby boy she'll keep
When the night-fall brings him sleep.

Cuckoo, dear Cuckoo, has fallen so ill,
And here on the ground he is lying.
Oh, what shall we do the summer night through,
When our own darling cuckoo is dying?

At the earliest dawn we must send for the mole,
And tell him that cuckoo has left us,
He'll dig a deep grave where the willow-trees wave,
While we mourn the sad fate that bereft us.

The owl and the eagle, the parrot and dove,
Will watch while the nightingale's singing,
And solemn and slow, in tones soft and low,
The funeral song will be ringing.

SCHOOL'S BEGUN.

A, B, C, D—oh, what fun!
For our baby-school's begun.

Little head will grow so wise,
And how bright the big blue eyes!

Little fingers soon will learn
Pretty letters well to turn.

A, B, C, D—oh, what fun!
For our baby has begun.

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

Trinidad, Colorado.

This is an old Mexican town. Many of the people live in adobe houses. Adobe is made of clay mixed with straw, moulded in frames, turned out on the ground, and sun-dried. Mamma says that the Mexican villages resemble those in Southern India, among the Tamil people. The Mexicans here are a mixed race, descended from Spaniards and Indians. There are families, however, of pure Castilian blood. The Mexicans are very kind, courteous, and hospitable. Some years ago papa and mamma went to Zuñi, and in doing so crossed the entire Territory of New Mexico. At night they encamped either in or near the different villages, and everywhere received nothing but kindness. Many of the women and little girls are very pretty indeed. They are fond of gay colors, and while a few wear hats, most prefer a scarf or a bright shawl, one end of which is thrown over the head, and forms a wrap for the neck and shoulders. Their food is very plain, consisting of mutton, coffee, bread, and beans. Nearly everybody owns a little burro, or donkey, though all do not possess horses. It is droll to see boys riding these docile little burros, with feet on either side almost touching the ground.

Lela P.

Fincastle, Virginia.

I am an English boy twelve years old, but I have spent only two years of my life in England. I lived a year on the Isle of Jersey, in the English Channel, and when I was three years old came out to Virginia with my father and mother, two brothers, and two sisters. After we had lived here three years we went over to France. We staid in Rouen, which is a fine old city, with its cathedral and churches. We used to go rowing up and down the Seine, and sometimes took our dinner on an island in the middle of the river up toward Paris. I used to go nearly every morning with my father to the market on the very spot where Joan of Arc was burned by the English. I taught our French bonne to speak in English, but I could not speak plainly myself then, and taught her to count "one, two, free." We staid a year in Rouen, and then came out here again, where we have settled down.

My eldest brother Hugh is in London, a student at Guy's Hospital. Two years ago he joined the Volunteers, and once he and his corps had luncheon, after a review, at Baron Rothschild's. The last time he wrote he was expecting to go out to Egypt as assistant surgeon. I hope he will go, as he will be able to tell me all about the fighting when he comes home.

We have a little German Dachs-hund (badger-hound) that came all the way from Germany; his name is Fritz. Once we dug for rats with him, and he killed twenty-five. Wasn't that pretty good sport for one day?

I like this country very much. I used to go fox-hunting with an English friend, but he has gone to New Zealand now. We fish in the James River, and catch plenty of black bass. I hope this letter is not so long that no room will be found for it in the Post-office Box. If I see it in print, I will write again and tell Young People how we camped out up in the mountains last month. Good-by.

Monty M.

New Rochelle, New York.

I want to tell you of a parrot we used to have. Of course her name was Polly. She would sit on the fence, and if she saw any of the children playing in the water, she would call to them: "Get out of that water! Didn't I tell you not to play in that water? What's the matter with you, Polly? Are you crazy? Ha! take care of yourself now!" Then she would scream and flap her wings. At breakfast she would march into the dining-room, and walking around my chair, would say: "Come along, Harry—come along, get coffee. Did you have any coffee this morning, Polly? Ha! bad people in this house didn't give poor little Polly any coffee this morning." She would let me pull her tail; but if others attempted to do it, she would fly at them and bite them. One day she cut all the buttons off a pair of shoes, and when discovered she screamed, "What you want, ma'am? what you come here for?" She was very fond of swinging on the clothes-line, and would begin to scold herself, saying: "What are you doing on that line, Polly? Don't you hear me, Polly—don't you hear me talking to you? Get off that line this minute." We had an old colored nurse—Auntie we called her—who used to scold Polly in this way, and who would say, when she heard the parrot mocking her, that Polly was taking all the text off her. She could sing "Shoo Fly," and say many other funny things. We think Harper's Young People is just splendid.

Harry A. W.

Polly learned to scold because Auntie scolded her, did she? Some little children learn cross words in the same way.

CAPPING VERSES.

Now that the evenings are growing long, some of you may like to hear of a pleasant way of passing them. In capping verses, every one at the table around which the players sit is supplied with a sheet of paper and a pencil, and at the top of the paper is written by each player a line of poetry, either original or from memory. The paper must then be folded down so as to conceal what has been written, and passed on to the right; at the same time the neighbor to whom it is passed must be told what is the last word written in the concealed line. Every one must then write under the folded paper a line to rhyme with the line above, being ignorant, of course, of what it is. Thus the game is carried on until the papers have gone once or twice around the circle, when they may be opened and read aloud.

DUMB CRAMBO

is another amusing game. After dividing the company into two equal parts, one half leave the room. In their absence the remainder fix upon a verb to be guessed by those who have gone out when they return. As soon as the word is chosen, those outside are told with what word it rhymes. They then consult together, and silently act the word they think may be the right one. Supposing the verb thought of should have rhymed with "sell," the others might come in and begin cutting down imaginary trees with imaginary hatchets, but not uttering a single syllable. If "fell" were the right word, the spectators would clap their hands, on seeing what the actors were doing, as a sign that they were right in their guess. But if "tell," or any other word, were chosen, they would either hiss or solemnly shake their heads. While this play is going on every one must be silent. Whoever speaks must pay a forfeit.

Terre Haute, Indiana.

Brother Charley takes Young People, and we like it very much. Even mamma and papa like to read it. I like the letters. I have no pets, as we live near the school-house, and the bad boys either steal or kill them. I have eight dolls. The largest one is thirty-six inches long. Brother and I go to the Baptist Sunday-school, and last Easter the scholars all took playthings to the school as an Easter offering to the little poor children. The Ladies' Aid Society gave them out.

Nellie R.

What a pity the boys who attend that school should be so cruel! I just wish I could talk to them about their behavior. They need a missionary.

Bristol, Tennessee.

I am a little boy just ten years old, and have been reading your excellent paper for some time. I can hardly wait for it to come. I'm so anxious to read the continued stories. I liked "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" ever so much, and think "The Cruise of the Canoe Club" splendid. I want to tell your readers about what fun we have had lately. My brother and I thought that we would have a circus. We put up an acting pole and trapeze, caught a mud-turtle and a pigeon, and had a spotted cat, which we exhibited for a leopard. This is my first letter, and I hope you will print it.

Willie S.

I would like to have visited your circus, Willie, and especially to have seen the spotted cat. If I had been there I should have helped you all I could.

Some little folks may be glad of a few hints at this season on the subject of cultivating house plants:

Though most persons like to see flowers in a room, comparatively few know exactly how to manage them so as to keep them healthy and fresh. Nothing is so delightful as to see plants in a window, and yet how common it is to discover them in a drooping and sickly condition, and all for the want of a little knowledge and care!

Where the plants grow from a single stem—as in fuchsias, geraniums, etc.—it is a good plan to cover the mould with fresh green moss, which will hold a good quantity of moisture without injuring the plants. Never water the plants except when they really require it. This you may soon ascertain by simply putting your finger into the soil; when, if it feels moist, no water will be needed; but if the soil be dry, which will not happen more than every other day in autumn, or once a week in winter, then water the plants thoroughly, so that the moisture sinks right through the mould.

Never allow plants to stand in the water; that is, if your pots stand in saucers, take care to remove all the surplus water which runs through the soil. Never use pump water if you can obtain river or rain water; but if you can get only pump water, let it stand for two or three days in the open air previous to applying it to your flowers.

The temperature of the room in which you place your plants should be as regular as possible, all extremes of heat and cold being destructive to good flowers. Let the plants stand near the window on mild sunny days, but in cold cloudy weather remove them to the middle of the room. When the day is warm, open the window, so as to give the plants the benefit of the fresh air, or remove them into the garden. Many of the hardier kinds of flowers will bloom well on the outer sill of the window from May to November. In sultry weather you must shade your choicest flowers from the direct rays of the sun, or they will get parched, and their blossoms will fall off. This is especially the case with the more delicate sorts of fuchsias and fancy geraniums; though the hardy plants of this kind stand a wonderful amount of ill usage before they cease to throw up flowers. You must constantly examine your flowers to see that their pots do not get too full of roots. You may easily discover whether this is the case by turning the pot upside down, when a slight tap will loosen the mould, and leave the plant and its soil in your hand in one compact mass. If you find that the roots run in irregular circles over the surface of the mould, it is a sign that the pot is too small, and your flower must be shifted to a larger one.

It will be well occasionally to sprinkle a little water over the foliage of your plants, which should always be kept fresh and clean. Some of the larger leaves of geraniums and other plants will want now and then to be cleansed of the dust, which will accumulate about them, with a sponge or soft flannel; or you may give them a good wetting by means of a syringe with a fine rose top, taking care to avoid the flowers that are in full bloom. Flower buds, however, thrive well by being constantly refreshed. Twenty drops of liquid manure added to a quart of water will be found useful in hastening the blooming of flowers. This mixture must, however, be applied to the soil, and not to the plant. A good and safe stimulant may be made of four ounces of ammonia, two ounces of nitre, and one ounce of brown sugar, dissolved in a pint of boiling water. This solution, when cold, is to be put in a stoppered bottle, and added to the water you use for your plants in the proportion of a tea-spoonful to a gallon. Generally, however, ordinary rain-water, not too cold, will suffice to keep in-door plants in good condition. If you notice that blossoms fall off before they are fully developed, it is a sure mark that the plant is sickly, and needs removal to a larger pot, or into the open air; but if you attend to the above directions, your favorite flowers can scarcely fail to prosper.

For the outside of windows nothing is prettier than ornamental boxes of mignonette, with a climbing rose or a canary creeper, or even a few pots of convolvulus or creeping-jenny.

The best plants for in-door culture are fuchsias, geraniums, calceolarias, begonias, balsams, cinerarias, dwarf roses, heliotropes, campanulas, hydrangeas, stocks, and mignonette; while, if you are fond of bulbs, a choice variety of tulips, crocuses, lilies, jonquils, hyacinths, scillas, etc., may be reared in separate pots, and then transplanted carefully and tastefully into that pretty receptacle for Nature's loveliest children, the ornamental flower-basket.

Fremont, Nebraska.

We had a picnic in papa's grove some time ago, and had a nice time. It is seven and a half miles from here. I have just begun taking music lessons, and I think music is very hard. My auntie takes Young People for me, and I think it is just splendid. I have no pets but a little sister named Pansy.

Mira K. A.

Poor darling! so you find music hard. Never mind, it will be easier after a while, and you will have a great deal of pleasure in playing for papa when he comes home tired at night. Your exchange will appear with the others on the cover.

Complaints reach us from time to time that some of our exchangers act very unfairly toward each other. In some instances large and valuable articles have been sent, for which the owners have received nothing in return. We wish to call attention to our standing notice at the head of the exchange columns. In every case, boys and girls, write to the person with whom you wish to exchange, and send nothing until you have received his reply. Arrange all details fully by correspondence.

Please be very sure that you have sufficiently stamped the articles you send through the mail. For want of postage your much-prized treasures may be sent to the Dead-letter Office, and you may be blaming a person wrongfully for not making the right return.

Constant Reader.—A wooden wedding celebrates the fifth anniversary of marriage. After ten years comes the tin wedding. The silver wedding is kept at the end of twenty-five years, and the fortunate people who are spared together for fifty years are entitled to a golden wedding. For the anniversaries which fall between these dates any pretty and tasteful article you choose will be appropriate.

C. Y. P. R. U.

THE PRIZE BOY AND GIRL.

BY AMY TALBOT DUNN.

The officers of the Indiana State Fair last year offered a prize of a ten-dollar suit of clothes to the boy under fourteen years of age who should saw the largest pile of wood in a given time.

You may be sure that many boys who hated the sight of a wood-pile now began to exercise their muscles, and vigorously set to work to earn the prize. One of the ladies on the committee told me that her own son worked night and morning for a week before the fair, trying to persuade the family that he would stand a chance for the prize. And when the day came round he left his breakfast untasted, so anxious was he to get to the grounds and begin the race.

At least a dozen boys entered the lists with their saws, but one by one they dropped off, thoroughly exhausted. There were but two others left when the little fellow of whom I told you gave up the race.

"He went off and lay down," said his mother, "the sorriest spectacle you ever saw."

The two remaining boys now bent all their energies to conquer each other. The wood fairly flew from under their hands, and their saws kept up a humming noise, and seemed to drive their sharp teeth into the hard wood with a never-say-die spirit.

Minute after minute went by, and not a word was spoken. Sparks of fire sometimes flew from the heated metal. The boys glanced at each other like lightning flashes.

Oh, how hard they worked! They forgot the prize; I think they forgot everything except that so many people were looking at them, and it would never do to fail.

At last the stroke of one saw began to waver. It grew more and more feeble, and looking at the little arm that guided it, they saw that he was yielding. He flung down the saw at last, and closing his lips desperately over his disappointment, walked hurriedly away. The other boy worked the allotted time, and received the prize.

He was barely twelve years old, but it was no new thing for him to saw wood. His father had been dead for many years, and he had often sawed wood to earn money to help support his mother and his little sister.

And what do you think happened to this little sister that day? She got a prize too. Yes, she had been taught to do something useful for her mother and brother.

There was a prize offered for the best patchwork by children under twelve, and this little girl had mended her own poor clothes ever so many times, and put patches upon her brother's, in the long evenings. So when she heard of the offer of the prize, she said to herself, "Brother will saw wood; why may not I take some patchwork?" And with her mother's consent she took a pair of her brother's pants which she had neatly patched and mended, and her work took the premium.

"A five-dollar hat!" She could hardly believe her senses at first when they told her, but there were few happier children in the world than this little brother and sister, who started down town to "pick out" a hat and a suit of clothes. Mr. Woodsaw walked as proudly as a peacock when he had trimmed himself up in his new suit, and Miss Patchwork, in her beautiful hat, with flower and feather, looked as sweet as a rose. Their feet seemed to have wings, and they flew along the street.

"Oh, look, mother, look!" they cried, as soon as they were in sight of the door; but the curious people could not see their mother's joy, for she closed the door instantly upon the outside world, and held her prize boy and girl to her happy heart.

I am sure that everybody will read this true story with a feeling of satisfaction that the prizes were won by a brother and sister who so thoroughly deserved them. But I want you to notice two or three things. The little fellows who tried wood-sawing, simply to get the prize, for two or three weeks, were distanced by a lad who had made wood-sawing his business. He had helped his widowed mother by working in a manly way, and so he had a great deal more strength than if he had taken up the work for mere amusement. The little sister, too, had done the hardest of all patchwork when she mended her brother's old jackets and pants. I felt so pleased that she gained the prize, and I am sure the other girls who tried were glad to see her sweet face under her pretty hat at Sunday-school next Sunday. The boy who started off without his breakfast made a mistake. When you have hard work to do, or a journey to go upon, or a tough problem to solve, always take a good breakfast if you can. Excitement will not take the place of food. Finally, dears, I think the boys who honestly tried, and failed, were worthy of a great deal of credit. It is no disgrace to be beaten after you have done the very best you can.

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. to Mrs. John Lillie's interesting article entitled "Papa Haydn," and "What the Showman Did not Tell," by Mr. William H. Rideing. The latter article contains a great deal of information which our boys and girls will probably remember better by hearing it from the "Showman" than if they had learned it in volumes on Natural History.

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

FOUR WORD SQUARES.

1.—1. Danger. 2. A species of hard wood. 3. A pirate. 4. To inoculate, as a tree or bud. 5. Certain stringed instruments.

2.—1. A satellite. 2. To join. 3. A salt. 4. Endless. 5. Long-winged aquatic fowls.

June Bug.

3.—1. A very small particle. 2. A river in England. 3. The beginning of many old stories. 4. Gentle.

4.—1. A garden. 2. A bird. 3. Duration. 4. A Roman Emperor.

No. 2.

TWO CHARADES.

1.

My first a lofty station holds,
My second holds a lowly;
But each has care enough to share,
And earns his living wholly.
My whole's a bird with pinions free,
You'll see him often near the sea.

Mother Bunch.

2.

My first is what you're doing now,
My second's made of stone;
Within my whole you often gaze,
And longest when you are alone.

No. 3.

TWO DIAMONDS.

1.—1. A letter. 2. Fleshy. 3. Covered in front. 4. Terse. 5. Stretched. 6. To expire. 7. A letter.

2.—1. A letter. 2. A covering. 3. A city in Egypt. 4. A despicable knave. 5. A mark made by impression. 6. Frequently. 7. A letter.

June Bug.

No. 4.

THREE HALF-SQUARES.

1.—1. To dazzle. 2. To throw away. 3. To question. 4. A prefix. 5. A letter.

2.—1. An incident. 2. A climbing plant. 3. To finish. 4. Not. 5. A letter.

3.—1. A prickly shrub. 2. To run swiftly. 3. Something often done to cake. 4. Two vowels. 5. A letter.

J. M. Iles and C. M. Eyres.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 148.

No. 1.

M | O | O | N |  |  |  | S | W | A | N
O | H | I | O |  |  |  | W | A | N | E
O | I | L | S |  |  |  | A | N | N | A
N | O | S | E |  |  |  | N | E | A | R

P | A | P | E | R
A | L | I | V | E
P | I | N | E | S
E | V | E | N | T
R | E | S | T | S

No. 2.

Pantry.

No. 3.

Golden-rod. Crocus. Hickory. Aster.

No. 4.

Bunker Hill Monument.

Kite. Number. Home. Mullen. Lent.

No. 5.

Esther. Ida. Hilda. Edith. Mabel. Eliza.

Ella. Ellen.

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from D. T. O., William A. Lewis, Eddie S. Hequembourg, Frederica Wortmann, Mabel Keith, Samuel H. Molleson, Ada McCoy, Anna Griffith, Fuller Whiting, Jack Tice, Harry Johnston, David Sanderson, "Princess Feather," "Eureka," Ernest Frantz, "Puss Lester," Helen M., Archie Dixon, Phebe D., "Faithful Readers," "June Bug," Malcolm P. Black, Arthur Bates, Mollie Preston, and W. Soldan.

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

SOME ANSWERS TO WIGGLE No. 28, OUR ARTIST'S IDEA, AND NEW WIGGLE No. 29.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A movement is one definite part of any composition.

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