My singing had attracted the attention of several people in the court-yard, and a hostler was hurrying up with the evident intention of sending me to the rightabout. But if that was what he meant to do, he had to give it over, for a commanding voice in English, without the trace of an accent, exclaimed from the window,

"Bring that lad in here, some one."

Before I knew it, I was following one of the servants through a passageway, and was ushered into the presence of the three men seated at the table.

"Where could he have learned that song?" one of them was saying. The short man was humming the air.

"Who are you and what is your name?" questioned the large gentleman with the powdered hair, who evidently was in authority, speaking in French.

"Jean Amédée de Brienne," I said, taking the name by which I had been known for the past few months, only giving it, of course, a pronunciation somewhat different.

"De Brienne!" exclaimed the youngest gentleman, starting. "Where do you come from?"

"From America, monsieur; but just now from the prison at Stapleton, whence I have escaped by a good chance."

I noticed that they were looking at one another in incredulity, so I spoke on, led by I know not what:

"Have I not the honor of addressing Monsieur George Lucien de Brissac, son of the Marquis de Neuville?"

"I am the Marquis de Neuville," exclaimed the youngest, starting to his feet. "My father is dead."

"And my grandfather perished on the scaffold with him and with your brother Guy," I said, calmly.

The effect of this speech was wonderful. The other two men sprang up, and the taller shut the window suddenly and drew the curtain.

Monsieur de Brissac was for hurrying toward me with both hands outstretched, when he was restrained.

"Hold! Hold!" said the eldest. "Let us ask more questions. What was your grandfather's name, my young friend?"

I gave it, and the whole of my family tree, so far as I could remember it, on my mother's side. Then in a few words I told of my sailing on a privateer, my capture and imprisonment. Before I had finished Monsieur de Brissac had come close to me.

"Embrassez-moi!" he said, and despite my rags he threw his arms around my neck.

In turn the other two did likewise, and the elder man kissed me on the forehead, after the manner of my uncle. Tears were in his eyes, and relieved from the great strain under which I had been laboring, I broke down altogether, and sinking into a chair, I wept, rocking myself to and fro. "Oh, God be thanked!" I cried over and over.

As soon as I recovered myself I saw that they had placed before me wine and meat, and were refraining from asking further questions until I should have refreshed myself. But the words which were whispered in my ear seemed to shut all fear behind me. "Courage; you are with friends. We will not desert you," told me to trust.

I looked up from my plate (truly I had been well fed for a vagabond this day), and found my new friends in consultation. I caught the word "clothes," and looking down at myself, I reddened. I was mad to tear the horrid rags from me. Monsieur de Brissac, as I shall call him, as it was he that afterwards became my patron, saw that I had finished the meal, and giving me a smile and a bow, came nearer. He was a very handsome man, of about seven-and-thirty, with a fine figure, and a well-turned leg that showed to the best advantage in his black small-clothes, for he also followed a fashion a little different from the English of that time. But of this I shall speak at greater length farther on.

"Monsieur de Brienne," he said, "I would like to ask you something of your father."

"He is dead," I answered.

And at this, God forgive me, I saw that I had deceived them all into thinking that I was my uncle's son, instead of his nephew. Now I reasoned if I should tell them my remarkable story, and proclaim that I did not know my father's name, and was all in a fog in regard to that of my mother, even although I knew so much about the past family history, I would put a sorry climax to a very good beginning. I regretted deeply that I should have to let them keep on in the error; but I spoke the truth, and I did not know it at the time.

"Monsieur de Brienne is dead?" repeated Monsieur de Brissac.

I sighed. "Alas!"

"He was a strange man, and they say the best swordsman at court—un vrai galant."

"There could be no better," I answered. "He taught me all I know."

The gentlemen smiled at this, but the next question that was asked me by the Marquis de Senez caused me to start.

"Your mother was—"

"Named Hurdiss," I put in. "She was very beautiful, but died in America, in the city of Baltimore, when I was but a child."

"Did your uncle leave no property? They say he took with him to America a large amount."

"I have this," I replied, producing the last of the buttons that had adorned the homespun coat that I wore at Marshwood. "All of my property was consumed at a fire—everything," I concluded. "I am left without a son, a relative, or a friend."

The gentlemen handed the button around.

"It is true. I remember that crest well," said the tall man. "And I remember well, also, your grandfather's beautiful daughters—twins, they were, and great favorites, as children, with the King."

"Yes," put in M. de Brissac; "and they married, after taking refuge here in England, one the Duke de B—— and the other the Comte de B——."[1]

The short nobleman here spoke, musingly:

"After their husbands' deaths they went to America, to seek their brother, probably, but they met with sad misfortune. Now I remember hearing something—"

My heart gave a great bound! Was I on the point of finding out my real name, and who I was by right and law?

"Yes," I said, quickly; "tell me."

"One of them was drowned in a shipwreck," Monsieur le Marquis continued. "Sad, sad, alas! and the other married some nobody, and went to reside in the wilderness."

I rather resented this, for I yet cherished the memory of him who had carried me on his shoulder, but I said nothing.

"Hortense and Hélène, those were the names," said the tall man.

"It was la belle Hélène who lost her life by drowning," said Monsieur le Marquis.

"Pardon me," put in Monsieur de Brissac; "it was Hortense, I am quite certain."

Here again arose the uncertainty.

"Who was it, monsieur, that married the English sea-captain?" I asked.

"Ah, was that it?" returned the tall man. "I did not know, nor have I any recollection of having heard which one of the ladies made this mésalliance."

The other gentlemen had come to no conclusion, and thus I found out nothing, after all. This was about the sum total of the talking we did at our first meeting, although it gives no idea of the time we were at it, and I was soon led away by the tall man, whose name, like the others, had the "de" of nobility, and was called de la Remy. I had caught the idea already that he was the landlord of the inn, and such was the fact. Indeed, a great many of the émigrés in England at this time were engaged in far less remunerative employments, and some had all they could do to put food into their mouths. Well, when I had taken a bath I was much refreshed; indeed, I could scarcely imagine that I was the same youth who had been halting along the road-side, ignorant of his whereabouts and careless as to his destination a few hours before.

As may be perceived (at least I should think the fact was evident enough), I had ceased to think of myself as a boy. It was only at times that my age would assert itself in a manner that led me to indulge in prankishness and skylarking. Thus when the hair-dresser came to my room, shown up by one of the inn servants, I pretended not to understand English, and, in consequence, they spoke openly before me. So I found out not a little. In the first place, I learned that Monsieur de Brissac and the Marquis de Senez (a Spanish title, I judge), were supposed to be very wealthy, and that I had been taken by the inn people for the private servant of the former, who had lost his way when ill some time previously, and had but now found his master. But of the more important thing, that I learned more by guesswork than from what was told me, I shall devote some space, but not now.

That night as I lay in a comfortable bed, after bidding my friends a good-night, I reasoned over the situation. I had been engaged as private secretary to the Marquis de Neuville (M. de Brissac), and would start for London with him on the morrow. There was but one regret, and that was the deception in regard to my name.

[to be continued.]

THE FIGHTING SAVAGE.

BY CYRUS C. ADAMS.

Within two years we have seen great nations waging four wars with peoples who are above the savage state, though not fully civilized according to our ideas. Two of these wars are now ended, and the results in both have been surprising.

It was thought that the Hova people of Madagascar would at least make an effort, when a French army invaded their great island in 1895, to repel the foreigners. They made a great show of resistance when the French landed their troops. They had cannon, powder, and thousands of rifles, collected an army of 30,000 men at their inland capital, and the Queen said she would lead them to battle if they needed her in the field. A nation of orators, they indulged in much brave and eloquent talk; but when it came to the pinch, they did not fight. The French marched into Antananarivo without any opposition worth mentioning, and are now the masters of Madagascar.

The brave mountaineers of Abyssinia have a different story to tell. For the first time a native African state has beaten a European power in a hard-fought war, driven the enemy out of her territory, and imposed her own terms of peace, including reimbursement for the board of about 2500 prisoners, at so much per week, during last summer. King Menelek has not lost a foot of territory; and Italy, which sent her army among those highlands to prove that the King was her vassal and his country her protectorate, has acknowledged the complete independence of Abyssinia. How did Menelek and his army win so signal a triumph?

In the first place, no other half-civilized nation to-day is so well armed as the Abyssinians. They fought the British once, and later, the Mahdists, with spears and a few muzzle-loading rifles. None of the soldiers now carries a spear or a muzzle-loading gun. All the small arms are breech-loaders. King Menelek came to the throne nearly eight years ago, and being an enterprising and an intelligent ruler, he has made great changes. He imported, through French territory, large quantities of excellent rifles. He induced French and Russian experts to come to his court, and they taught him many things, such as how to make gunpowder, and to build small bridges and frame houses. In fact, for years he had been preparing for the possibility of a big war. His army outnumbered the Italians four to one. He had 60,000 fairly well drilled soldiers—all brave and hardy men, and he could depend upon their fealty, and knew they would fight as unflinchingly as any men.

When the Italians moved into Abyssinia, Menelek and two-thirds of his army were in the southern province. The result was that the Italians pushed south to the very heart of the country before Menelek was able to confront them. After that, the Italians did not win a fight. In every battle, except the last one, the natives were the aggressors. Menelek's aim, with his larger force, was always to surround the enemy. He completely succeeded only once, and then the Italian detachment, 1000 strong, was killed almost to a man. Usually the Italians and their native allies broke and fled before Menelek had them penned inside his lines. The Abyssinians always tried to fight at close range, and were perfectly reckless in their daring. Their officers invariably led the charges and fought in the front rank, with the result that more of them were killed in proportion than of the common soldiers. The King had several thousand cavalry, but he made little use of them. Most of them were kept in the rear with instructions, if the infantry were compelled to retire, to impede the enemy's pursuit and guard the retreat. Under the circumstances the cavalry had little to do, except in the last great battle at Adua, where they pursued the routed Italians, and captured many of the 2500 prisoners.

While Menelek was forcing his enemies back north, the Italians paused from time to time in places they had previously fortified. Menelek had thirty cannon, but in no instance succeeded in destroying the walls. The courage with which the Abyssinians charged up to the fortifications won the admiration of their enemies, under whose galling fire many hundreds of natives were killed. Menelek could not capture the strongholds, and the Italians could not shake him off. In every case, till Adigrat was reached, hostilities were suspended by mutual consent; the Italians withdrew nearer to the northern boundary-line, and Menelek would then advance and attack them again.

Finally the Italians made a last desperate sally to retrieve their fortunes; and their fate was sealed in the all-day battle of Adua, where about 5000 of them were killed, wounded, or captured, and the rest fled pell-mell out of Abyssinia. At all times the Italian troops and most of their native allies fought well, but their leadership was shamefully incompetent. Even with good generals, they could not have whipped the Abyssinians without doubling or trebling their armed force.

Spain's present trouble in the Philippines extends to several islands, and includes the savages of Mindanao as well as the half-castes and creoles who live in Luzon. The latter island is the scene of the hostilities which are reported nearly every day. In a word, the trouble is that there are in the colony, according to Spanish statistics, 3000 Spanish priests and 5000 civil servants, and the people assert that they have been bled for the church, for the state, and for private peculators, until they can stand it no longer. In Luzon the inception and the progress of the rebellion have been marked by wonderful skill. Plans for the uprising, including the collection of arms and ammunition, were so quietly carried out that Marshal Blanco did not know what was going on until the very eve of the outbreak. In less than a week he was confronted by thousands of well-armed men, who dared to attack even the outskirts of Manila. At first they met the Spanish regulars in the open, but the insurgents had few if any cannon, and were at a disadvantage. A fortnight later they changed their tactics.

It is now their general policy to fortify strong positions and await the attacks of the enemy. When, however, they can bring against a Spanish force a much superior number of fighters, they attack with the greatest vigor. This plan of action seems wise, for the insurgents must bear in mind that they have only a fixed number of fighters, while the Spanish may fill up the gaps in their ranks with recruits from home. The insurgents have occupied many towns in several provinces, and while they show no mercy to Spanish priests and officials, they respect the lives and property of other foreigners. Spain has sent about 15,000 soldiers to the island, and the end is not yet in sight.

A leading event this year is expected to be the reconquest of the Egyptian Sudan by the British and Egyptian forces, which was really begun in 1896. The step has been decided upon, and it is believed the undertaking will not be extremely difficult; and yet if there is any fighting the British will meet the very men who in 1885 showed that half-civilized peoples can do all that any men can do on a battle-field. Fiercer fighting was never seen than that the Mahdi's Arabs gave General Wolseley's forces on those desert battle-fields; and no men could fight as those Arabs did, with nothing but spears in their hands against trained soldiers with the best of modern fire-arms, if they had not been consumed with fanatical zeal.

Their leaders had no guns to give them, and so the orders were; "You are not to fight the enemies of God with ammunition, but with spears and swords." The Mahdi sent them word that Mohammed had proclaimed to him that on the day of battle thousands of angels would be with them to help them vanquish the unbelievers. Wild with religious zeal these hordes would rush across the sands, poising their spears, and fall upon the square in which the British army was formed. They were not checked for an instant by the withering fire or the wall of bayonets, and the very force and fury of their onslaught at Abu-Klea, the greatest of these battles, carried them through the line; and soldiers on the opposite side, firing at the Arabs in the square, killed their own comrades on the broken line. There are few things finer in the history of warfare than the story of the old sheikh on horseback at Abu-Klea, his banner aloft in one hand, his book of prayers in the other, advancing with his men and chanting his prayers till he had planted his banner in the centre of the British square, where he fell pierced with bullets.

The Mahdi is gone. The Sudan has been half depopulated and ruined by his successor. The people hate the Khalifa Abdullah, who has ground them to earth. Fanaticism is dead. But if the flame the Mahdi kindled, which consumed Hicks's large army, killed Gordon, and turned Wolseley's forces back down the Nile, were burning yet, the British would think long and seriously before undertaking the reconquest of the Sudan.

BRONISLAU HUBERMANN AND LEONORA JACKSON.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

Bronislau Hubermann is a boy who plays the violin very much like a grown man. Now that means something more than merely sounding the tones correctly and smoothly. It means to show an understanding of the music and an artistic taste in its performance—two things which many adult players fail to do. Young Hubermann is therefore a remarkable boy, and it is not surprising that thousands of persons go to his concerts and sit as if spellbound while the youngster plays, for amazement joins with admiration to deepen the emotions caused by his fine performances. Just how old Hubermann is it is difficult to tell. He looks like a lad of sixteen; but his parents say that he was born in 1883 in Warsaw. They ought to know; but sometimes people like to make a gifted child appear younger than he really is, so as to increase the public wonder at his achievements. It really is not necessary in the case of Hubermann, because his playing would be sufficiently astonishing in a boy of sixteen.

He showed his musical ear when a mere child by singing the melodies which he heard. When he was six years of age he began the serious study of the violin, and in three months he had made such marvellous progress that he was able to play Rode's Seventh Concerto, a very difficult composition. This story sounds incredible, but we must remember that Mozart actually played the second violin part in a quartet when he had never had any instruction at all. He told his father it was not necessary to study in order to play the violin. After his childish appearances in public little Hubermann devoted a few years to further study, and then left his native land to seek glory in the most musical of all countries—Germany. He was enthusiastically praised there by the critics, while the public applauded him wildly. He made his first appearance in America at a concert in Carnegie Hall, New York, early in November, and achieved an immediate success.

He is a tall and rather awkward boy, but all his awkwardness disappears as soon as he begins to play. He produces from his instrument a very beautiful tone, and he always plays in tune, which shows that his ear is correct, and that his left hand has been trained carefully. But what is of more importance is that he plays with a great deal of feeling, and with an insight into the emotional meaning of the music which is altogether uncommon in so young a person. It is an interesting fact that Hubermann comes from Poland, which has produced so many admirable musicians. Among those who are familiar to living music-lovers are Paderewski, the great pianist, Jean and Edouard de Reszké, the famous singers, and young Josef Hofmann, who created so great a sensation when he gave his piano concerts at the age of ten.

Perhaps, however, we would do well to remember that all the musical genius of the world does not belong to those who are born on the other side of the Atlantic. To be sure, we are likely to incline to the opinion that it does, when we read about Mozart and Hofmann and other "wonderful children," as the Germans call them. But American boys and girls are just as full of artistic possibilities as those born abroad. And sometimes intelligence and hard work accomplish wonders even in music. Pasta, the famous soprano, had a very poor voice to begin with, and in our own time Lillian Norton, a Maine farmer's daughter, has made herself one of the foremost singers of the world just by study, and she is now famous everywhere as Madame Nordica. Now comes the story of Leonora Jackson, a California girl, who has carried off one of the great musical prizes of Germany.

She is the daughter of a merchant and banker, Charles P. Jackson, who lives in a very modest town with the unpoetic name of Mud Springs. When the Californians dislike that name they call it El Dorado; but Mud Springs is its real name. Miss Jackson's parents settled in this town in 1852, and she was born there in 1878, so that she is now eighteen years old. Mrs. Jackson was an amateur musician of real ability, and early in life Leonora showed that she had inherited her mother's inclinations. After her birth her parents moved to Chicago, where Mrs. Jackson became a successful music-teacher. The little girl began to study violin-playing, and she soon showed such gifts that her parents decided to place her under the most famous of teachers. At the age of fourteen she was sent to Berlin, where she became a pupil in the great Conservatorium.

The world-renowned violinist Dr. Joseph Joachim, who is regarded as the finest living player in the classic style, became her teacher, and took the deepest interest in her progress. She was afforded opportunities to appear in public, in order that she might acquire confidence in herself, and everything was done to enable her to make progress in her art. About two months ago she entered the competition for the Mendelssohn prize medal, for which she had as rivals players from various parts of Europe. It was a tremendous undertaking for a girl of eighteen, but Leonora won. Dr. Joachim embraced her with tears in his eyes, and the Berlin newspapers described her as a "girl wonder." It will be gratifying to all patriotic boys and girls to know that this girl's greatest pride in her triumph was that America had conquered. "I have held up the stars and stripes," she wrote home, "and I am satisfied."

After a time Leonora will undoubtedly set out as a concert performer, and of course that means that she will come to America to play. Then her countrymen will have an opportunity to enjoy the exhibition of her gifts and accomplishments, and to applaud her not only for her violin-playing, but for her courage, her perseverance, and her patriotism. She will hardly be a great violinist at eighteen, but she is young and talented, and the future is full of promise for her, while her example ought to be an inspiration to all her young compatriots.

THE "WARSPITE'S" CAPTAIN.

In the old days captains of the English ships of the line were not over-kind to their crews, but it is a well-established fact that shortly before a battle their geniality uncovered, and poor Jack was in the seventh heaven of delight. But, alas! if defeated, or through some order the ship would not be in the engagement, poor Jack felt the woes of his position more severely than ever. An example of this can be found in the following historical story:

The British seventy-four Warspite, in 1827, was sent from England to re-enforce the fleet under Sir Edward Codrington, then acting in concert with Russia and France to restrain the Turks in their brutalities against the Greeks, who were fighting for independence. The Warspite was in command of a Captain who had seen service under Nelson. The discipline under her previous Captain had been almost savage. The new Captain, by his mildness, soon won the hearts of his men; they almost worshipped him. One night in November, while carrying a press of sail, she crossed the stern of the American clipper-bark Rosiland, bound from Smyrna for Boston. "I suppose," hailed the Captain of the American, "you have not heard the glorious news. Codrington has blown the Turks and Egyptians sky-high!" The Warspite's studding-sails vanished like a dream, and she was rounded to, while her Captain hailed the Rosiland that he wished to board her. She at once hauled her mainsail up and backed her main-topsail. The Captain of the Warspite came on board from his barge, and remained nearly an hour. The details of the great battle of Navarino had reached Smyrna, and Captain Alden Gifford, who commanded the Rosiland, showed that it had been fought October 20, 1827, and that the entire Turkish and Egyptian fleets had been destroyed in a four hours' fight by the allied fleets, and that the independence of Greece was sure to follow. The Captain of the Warspite was satisfied with the truth of the report, and thanked Captain Gifford for heaving to and giving him the news. At parting he gave a deep sigh, and said, gravely, "Captain, I have but one eye, and I would rather have lost that than been out of it!" The next day, on board of the Warspite, a lot of offenders were brought before her Captain, who roared out in wrath, "Rig the gratings, call the boatswain and his mates, and all hands witness punishment!" Some eight men received two dozen lashes each, and from that day until the ship was paid off no guilty man escaped the cat. The tyrant knew the power of kindness to make men do their duty in battle, but when there was no prospect of fighting, his savage nature asserted itself. There was a report current in Portsmouth that when he commanded a frigate, his barge's crew dragged him out of a carriage, from alongside of his wife and daughter, and flogged him until he fainted from loss of blood.

STREET SOUNDS.

What curious sounds come from the street,
How many kinds of noise!
There's the tramp, tramp, tramp of busy feet,
And the shouts of girls and boys;

The rambling of the wagon wheels,
The strolling peddler's cries,
And very often music steals
From the pavement toward the skies.

Albert Lee.

THE REMARKABLE ADVENTURES OF SANDBOYS.

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.

THE LOST RING.

The boys had been discussing with Sandboys on the subject of fish and their habits, and, as usual, the bell-boy was full of information in that connection which he was willing to impart to his happy listeners. They found it hard to believe that sometimes, at the breaking up of winter, Sandboys had with his own eyes seen trout flop out of the lake and climb the bank after a worm that had come out of winter-quarters to rest for a little in the sun, but they did believe it, because he said it was so.

"I don't say that it's a reg'lar fixed habit of theirs, mind you," he added, as if he had no wish to deceive the boys into thinking that trout always behaved this way. "It's only occasionally you'll find a trout that'll do it, and then it's because he's so fearful hungry that he takes a risk. If it was a reg'lar fixed habit, catchin' trout'd be easy work. With a few decoy worms set around the banks o' the lake you could just sit down and wait till they came floppin' out after 'em, and then club 'em over the head with a tennis-racket or a cane. But it ain't, and you might wait a thousand years and never have the luck to see it."

"I'm rather surprised to hear that even one of them has ever done it," said Jack. "I always had an idea trout were shy, timid creatures."

"That's all Tommy-moonshine," said Sandboys, scornfully. That's the sort of stuff poets tell you about trout. Poetry trout are always shy and timid. They are allers lurkin' in the cool blue depths of purkling nooks. They spring past ye like a flash o' sunlight, an' are gone—the poetry trout do; but real trout's different. The trouble ain't the shyness of the trout, but the fact that the general run o' poets don't know how to fish for 'em. Why, there was a poet up here last summer—a feller with three names to his autygraph—and he got me to take him out fishin' one mornin', and I said all right, bait or fly? 'I'll fish with a fly, of course,' says he. 'I hate impalin' worms on hooks. Besides,' says he, 'fly-fishin's more sportsmanlike.' So I got him a dandy pole, lines, and some of the finest yeller sallies ye ever see. Down we went to the lake, and the first thing he did was to ask for an anchor. 'Thought you was goin' to fish with flies?' says I. 'I be,' says he. 'Hurry up and get the anchor aboard and we'll start in.' I thought he was crazy, but it ain't my place to tell guests they're crazy, so I got him the anchor, and out we went. 'Where's a good place?' says he. I showed him, and plump he let the anchor flop into the water with noise enough to scare a whale, not to mention a trout. Well, thinks I, this is goin' to be the fliest fly-fishin' I ever see. I never let on, though. It was his picnic, not mine. I just watched to see what he was agoin' to do next. He picked up the pole, an' let out about fifteen feet o' line, an' then he looked at the fly. 'Where's the sinkers?' says he, lookin' up, after a minute. 'The what?' says I. 'The sinkers,' says he, impatient like. 'Seems to me you're a very careless boy to forget the sinkers.' 'What do you want sinkers for?' says I. He looked at me for a second, an' then he asked: 'What kind of a boy are you, anyhow? What do I want with sinkers? Why, to sink the fly down to where the fish be, of course.'

"That," sniffed Sandboys, contemptuously, "is the kind of feller that says trout is shy. I guess they be shy when a feller tries fly-fishin' with sinkers."

"Then," said Bob, "trout aren't shy?"

"Not so shy as they try to make 'em out," said Sandboys. "Of course they don't come walkin' up around the corridors of the hotel; an' you don't often find 'em makin' themselves conspicuous in the ballroom; nor they ain't bold like college boys, runnin' all around chuckin' their college yells at the echo—in comparison with some folks we know they be shy; but, judgin' 'em from the stand-point of plain fish, they're as ordacious as any. They'd swim up to a shark if they met one, and sass him right to his face if they wanted to, without any fear of consequences or any idee of bashfulness. Shy! Poh! It's all nonsense. Why, the only bit of highway robbery that's ever been known outside of the reg'lar business channels here was done by a trout—right down on Mirror Lake, too. Takes nerve to steal a ring right off a young lady's finger, I guess."

"Stole a ring off a young lady's finger!" cried Bob. "A trout?"

"Hyops!" assented Sandboys. "A trout, and right down there in the shadow of the Old Man too. It came near breakin' the young lady's heart. The ring didn't amount to much as a ring, but it had a lot o' sentimentals connected with it because it had been given to her by the young man she was engaged to, and she'd swore she'd never take it off. It was a little gold band with blue 'namel letters in it. The letters spelt MIZPAH. I don't know what Mizpah means, but I think it's Greek for George, because that was the young man's name.

"She'd only been here a week, and he was comin' up to spend Sunday. It was a Saturday afternoon it happened, and he was expected to arrive on the train that evening, and she was happy as could be over it. That afternoon she went out rowin' on the lake with another young man she'd met up here, and while they was out George arrived. He'd come up on an earlier train, just to surprise her, and I tell you what he didn't like it much when her ma said: 'Why, how do you do, George? This is delightful. Emily will be so pleased. We didn't expect you until to-night.' 'Well, I'm here,' said George. 'I thought I'd come some o' the way by boat, and get here three or four hours earlier. Started last night. Where is Emily?' 'She's down on the lake with Mr. Begum,' said the young lady's ma. 'Oh, is she?' said George. 'I'm glad she's havin' such a good time.' But he wasn't. You'd ought to seen his face fall when he heard she was out rowin', and not pinin' away because he wasn't there.

"Meanwhile the young lady and Mr. Begum was rowin' quietly over the lake, talkin' about literatoor and art and things like that. He was doin' the rowin' and she was trailin' her hand in the water—the hand with the Mizpah ring on it—when all of a sudden a trout gave a dart out o' the shadder of the rocks, opened his mouth, caught holt of the ring, pulled it right off, an' retired; an', worst of all, two minutes later George appeared on the bank o' the lake and called out to her that he was there. She was awfully cut up. The surprise at seein' him, an' the grief at losin' his ring she'd said would never be took off her finger, was a fearful combination, 'specially as George noticed, the minute she came ashore, that the ring was gone.

"'Where's the ring?' said he. An' she told him how the trout had behaved, and it seemed to make him awful gloomy. Ye see, he didn't believe it. He thought it was a fish story, and he said so. He had an' idee she'd given the ring to Mr. Begum, and he was pretty mad about it."

"It did sound like a fish story," put in Jack. "Seems to me I'd find it hard to believe myself, if you hadn't told it to me."

Sandboys smiled his appreciation of this compliment to his veracity, and continued:

"They didn't, either of 'em, say much after that, and all day Sunday George sat around and read novels in the office, and the young lady staid with her mother. They'd quarrelled, that was evident, and on Monday George went back home again, and the young lady said they'd never been engaged. The fact was they'd broke it off!

"And now comes the funny part of it. All that summer, and the next, and three more, went by, and nothin' more was ever heard of the ring. The young lady kept a comin' back every year, but she didn't seem to care anything about nobody. She just staid with her ma all the time, and looked pale and unhappy. She'd never made it up with George, and he never could be got to believe the story of how that dishonest little trout had golluped down the ring he'd gave her. The fifth summer after, he came through the mountains with a bicycle party, and they decided to rest a couple of days here. She wasn't here that summer, so he could stay without bein' embarrassed. The mornin' after he got here he asked me to take him fishin', and we went down to the lake. He was a dandy castin' a fly, an' I rowed him up and down, and up and down, for a couple of hours, and he kept a-whippin' and a-whippin' without any luck. Finally he says to me, 'Sandboys, I'll just try it once more, and if I don't get nothin' we'll go back to the hotel and order our fish off the bill of fare, instead of foolin' around here where I don't believe there ain't 'never been no trout.' I see in a minute what he was thinkin' about, but I never said a word. 'All right, sir,' says I, and he flicked the fly once more on the water, and, by hookey, up came a beauty! It was a reg'lar out-and-out three-pounder. And, I tell you, he had to work to get him into the boat; but as he wasn't no poet, an' knew how it was done, he did land him finally.

"'We'll have him for dinner to-night,' says he, with a proud look—and he did. The fish was fried and served at supper; but when the head waiter brought him in to the table, he hands George an envellup, with the remark that it contained somethin' that had been found inside the trout. George got white as a sheet, opened the envellup, and, by hookey, there was the Mizpah ring!"

"Goodness!" gasped Jack. "Wasn't that great!"

"What did he do?" queried Bob. "Faint?"

"Not he," said Sandboys. "He wasn't the faintin' kind. He jumped up from the table, and rushed off to the telegraph office, and sent a telegram to Miss Emily Harkaway at Narrowgansett Pier, sayin': 'Will arrive to-morrow. George.' And he went.

"The next summer he came back again, and he brought her with him. She'd become Mrs. George, and, by hookey, she had the ring with her; but this time she wore it on her neck, with a row o' diamonds set all about it that would have made that trout blind just to look at it, it dazzled so.

"So you just remember what I tell ye. When people give you that story about trout bein' shy, you can contradict 'em, whether it's perlite for small boys to contradict or not; an' if they take ye up, tell 'em about the speckled highway robber of Mirror Lake. That'll take the starch right out of their theories!"

The preliminary heats were held on Friday evening, January 15, and there seemed to be more enthusiasm among the skaters in the trials than there was in the finals. There were about seventy-five entries all told. The events contested were 220-yard dash, 440-yard dash, 880-yard dash, and one mile. Morgan won his heat in the 220, the 440, and the mile, Paulding being second to him in the mile, third in the 220, and second to McClave in the second heat of the 440.

The 880-yard event was for "juniors," and the heats were taken by Inman of Cutler's, Einstein of Harvard School, and Rock of Condon's. The last heat would very probably have been won by Eddinger of Columbia Institute, if he had not had the hard luck to fall on the final lap, when he had a good lead, and was holding his own with the field.

In the finals on Saturday evening the racers made invariably better time than they had done in their trial heats. The 440 was won by Paulding, with Morgan second. Morgan's defeat was undoubtedly due to the fact that he made a false start, and was penalized three yards by the referee. There was a pretty good field, and the De La Salle man found it impossible, in the short distance, to pass through. The 880-yard event was taken by Inman of Cutler's; Einstein of Harvard gave him a pretty close race, but fell twice, and did not finish among the leaders.

The 220-yard dash was a victory for Morgan, who jumped to the lead as soon as the signal to start was given, and was never passed. He also won the mile in fine fashion, leaving his nearest rival, Paulding, two laps behind him, and Paulding headed the field by almost another full lap.

The summary of events follows:

SUMMARY OF POINTS BY SCHOOLS.

In-door baseball has not met with very much favor thus far among the South Side schools of Chicago, and the reason alleged is that Englewood and Hyde Park, the two schools which are leaders in almost every other branch of athletics, have not yet succeeded in winning a game this year at the in-door sport. Austin, the last year's champion, was defeated by Lake View, 7-3. This victory has led to the opinion that Lake View would probably take the championship this season.

Hyde Park was badly defeated by North Division in its schedule game. The score was 26-0. Englewood did better against Evanston, and besides putting up a better game was only defeated 10-4. Englewood's next game was lost to Lake View, 8-11. Hyde Park's next defeat was administered by Austin.

Austin's success is largely due to the excellence of its pitcher, Pottwin. Decker, the short stop, has also been putting up an excellent game, and in the match against Hyde Park he knocked out a home run, besides playing an errorless game in the field. The Hyde Park players seem to be fairly good at fielding, but they show a great lack of practice.

The matches in the ice-polo league of the Boston schools have developed good sport during the recent cold weather, and the schedule has afforded a number of close games. Dorchester played a tie game with Roxbury Latin on Franklin Field Friday afternoon, January 15, the score being 1-1. Only one twenty-minute period was played. Dorchester rather outclassed Roxbury Latin in passing and driving, but was unable, nevertheless, to get the ball into Roxbury's cage the second time.

On the same afternoon, at Mystic Lake, Winchester met Cambridge High and Latin, and was defeated 7-0. The Cambridge men developed some excellent team-work, and showed some pretty combination plays. In a game between Medford High and Everett High, Medford won 3-1. Especially good work was done by Otis, Thompson, and Glidden.