Georgie's voice stopped my weary sobbing. "Allie," he said, softly, "mamma told me that true knights prayed for help when they were fighting. So I shall ask God to help us now. I think He will."

Then, clear and soft, amid the roaring of the storm, arose the childish voice repeating his evening prayer:

"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep! If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."

I felt a little quieter when he had finished. Georgie's strong, sweet faith strengthened me unawares, and involuntarily I repeated the little prayer after him. Then we were silent for a long time. I was strangely weak and weary. The fear of death was gone now; I thought no more of even my mother. I think I was fast lapsing into unconsciousness when Georgie's voice half aroused me. "Allie! Allie!" he cried. "Wake up! You are slipping down! O, Allie, dear, do try to get up! You'll be drowned!" But even this failed to arouse me from the stupor into which I had fallen. I felt myself slipping from my seat. Already my feet were in the icy water, and the spray was dashing about my face. I heard Georgie call me once again, felt my hands firmly grasped in his, and then I knew nothing more.

* * * * *

"Alice, dear little Alice!" I opened my eyes at the words. Somebody's arms were about me; warm tears were falling on my head, and the scent of roses was in the air. Where was I? Was this my own little bed, with its snowy curtains and soft, fresh pillows? Was Baby Robin lying beside me, stroking my cheek with his tiny hand? I was not dead, then? Where were the water and the cold sea-weed? A kiss fell on my forehead, and a voice murmured soft love-words in my ear. "Allie! my little girl! Mamma's darling!"



Then I raised my head and looked straight into my mother's sweet, tearful eyes. "Mamma," I said, throwing my arms around her neck, "O, mamma, I was so afraid! I wanted you so!"

"But you are safe, Allie, now. Lie down again, dear. You are weak yet."

So I lay back on the soft pillow with a feeling of rest and content in my heart, such as had never been there before. I cared to ask no questions. It was enough that I was safe, with my mother beside my bed and the early sunbeams flickering on the wall opposite. It was a long time before I thought of even Georgie. When I asked for him, mamma's eyes filled with tears. "Dear Allie," she said, "Georgie saved your life. My little girl would have been taken away from me, but for him. He caught you when you slipped, and, tired as he was, held you up till help came. He fainted as soon as papa took him into the boat. We thought you were both dead!" Her voice broke in a sob, and she clasped me closer in her arms. "He is better now," she went on. "Allie, we must never forget his courage. Thank God, he was with you!"

"Mamma, O mamma!" I cried, "he said he was trying to be like Saint George. Isn't he like him? He saved me, and he prayed there in the dark—and, O mamma, I love him so for it!"

"Yes, Allie," answered my mother, "not one of the old knights was braver than ours, and not one of all the saints did better service in the sight of God than our little Saint George last night."



BORN IN PRISON.

BY JULIA P. BALLARD.



I am only a day old! I wonder if every butterfly comes into the world to find such queer things about him? I was born in prison. I can see right through my walls; but I can't find any door. Right below me (for I have climbed up the wall) lies a queer-looking, empty box. It is clear, and a pale green. It is all in one piece, only a little slit in the top. I wonder what came out of it. Close by it there is another green box, long and narrow, but not empty, and no slit in the top. I wonder what is in it. Near it is a smooth, green caterpillar, crawling on the edge of a bit of cabbage-leaf. I'm afraid that bright light has hurt my eyes. It was just outside of my prison wall, and bright as the sun. The first thing I remember, even before my wings had opened wide, or I was half through stretching my feet to see if I could use them in climbing, there was a great eye looking at me. Something round was before it, with a handle. I suppose it was a quizzing-glass to see what I was about. I heard somebody say, "Oh! oh!" twice, just as if they wondered I was here. Then they held the great bright light close to the wall till my eyes were dazzled. I don't like this prison. It isn't worth while to fly about. It seems as if I ought to have more room. There must be something inside that green box. It moves! I saw it half tip over then, all of itself. I believe that caterpillar is afraid of it. He creeps off slowly toward the wall. How smooth and green he is! How his rings move when he crawls! Now he is gone up the wall. He has stopped near the roof. How he throws his head from side to side! He is growing broader! He looks just as if he was turning into one of these green boxes! How that box shakes! There, I see it begin to open! There is a slit coming in the back! Something peeps out! A butterfly's head, I declare! Here it comes,—two long feelers, two short ones! Four wings, two round spots on each of the upper pair, and none on the other two. Dressed just like me. I wonder why it hid away in that box?

First Butterfly.—"What made you hide in that green box?"

Second Butterfly.—"What box? I haven't hid anywhere. I don't know what box you mean?"

First Butterfly.—"That one. You just crawled out of it. I saw you."

Second Butterfly.—"That's the first I knew of it. There are two boxes just alike. Both empty. May be you were hid in the other!"

First Butterfly.—"Ho! There goes up our prison wall! That's the big hand that held the bright light. How good the air feels! Now for a chance to try our wings! Away we go!"



HOW LILY-TOES WAS CAUGHT IN A SHOWER.

BY EMILY H. LELAND.

Lily-toes, though quite a pet, was the fourth baby, and, consequently, was not so great a wonder in the eyes of her family as she might have been. She and her mamma were on a visit to her grandma's, in the country. As she had been there a week, the excitement attendant on her arrival had so far subsided that grandma was beginning to turn her attention to cheese-making, her two aunties to sew vigorously on their new cambric dresses, and grandpa and the big hired man to become so engaged in the "haying" that they scarcely saw Lily-toes except at supper-time.

Lily-toes, as if to make amends for being the fourth, was a lovely chubby baby of eight months, so full of sunshine and content and blessed good health, that although her two first teeth were just grumbling through, she would sit in her high chair by the window or roll and wriggle about on the floor, singing tuneless songs and telling herself wordless stories, an hour at a time, without making any demands on anybody, so that grandma and the aunties declared that half the time they would not know there was a baby in the house. Perhaps it is sometimes a fault to be too good-natured; for there came a certain afternoon when Lily-toes would have been pleased if somebody had remembered there was a baby in the house.

It happened in this way. There was company at grandma's. Not the kind of city company that comes to dine after babies are in bed for the night, but country company,—that comes early in the afternoon and stays and talks over whole life-times before tea. Grandma, mamma, and the aunties were enjoying it all very much; and Lily-toes, who was, if possible, more angelic than ever, had wakened from a blessed nap, lunched on bread and milk and strawberries, and was stationed in her high chair on the back piazza where she could admire the landscape and watch the cows and sheep feeding upon the hill-sides. A honeysuckle swung in the breeze above her head, and little chickens, not big enough to do harm to grandma's flower-beds, ran to and fro in the knot-grass, hunting for little shiny green bugs, and fluttering and peeping in a way that was very interesting to Lily-toes. No baby could be more comfortably situated on a hot summer day; at least, so her mamma thought, as she tied Lily-toes securely in her chair with a soft scarf, and went back to the sitting-room and the busy sewing and talking with her dear old girlhood friends. I presume if Lily-toes had been a first baby, her mamma would have hesitated about leaving her there. She would have feared—may be—that the chickens would eat her up or that she might swallow the paper-weight. As it was, she only kissed the little thing with a sort of mechanical smack and left her alone, as coolly as if lovely Lily-toe babies were an every-day affair.

Meanwhile, and for many days before, great distress was going on in the fields and gardens for lack of rain. The young corn was drooping, the vines fainting, the sweet red roses opening languidly, the grasses growing dry and brittle to the bite of the patient cows and nibbling sheep. Everything, except Lily-toes, was expressing a desire for rain. In fact, all through the night before this story of a wronged baby opens, the hills, woods, fields, and gardens, had been praying for rain according to their individual needs, the maples and elms desiring a "regular soaker," while the lowly pansies lifted their fevered little palms to the stars and begged but a few drops.

And the rain came. Slowly up the western skies rose a solid cloud. No attention was paid it for some time, it came on so quietly and serenely. But, by and by, the cows came sauntering down to the barn-yard bars as if they thought it was milking-time, and the sheep huddled together under the great elms. Grandpa and his big man commenced raking the hay together vigorously, and a sudden, cool, puffy breeze began to ruffle the little rings of hair on Lily-toes' head, and send the small chickens careening over the knot-grass in such fashion that the careful mother-hen put her head out of her little house and called them in. And still in the cool, pleasant sitting-room, with its cheerful talk and laughter, the approach of the storm was hardly noticed. Grandma, the most thoughtful body present, remarked that she believed it was "clouding up a little," and mamma said she hoped so. And then the talk went on about making dresses and the best way to put up strawberries and spiced currants. But when big drops came suddenly plashing against the windows and a lively peal of thunder rolled overhead, then there was a scattering in the sitting-room. The aunties scampered out through a side door to snatch some clothes from the grass-plot, and to gather up the bright tin pans and pails that had been sunning on the long benches. Grandma, throwing her apron over her head, ran to see that some precious young turkeys were under shelter. The visitors hurried to the door, bewailing the windows they had left open at home, and hoping their husbands would have sense enough to see to things. And the mamma ran upstairs to close the windows and potter over some collars and ruffles that had blown about, never thinking of baby on the uncovered piazza.



Oh, how it poured! Grandpa and his man got as far as the wagon-shed just as the worst came, and they stayed there. Grandma was weather-bound along with her young turkeys in the granary. And Lily-toes!—no one will ever know what her reflections were for a few moments. I imagine she rather liked the first drops; for she was always fond of plashing about in her bath-tub, and had no fear of water in reasonable quantities. But when the wind began to dash the rain in her face, probably she first gasped in astonishment, and then kicked, and, eventually, as everybody knew, screamed! Yes; aunties, visitors, and mamma, as they met in the hall and shrieked to each other about the storm, heard, at last, in the lull of the gale, a sound of indignant squalling.

Then there was another scamper. Lily-toes was snatched in-doors and borne along amid a tempest of astonishment and pity, until one visitor burst out laughing; and then all laughed except the mamma, who kept a straight face until baby stopped crying and smiled around on them like wet sunlight.

Before grandma could reach the house, Lily-toes had been rubbed very dry and put into dry clothes; but her wrapper and petticoats and stockings and blue shoes, lying in a sopping heap on the floor, told the tale to grandma and grandpa and the hired man, who all agreed it was a burning shame to forget Lily-toes, even for five minutes; and the hired man went so far as to remark that, "If there had been a few more women-folks in the house, she'd most likely been drown-ded." And Lily-toes looked at him gratefully, as if he had spoken the very words she had longed to say.



"THANKS TO YOU."

BY MARY E. BRADLEY.



Every day for a month of Sundays, Saturdays, Tuesdays, Fridays, Mondays, Jack had pondered the various means And methods pertaining to grinding machines, Until he was sure he could build a wheel That, given the sort of dam that's proper, Would only need some corn in the hopper To turn out very respectable meal.

Jerry and Jane and Jo, and the others, Jack's incredulous sisters and brothers, Gave him credit for good intentions, But took no stock in the boy's inventions. In fact they laughed them quite to scorn; Instead of wasting his time, they said, He would be more likely to earn his bread Planting potatoes or hoeing corn!

Bessie alone, when all the rest Crushed his spirit with gibe and jest, Whispered softly, "Whatever they say, I know you will build the wheel some day!" Chirping crickets and singing birds Were not so sweet as her heartsome words; Straight he answered, "If ever I do, I know it will only be thanks to you!"

Many a time sore heart and brain Leap at a word, grown strong again. Thanks to her, as the story goes, Hope and courage in Jack arose; Till one bright day in the meadow-brook There was heard a sound as of water plashing, And Bessie watched with her happy look The little wheel in the sunlight flashing.

By and by as the years were fraught With fruit of his earnest toil and thought, Brothers and sisters changed their tune,— "Our Jack," they cried, "will be famous soon!" Which was nothing more than Bessie knew, She said, and had known it all the while! But Jack replied with a kiss and a smile, "If ever I am, it is thanks to you!"



HOW BIRDS FLY.

BY PROF. W.K. BROOKS.

In our last talk about birds (in ST. NICHOLAS for July), I told you about birds and their nests. Now I wish to say, first, a few words about the different kinds of birds, and then we will see how birds manage to fly. Naturalists have divided the class, birds, into several smaller groups which are called orders. One of these includes the birds of prey, such as the hawks, eagles, and owls. In the picture of a bird of prey you can see the strong, hooked bill and powerful claws, which are well fitted for seizing and tearing its prey.

The second order includes the climbing birds, such as the woodpeckers. The birds of this order can readily be recognized, since two of the toes of each foot point backward, to give support in climbing.

The next order, that of the perching birds, includes all our common song-birds, such as the robin, bluebird, and blackbird, as well as a few larger birds, like the crow.

The scratching birds form another order, including our domestic fowls and many wild game-birds.

The next order comprises the ostrich and a few other large birds, which have such small wings that they are unable to fly, but with very large and powerful legs, so that they are excellent runners. Although this order includes the largest bird at present living, there were formerly running birds very much larger than any which now exist; for, in Madagascar and New Zealand, the bones, and even the eggs, of gigantic birds have been found. One of these eggs was over a foot in length, and contained more than ten quarts or as much as six ostrich eggs or one hundred and fifty hen's eggs. A nearly complete skeleton of one of these birds has been found, and this must have belonged to a bird fifteen feet high, or taller than the largest elephant!

The next order includes the wading birds such as the snipe, plover, woodcock, heron, and rail.

Another order is that of the gulls, ducks, geese, pelicans, penguins, and other swimming birds.

Besides these living birds, fossil birds have been found in the rocks. Some of these are very different from any species now living, and very much like reptiles, so that it is not easy to decide whether they are to be called birds or reptiles.

The chief peculiarity of birds is their power of flight, and, although there are a few birds which do not fly, most of them do, and the various organs of their bodies are all constructed in such a way as to fit them for a life in the air. Their bodies are very solid and compact, in order that most of their weight shall be near the place where the wings are attached. The feet, legs, head, and neck are light, and so arranged that they may be drawn up close to the body while the bird is flying. As the neck is long and very flexible, the body does not need to be pliant, as with most creatures having backbones; but it is important that the wings should have a firm support, so the bones of the back are united. The body of a bird must also be well protected from the cold; for, as it ascends and descends through the air, it passes through regions of very different temperatures, and it must be provided with a thick and warm covering in order to be able to endure these sudden changes, and one also which shall be very light and able to shed the water; for, otherwise, a bird would be unable to fly. The feathers of a bird answer to all these needs, and are so placed upon the body that they form a smooth surface which does not catch against the air when the bird is passing through it. In its rapid ascents and descents, the bird is exposed to another danger even greater than the sudden changes of temperature. You all know that air presses in every direction with great force, and that we do not feel it because there is air in all parts of our bodies as well as outside them, and the pressure of the air inside exactly balances that of the outside air. If we should suddenly take away the outside air in any way, such as covering a person up with an air-pump receiver, and quickly and completely exhausting the air, the consequences of the inside pressure would be very terrible, and if the experiment could be tried quickly enough the body would burst like an exploding gun, with a loud noise.



When people go up rapidly in a balloon or climb very high mountains, they are troubled by a ringing noise and a feeling of great pressure in the ears and head, and by palpitation of the heart, bleeding at the nose, and fainting. These unpleasant and often dangerous symptoms are caused by the expansion of the air inside their bodies. In ascending very high mountains it is necessary to go very slowly and to stop very often, to give time for some of the expanded air to escape, and equalize the pressure again. Now, many birds, the condor, for example, fly over the tops of the highest mountains, and nearly all birds, either occasionally or habitually, ascend to very great altitudes, and, unless there were some plan for regulating the pressure of the air inside their bodies, they would suffer great inconvenience and even pain and danger. But they are provided with an arrangement by which the air within them can escape easily as it expands and thus keep the pressure within just equal to that outside, so that they can ascend and descend as rapidly as they wish, without feeling the least inconvenience. In the body of the bird there are several large bags, like the lungs, called air-chambers; many of their bones are hollow, and others are pierced with long winding tubes called air-tubes. All these air-chambers and air-tubes are connected with the lungs so that air can pass into and out of them at each breath. The connection between these chambers and the lungs is so complete that a wounded hawk can breathe through a broken wing almost as well as through its mouth. When a bird mounts upward, the air inside its body gradually expands, but the bird does not feel any inconvenience; for, at each breath, part of the air passes from the air-chambers into the lungs, so that the pressure on the inside does not become greater than that on the outside.



I could easily fill the whole of this chapter with an account of the different ways in which the body of a bird is fitted for life in the air, but we have room to examine only one of these,—the way in which the wing is adapted to its use.

Did you ever look at a bird's wing carefully, and try to find out from it the way in which it is used? People usually suppose, either that a bird flies because it is lighter than the air, like a balloon, or that it rows itself along as a boat is rowed through the water. Neither of these suppositions is true. A bird is not lighter than the air, and does not float; for when a bird is shot on the wing it falls to the ground just as quickly as a squirrel. On the contrary, a bird flies by its own weight, and could not fly at all if it were not heavier than the air.

You know that when you move a large, flat surface rapidly through the air, it meets with considerable resistance. A bird's wing is so large, and is moved so rapidly, that the resistance of the air is enough to raise the bird a short distance each time the wings are flapped downward; but after each down-flap there must be an up-flap, and the air resists this just as it does the down-flap; so, unless there were some arrangement to prevent it, the bird would drive itself down each time it raised its wings, just as far as it had raised itself by the down-stroke before, so that it would never get into the air at all. To meet this difficulty, the wing is so shaped that it is concave or hollow upon its lower surface, so that it gathers the air together and prevents it from escaping; while the upper surface is convex or bulging, so that the air slides off from it when the wing is moved upward. If you have ever been caught in a sudden squall of wind with an open umbrella, you will easily understand how great a difference in resisting power this difference in the shape of the two sides of the wing will make. As long as you can keep the bulging side of the umbrella pointed toward the wind, you find no difficulty in holding it; but if the wind strikes the hollow under-side of the umbrella, it pulls so violently that, unless you are able to turn around and face the wind, the chances are that the umbrella will either be pulled away from you or turned inside out. But in the latter case, the wind slides out over the edges again, so that there is no trouble in holding on to the umbrella.

The peculiar shape of the wing is only one of the ways by which the down-stroke is made to strike the air with more force than the up-stroke. If you will look at a quill-feather, you will see that, on each side of the central shaft or quill, there is a broad, thin portion, which is called the vane. The vane on one side of the shaft is quite broad and flexible, while that on the other side is narrow and stiff; and by looking at a wing with the feathers in their places, you will find that they are placed so that they overlap a little, like the slats on a window-blind. Each broad vane runs under the narrow vane of the feather beside it, so that, when the wing is moved downward, each feather is pressed up against the stiff narrow vane of the one beside it, and the whole wing forms a solid sheet like a blind with the slats closed. After the down-stroke is finished and the up-stroke begins, the pressure is taken off from the lower surface of the wing, and begins to act on the upper surface and to press the feathers downward instead of upward. The broad vanes now have nothing to support them, and they bend down and allow the air to pass through the wing, which is now like a blind with the slats open. By these two contrivances,—the shape of the wing, and the shape and arrangement of the feathers,—the wing resists the air on its down-stroke and raises the bird a little at each flap, but at each up-stroke allows the air to slide off at the sides, and to pass through between the feathers, so that nothing is lost.



So much for the way in which the bird is raised into the air. Rising in the air is not flying, for a balloon and a kite rise but do not fly. Now, how is a bird able to move forward? This is not quite as easy to understand as the other, but I hope to be able to make it clear to you. I must first say, however, that it is not done by rowing with the wings, for they move up and down, not backward and forward, and no amount of rowing up and down would drive a bird forward, any more than rowing backward and forward would lift a boat up into the air.

You will find, if you carefully examine a bird's wing, that all the bones and muscles are placed along the front edge, which is thus made very stiff and strong. The quill feathers are fastened in such a way that they point backward, so that the hind edge of the wing is not stiff like the front edge, but is flexible and bends at the least touch. As the air is not a solid, but a gas, it has a tendency to slide out from under the wing when this is driven downward, and of course it will do this at the point where it can escape most easily. Since the front edge of the wing is stiff and strong, it retains its hollow shape, and prevents the air from sliding out in this direction, but the pressure of the air is enough to bend up the thin, flexible ends of the feathers at the hinder border of the wing, so the air makes its escape there, and slides out backward and upward. The weight of the bird is all the time pulling it down toward the earth; so, at the same time that the air slides out upward and backward past the bent edge of the wing, the wing itself, and with it the bird, slides forward and downward off from the confined air. You will have a much better idea of this if you will cut out a little paper model of a bird's wing and watch the way in which it falls through the air.



Take a sheet of stiff paper and cut it in the shape shown in the diagram above, but considerably larger. Be very careful to have the two sides alike, so that they shall balance each other. Now fold up the front margin of each wing, along the dotted lines a, a, a, a, to form a stiff rim to represent the rim of bone along the front edge of a bird's wing, and cut out a small strip of wood, about as thick as a match and twice as long, and run this through the two slits, b, b, to represent the body of the bird. If you hold this model about three feet from the ground, and allow it to fall gently, you will see that, instead of falling straight to the ground, it will slide forward, and strike the ground two or three feet ahead of you. It is really its weight which causes it to do this, so that the statement that a bird flies by its own weight is strictly true.



This is true, also, of insects and bats. They all have wings with stiff front edges, and flexible hind edges which bend and allow the air to pass out, so that flying is nothing but sliding down a hill made of air. A bird rises, then, by flapping its wings, and it flies by falling back toward the earth and sliding forward at the same time. At the end of each stroke of its wings it has raised itself enough to make up for the distance it has fallen since the last stroke, and accordingly it stays at the same height and moves forward in a seemingly straight line. But if you watch the flight of those birds which flap their wings slowly, such as the woodpecker, you can see them rise and fall, and will have no trouble in seeing that their path is not really a straight line, but is made up of curves; although most birds flap their wings so rapidly that they have no time to fall through a space great enough to be seen. Birds also make use of the wind to aid them in flight, and by holding their wings inclined like a kite, so that the wind shall slide out under them, they can sail great distances without flapping their wings at all. They are supported, as a paper kite is, by the wind, which is continually pushing against their wings, and sliding out backward and downward, thus lifting or holding up the bird, and at the same time driving it forward.

The birds are not compelled to face the wind while they are sailing, but by changing the position of the wings a little they can go in whatever direction they wish, much as a boy changes his direction in skating by leaning a little to one side or the other. Some birds are very skillful at this kind of sailing, and can even remain stationary in the air for some minutes when there is a strong wind; and they do this without flapping their wings at all. It is a difficult thing to do, and no birds except the most skillful flyers can manage it. Some hawks can do it, and gulls and terns may often be seen practicing it when a gale of wind is blowing, and they seem to take great delight in their power of flight.

Of all birds the albatross is the most skillful in the art of sailing in the air. It is a large sea-bird, about the size of a swan, and has very long and powerful wings. It lives far out upon the open ocean, hundreds of miles from land, and spends nearly all of its life in the air, very seldom alighting upon the water. It flies almost entirely by the aid of the wind, and sometimes does not flap its wings for an hour at a time. Albatrosses often follow a ship clear across the ocean, or, rather, they keep company with the ship, for as they are able to fly one hundred miles an hour with ease, the rate at which a ship travels is much too slow for them; so they make long journeys ahead and behind, like a dog taking a walk with his master, returning occasionally to the ship to pick up any food which may have been thrown overboard.



NANCY CHIME.

BY S. SMITH.



Untarnished by the breath of fame, Untouched by prose or rhyme, The world has never heard that name,— The name of Nancy Chime.

Domestic, friend, and monitor, She served us long and well; Not many "helps" could equal her, And none, perhaps, excel.

No evil lurked within her breast; Her face was always bright; Her trusty hands, scarce needing rest, Were busy day and night.

Her voice was sweet as voice of birds That to each other call; And when she spoke, her striking words Were listened to by all.

E'en Baby Bunting—darling boy, The happiest of his race— Would clap his little hands with joy, And look up in her face.

But none can reach perfection here; Like all beneath the sun, She, too, could err, and her career Was not a faultless one.

She only did, here let me tell, Each day the best she could; Would young folks all but do as well, The world might soon grow good.

But all is past! Ah! cold that face! That bosom throbs no more! Oh! must another take her place, And we our loss deplore?

Nay, nay, we could not bear the pain Of losing one so true;— Old Nancy Chime shall tick again, And be as good as new.



HOW HE CAUGHT HIM.



WHO PUT OUT THE TEA-PARTY?

BY ELLEN FRANCES TERRY.

One day, when I was a small girl, my little sister Katy and I found in the yard a dry-goods box, in which the new carpets had been sent home. As usual, we ran to where grandma sat knitting and nodding:

"Oh, grandma, mayn't we have it?" cried I.

"Yet hab it, dranma?" echoed Katy.

"You know we never had a baby-house."

"No, nebber had no baby-'ouse."

"Oh, say yes!"

"'Ay 'et!"

"Do, do!"

"Pede do!"

Then, before she knew what she was to do, or say, or what she never had done, or said, we coaxed her to the back door and pointed to our treasure. She couldn't refuse us, and the box was given to us.

John made us a card-board chimney, and cut a square window in either end, for, of course, we set it on its feet, turning its back to the lane against whose fence it stood, looking into the yard. Grandma gave us red curtains for the windows, and a big striped apron, which hung across the front and did for a door. We had to have a door, for, when we took tea, the chickens came, without invitation, peeping inside, looking for crumbs. And, seeing what looked like a party, down flew, with a whir and rustle, a flock of doves, saying, "Coo-oo! how do-oo-do!" and prinking themselves in our very faces. Yes, we really had too many of these surprise-parties; for, another time, it was a wasp that came to tea, and flew from me to Katy, and from Katy to me, till we flew, too, to hide our heads in grandma's lap. Then she gave us the apron, which was very grand, though the blue stripes were walking into the red ones, and there were a good many little holes which let small arrows of light fly out. That was when we lighted the chandelier, and they (the holes and the arrows) were the very things to let people know what grand doings there were inside.

Then, when our crockery was arranged on the shelf at the back, a stool set in the middle for a table, our two small green chairs placed one at either end, and a good many nails driven into the "walls" to serve as hooks,—then we gave a party. The dolls were invited, of course, and their invitations Katy wrote on her slate. To be sure, the letters looked a good deal like Jack and Jill,—climbing up hill and tumbling down again,—still the dolls understood us. There were no little girls invited, because little girls couldn't have squeezed in, unless they were willing to be hung up, like the extra dollies.

But oh! wouldn't they have liked to go? We had ice-cream, just made of vanilla, cream-candy, and water,—delicious! Then there was a whole tea-potful of chocolate-tea, which was a chocolate-cream drop scraped fine and mixed with water. Do just try it sometime. Thimble-biscuits, too, and holes with cookies round them. I never expect to be as happy again as I was when I dropped the curtain at half-past four precisely, and lighted the chandelier, which I forgot to say was a candle cut in two, stuck in cologne-bottles of different shapes and colors.

We well knew—for didn't we go out twice to look?—how splendidly the light streamed through the two windows and the eight holes. Why, the chickens knew it, too, on their perches, for they opened one sleepy eye after another, solemnly changed legs, and dozed off again. Those long rays of light, playing truant, ran down the lane and flashed into the very eyes of naughty Billy Quinn, who was going home from a visit, whistling, and with his hands in his pockets.

Of course the dolls arrived promptly, and took off their shawls in the best bedroom, which was that convenient shelf that was turned into anything on short notice. The baby-dolls had to go early to bed under the table, and you can imagine how much pleasanter it is to say, "Bed-time, children!" than to have it said to you. Mrs. Green was a perfect little Mrs. Herod in her treatment of her children. Indeed, their yells under punishment were heart-rending; but when she was only dear Katy she was tender as one of those cooing doves.

So we ate up the ice-cream, and turned the tea-pot upside down to squeeze out the last drop of chocolate-tea. Mrs. Green was just doing this very thing when the most dreadful event happened. Crash!—bang!—clatter!—the whole world had turned upside down. Out went the lights, and everything fell together in a dismal heap; but whether up or down nobody could tell. There was a splash of cold, cold water in my face as the wash-bowl and pitcher fell and crashed beside me. Katy lay with her small nose buried in the butter-plate. The house had tumbled over!!

For a few seconds not a sound was heard, but then there was a half-stifled burst of laughter, which quickly died away as some thickly shod feet scampered down the alley. Yes, the beautiful house was tipped over, and the tea-party put out, as an extinguisher is slipped over a candle, or a hat clapped upon a butterfly. Inside, there was a confused heap, with legs uppermost,—table-legs, chair-legs, little legs clad in white stockings, and, mixed hopelessly up with these, the dolls, the dishes, the candles.



This heap, however, was silent only for a moment. Then a feeble cry struggled up through it,—a cry which, reaching the upper air, grew loud, doubled itself, became two cries, and rushed out through a window, which, having lost its way, was where the roof ought to be. Then growing fast and shrill, the cry ran toward the house, waking up the Brown baby, who at once joined in. The rooster waked suddenly, and feeling that something had happened, thought it could do no harm to crow, and that agitated his household to the last hen. Then to the cackling and crowing, Beppo added a bark of duty, and nearly turned inside out, tugging at his chain, and howling between times. The canary began his scales, and the scream grew and grew and rushed into the house through every door and window. Uncle John was reading the paper, but, hearing the fearful uproar, he dashed into the yard, turned back the house with one hand, with the other picked out from the heap of legs all the white ones, and dragged us from the wreck of our residence. It was quickly done, but not too soon, for a little flame, which was hiding under the close mass of ruins, now hopped merrily up on the tarletan skirts of Alice Isabella, the prettiest of the dolls.

While we were being taken to grandma to be cried over and comforted, and the poor old house lay on its side forgotten, that flame finished off poor dolly, ran up to the roof, ate up the red-striped curtain in the twinkling of an eye, and, in fact, made short work of the whole thing. We knew nothing of this that night, but were so honored and indulged as to make us think everything else had turned a new leaf as well as the house.

The next morning, grandma, coming into the breakfast-room, was called to the window by Uncle John, who was looking at something in the yard. There was a forlorn little figure sitting on a log among the charred embers of the burnt house. It was I, sobbing as if my heart would break, and beside me was Katy, who stood sadly by, trying with a corner of her apron to dry my tears. But her eyes were wet, too, and in the fat arms were squeezed a leg and shoe, which was all that was left of Alice Isabella.

What wicked eye had watched the festivities through the window, or what cruel heart had yielded to the temptation to turn over the house upon it all, we never knew. I heard that Billy Quinn was punished that night for coming home late to supper, and now, looking impartially at the matter over all these years, I am inclined to think it was that very Billy Quinn, and no other, who put out the tea-party.



THE FOX, THE MONKEY, AND THE PIG.

BY HOWARD PYLE.



The fox, the monkey, and the pig were once inseparable companions. As they were nearly always together, the fox's thefts so far reflected upon his innocent associates, that they were all three held to be wicked animals.

At length, the enemies of these three laid a snare, in a path they were known to use.

The first that came to the trap was the pig. He viewed it with contempt, and, to show his disdain of his enemies and his disregard for their snare, he tried to walk through it with a lofty tread. He found he had undervalued it, however, when, in spite of his struggles, he was caught and strangled.

The next that came was the monkey. He inspected the trap carefully; then, priding himself upon the skill and dexterity of his fingers, he tried to pick it to pieces. In a moment of carelessness, however, he became entangled, and soon met the fate of the unfortunate pig.

The last that came was the fox. He looked at the snare anxiously, from a distance, and, approaching cautiously, soon made himself thoroughly acquainted with its size and power. Then he cried, "Thus do I defeat the machinations of my enemies!"—and, avoiding the trap altogether, by leaping completely over it, he went on his way rejoicing.



DAB KINZER: A STORY OF A GROWING BOY.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.



CHAPTER XIV.

The next day's newspapers, from the city, brought full accounts of the stranding of the "Prudhomme," as well as of the safety of her passengers and cargo; but they had nothing whatever to say about the performances of the "Swallow." The yacht had been every bit as well handled as the great steamship, but then she had got home safely, and she was such a little thing, after all. Whatever excitement there had been in the village died out as soon as it was known that the boys were safe; and then, too, Mrs. Lee found time to "wonder wot Dab Kinzer means to do wid all de money he done got for dem blue-fish."

Dab himself had been talking with Ford Foster and Frank Harley, and an original idea of his own was beginning to take some sort of form in his mind. He did not, as yet, mention it to any one, as he wanted very much to consult with Ham Morris about it. As for Frank, Mr. Foster had readily volunteered to visit the steamship office, in the city, when he went over to business, next day, and do whatever might be needed with reference to the young gentleman's baggage. At the same time, Mrs. Foster wrote to her sister, Mrs. Hart, giving a full account of what had happened, and saying she meant to keep Frank as Ford's guest for a while.

The Hart boys hardly knew whether to submit or not, when that letter came, as they had planned for themselves all sorts of rare fun with "the young missionary" in their own home.

"Never mind, Fuz," said Joe, "we'll serve him out when we get to Grantley."

"Yes," replied Fuz; "I'd just as lief not see too much of him before that. He wont have any special claim on us if he doesn't go there from our house."

Other talk they had together, and the tone of it promised very lively times at Grantley Academy for the stranger from India. But while the Hart boys were laying their plans for the future, they were themselves the subjects of more than one discussion, for Ford Foster gave his two friends the benefit of all he knew of his cousins.

"It's a good thing for you that the steamer didn't go ashore anywhere near their house," he said to Frank Harley. "They're a pair of born young wreckers. Just think of the tricks they played on my sister Annie."

After that conversation, it was remarkable what daily care and attention Dab Kinzer and Frank paid to their sparring lessons. It even exceeded the pluck and perseverance with which Dab went to work at his French.

Plenty of fishing, bathing, riding, boxing. Three boys together can find so much more to do than one can alone, and they made it four as often as they could, for Dick Lee had proved himself the best kind of company. Frank Harley's East Indian experience had made him very indifferent to the mere question of color, and Ford Foster had too much manhood to forget that long night of gale and fog and danger on board the "Swallow."

It was only a day or so after the perilous "cruise" that Dab Kinzer met his old playmate, Jenny Walters, just in the edge of the village.

"How well you look, Dabney!" remarked the sharp-tongued little lady. "Drowning must agree with you."

"Yes," said Dab; "I like it."

"Do you know what a fuss they made over you when you were gone? I s'pose they'd nothing else to do."

"Jenny!" suddenly exclaimed Dab, holding out his hand, "you mustn't quarrel with me any more. Bill Lee told me about your coming down to the landing. You may say anything you want to."

Jenny colored and bit her lip, and she would have given her bonnet to know if Bill Lee had told Dab how very red her eyes were as she looked down the inlet for some sign of the "Swallow." Something had to be said, however, and she said it almost spitefully.

"I don't care, Dabney Kinzer. It did seem dreadful to think of you three boys being drowned, and you, too, with your new clothes on. Good-morning, Dab!"

"She's a right good girl, if she'd only show it," muttered Dab, as Jenny tripped away; "but she isn't a bit like Annie Foster. How I do wish Ham would come back!"

Time enough for that; and as the days went by, the Morris homestead began to look less and less like its old self, and more and more like a house made for people to live and be happy in. Mrs. Kinzer and her daughters had now settled down into their new quarters as completely as if they had never known any others, and it seemed to Dab, now and then, as if they had taken almost too complete possession. His mother had her room, as a matter of course, and a big one. There could be no objection to that. Then another big one, of the very best, had to be set apart and fitted up for Ham and Miranda on their return, and Dab delighted in doing all in his power to make that room all it could be made. But, then, Samantha had insisted on a separate domain, and Keziah and Pamela imitated their elder sister to a fraction. The "guest-chamber" had to be provided as well, or what would become of the good old Long Island customs of hospitality?



Dab said nothing for a while, but one day, at dinner, just after the arrival of a letter from Miranda announcing the speedy return of herself and husband, he quietly remarked:

"Now I can't sleep in Ham's room any longer,—I suppose I'll have to go out on the roof. I wont sleep in the garret or in the cellar."

"That'll be a good deal as Mrs. Morris says, when she comes," calmly responded his mother.

"As Miranda says!" said Dab, with a long breath.

"Miranda?" gasped Samantha and her sisters.

"Yes, my dears, certainly," said their mother. "This is Mrs. Morris's house, or her husband's,—not mine. All the arrangements I have made are only temporary. She and Ham both have ideas and wills of their own. I've only done the best I could for the time being."

The girls looked at one another in blank amazement over the idea of Mrs. Kinzer being anything less than the mistress of any house she might happen to be in, but Dabney laid down his knife and fork with:

"It's all right, then. If Ham and Miranda are to settle it, I think I'll take the room Sam has now. You needn't take away your books, Sam. I may want to read some of them or lend them to Annie. You and Kezi and Meli had better take that upper room back. The smell of the paint's all gone now, and there's three kinds of carpet on the floor."

"Dabney!" exclaimed Samantha, reproachfully, and with an appealing look at her mother, who, however, said nothing on either side, and was a woman of too much good sense to take any other view of the matter than that she had announced.

Things were all running on smoothly and pleasantly before dinner was over, but Dab's ideas of the way the house should be divided were likely to result in some changes. Perhaps not exactly the ones he indicated, but such as would give him a better choice than either the garret, the cellar, or the roof. At all events, only three days would now intervene before the arrival of the two travelers, and everything required for their reception was pushed forward with all the energy Mrs. Kinzer could bring to bear. She had promised Ham that his house should be ready for him, and it was likely to be a good deal more "ready" than either he or his wife had dreamed of.



CHAPTER XV.

One of the most troublesome of the annoyances which come to dwellers in the country, within easy reach of the great city, is the kind of patrolling beggar called the "tramp." He is of all sorts and sizes, and he goes everywhere, asking for anything he wants, very much as if it belonged to him, so long as he can ask it of a woman or a sickly-looking man.

There had been very few of these gentry seen in that vicinity that summer, for a wonder, and those who had made their appearance had been reasonably well behaved. Probably because there had been so many healthy-looking men around, as a general thing. But it came to pass, on the very day when Ham and Miranda were expected to arrive, by the last of the evening trains, as Dab Kinzer was coming back from the landing, where he had been for a look at the "Swallow," to be sure she was all right for her owner's eyes, that a very disreputable specimen of a worthless man stopped at Mrs. Kinzer's to beg something to eat, and then sauntered away down the road.

It was a little past the middle of the afternoon, and even so mean-looking, dirty a tramp as that had a perfect right to be walking along then and there. The sunshine and the fresh salt air from the bay were as much his as anybody's, and so was the water in the bay, and no one in all that region of country stood more in need of water than he.

The vagabond took his right to the road, as he had taken his other right to beg his dinner, until, half-way down to the landing, he was met by an opportunity to do more begging.

"Give a poor feller suthin," he impudently drawled, as he stared straight into the sweet, fresh face of Annie Foster. Annie had been out for only a short walk, but she happened to have her pocket-book with her, and she thoughtlessly drew it out, meaning to give the scamp a trifle, if only to get rid of him.

"Only a dime, Miss," whined the tramp, as he shut his dirty hand over Annie's gift. "Come, now, make it a dollar, my beauty. I'll call it all square for a dollar."

The whine grew louder as he spoke, and the wheedling grin upon his disgusting face changed into an expression so menacing that Annie drew back with a shudder, and was about to return her little portemonnaie to her pocket.

"No you don't, honey!"

The words were uttered in a hoarse and husky voice, and were accompanied by a sudden grip of poor Annie's arm with one hand, while with the other he snatched greedily at the morocco case.

Did she scream? How could she help it? Or what else could she have done under the circumstances? She screamed vigorously, whether she would or no, and at the same moment dropped her pocket-book in the grass beside the path, so that it momentarily escaped the vagabond's clutches.

"Shut up, will you!" and other angry and evil words, accompanied with more than one vicious threat, followed thick and fast, as Annie struggled to free herself, while her assailant peered hungrily around after the missing prize.

It is not at all likely he would have attempted anything so bold as that in broad daylight if he had not been drinking too freely, and the very evil "spirit" which had prompted him to his rascality unfitted him for its immediate consequences. These latter, in the shape of Dab Kinzer and the lower "joint" of a stout fishing-rod, had been bounding along up the road from the landing at a tremendous rate for nearly half a minute.

A boy of fifteen assailing a full-grown ruffian?

Why not? Age hardly counts in such a matter, and then it is not every boy of even his "growth" that could have brought muscles like those of Dab Kinzer to the swing he gave that four feet length of seasoned ironwood.

Annie saw him coming, but her assailant did not until it was too late for anything but to turn and receive that first hit in front instead of behind. It would have knocked over almost anybody, and the tramp measured his length on the ground, while Dabney plied the rod on him with all the energy he was master of.

"Oh, don't, Dabney, don't; you'll kill him!" pleaded Annie.

"I wouldn't want to do that," said Dabney, but he added, to the tramp: "Now you'd better get up and run for it. If you are caught around here again it'll be the worse for you."

The vagabond staggered to his feet, looking savagely enough at Dab, but the latter seemed so very ready to put in another hit with that terrible cudgel, and the whole situation was so unpleasantly suggestive of further difficulty, that the youngster's advice was taken without a word.

"Here it is. I've found my pocket-book," said Annie, as her enemy made the best of his way off.

"He did not hurt you?"

"No, he only scared me, except that I s'pose my arm will be black and blue where he caught it. Thank you ever so much, Dabney! You're a brave boy. Why, he's almost twice your size."

"Yes, but the butt end of my rod is twice as hard as his head," replied Dabney. "I was almost afraid to strike him with it, because I might have broken his skull."

"You didn't even break your rod."

"No, and now I must run back for the other pieces and the tip. I dropped them in the road."

"Please, Dabney, see me home first," said Annie. "I know it's foolish and there isn't a bit of danger, but I must confess to being rather frightened."

Dab Kinzer was a little the proudest boy on Long Island, as he marched along in compliance with her request. He went no further than the gate, to be sure, and then returned for the rest of his rod, but, before he got home, Keziah hurried back from a call on Mrs. Foster, bringing a tremendous account of Dab's heroism, and then his own pride was a mere drop in the bucket compared to that of his mother.

"Dabney is growing wonderfully," she remarked to Samantha. "He'll be a man before any of us know it."

If Dabney had been a man, however, or if Ham Morris or Mr. Foster had been at home, the matter would not have been permitted to drop there. That tramp ought to have been followed, arrested and shut up where his vicious propensities could have been restrained for a while. As it was, after hurrying on for a short distance and making sure that he was not pursued, he sprang over the fence and sneaked into the nearest clump of bushes. From this safe covert he watched Dab Kinzer's return after the lighter joints of his rod, and then even dared to crouch along the fence until he saw which house his young conqueror went into.

"That's where he lives, is it?" exclaimed the tramp, with a scowl of the most ferocious vengeance. "Well, they'll have fun before bed-time, or I'll know the reason why."

The bushes were a good enough hiding-place for the time, and he went back to them with the air and manner of a man whose mind is made up to something.

Ford Foster and Frank Harley were absent in the city that day, with Mr. Foster, attending to some affairs of Frank's, and when the three came home and learned what had happened, they were all on the point of rushing over to the Morris house to thank Dab, but Mrs. Foster interposed.

"I don't think I would. To-morrow will do as well, and you know they're expecting Mr. and Mrs. Morris this evening."

It was harder for the boys than for Mr. Foster, that waiting, and they lingered near the north fence two hours later, even though they knew that the whole Kinzer family were down at the railway station waiting for Ham and Miranda.

There was a good deal of patience to be exercised, for that train was behind time, and the darkness of a moonless and somewhat cloudy night had settled over the village and the outlying farms long before the engine puffed its way in front of the station platform. Just at that moment, Ford Foster exclaimed, "What's that smell?"

"It's like burning hay," replied Frank.

"Where can it come from, I'd like to know? We haven't had a light out at our barn."

"Light?" exclaimed Frank. "Just look yonder!"

"Why, it's that old barn away beyond the Morris and Kinzer house. Somebody must have set it on fire. Hullo! I thought I saw a man running. Come on, Frank."

There was indeed a man running just then, but they did not see him, for he was already very nearly across the field, hidden by the darkness. He had known how to light a fire that would smolder long enough for him to get away. There had been no sort of lingering at the railway station, for Ham and Miranda were as anxious to get at the "surprise" they were told was waiting for them as their friends were to have them come to it. Before they were half-way home, however, the growing light ahead of them attracted their attention, and then they began to hear the vigorous shouts of "Fire" from the throats of the two boys, now re-enforced by Mr. Foster himself. Dabney was driving the ponies, and they had to go pretty fast for the rest of that short run.

"Surprise!" exclaimed Ham. "I should say it was. Did you light it before you started, Dabney?"

"Don't joke, Hamilton," remarked Mrs. Kinzer. "It may be a very serious affair for all of us. But I can't understand how that barn could have caught fire."



CHAPTER XVI.

The Morris farm, as has been said, was a pretty large one, and the same tendency on the part of the owners which had made them set up so very extensive and barn-like a house, had led them, from time to time, to provide the most liberal sort of storage for their crops. The first barn they had ever built, which was now the oldest and the furthest from the stables and the residence, was a pretty large one. It was now in a somewhat dilapidated condition, to be sure, and bowed a little northerly by the weight of years which rested on it, but it had still some hope of future usefulness, if it had not been for that tramp and his box of matches.

"There isn't a bit of use in trying to save it," exclaimed Ham, as they were whirled in through the wide gate. "It's gone."

"But," said Mrs. Kinzer, "we can save the other barns, perhaps. Look at the cinders on the long stable. If we could only keep them off somehow."

"We can do it, Ham!" exclaimed Dab, very earnestly. "Mother, will you send me out a broom and a rope, while Ham and I set up the ladder?"

"You're the boy for me," said Ham. "I guess I know what you're up to."

The ladder was one the house painters had been using, and was a pretty heavy one, but it was quickly set up against the largest and most valuable of the barns, and the one, too, which was nearest and most exposed to the burning building and its flying cinders. The rope was on hand, and the broom, by the time the ladder was in position.

"Ford," said Dab, "you and Frank help the girls bring water till the men from the village get here. There's plenty of pails. Now, Ham, I'm ready."

Up they went, and were quickly astride the ridge of the roof. It would have been perilous work for any man to have ventured further unassisted, but Dab tied one end of the rope firmly around his waist, Ham Morris tied himself to the other, and then Dab could slip down the steep roof in any direction without fear of falling.

But the broom? As useful as a small engine. The flying cinders, burning hay or wood, as they alighted on the sun-dried shingles of the roof, needed to be swept off as rapidly as they fell. Here and there the flames had so good a start that the broom alone would have been insufficient, and there the fast-arriving pails of water came into capital play. They had to be used economically, of course, but they did the work as effectually as if they had been the streams of a steam fire-engine. Hard work for Ham and Dab, and now and then the strength and weight and agility of the former were put to pretty severe tests, as Dab danced around under the scorching heat or slipped flat upon the sloping roof.

There were scores and scores of people from the village, now, arriving every moment, and Mrs. Kinzer had all she could do to keep them from "rescuing" every atom of her furniture from the house and piling it up in the road.

"Wait," she said, quietly. "If Ham and Dab save the long barn, the fire wont spread any further. The old barn wont be any loss to speak of, anyhow."

Fiercely as the dry old barn burned, it used itself up all the quicker on that account, and it was less than thirty minutes from the time Ham and Dabney got at work before roof and rafters fell in and the worst of the danger was over. The men and boys from the village were eager enough to do any thing that now remained to be done, but a large share of this was confined to standing around and watching the "bonfire" burn down to a harmless heap of badly smelling ashes. As soon, however, as they were no more wanted on the roof, the two volunteer "firemen" came down, and Ham Morris's first word on reaching the ground was:

"Dab, my boy, how you've grown!"

Not a tenth of an inch, in mere stature, and yet Ham was correct about it. There was plenty of light, just then, moon or no moon, and Ham's eyes were very busy for a minute. He noted the improvements in the fences, sheds, barns, the blinds on the house, the paint, a host of small things that had changed for the better, and then he simply said: "Come on, Dab," and led the way into the house. Her mother and sisters had already given Miranda a hurried look at what they had done, but Ham was not the man to do anything in haste. Deliberately and silently he walked from room to room and from cellar to garret, hardly seeming to hear the frequent comments of his enthusiastic young wife. That he did hear, however, was manifest, for at last he asked:

"Dab, I've seen all the other rooms, where's yours?"

"I'm going to let you and Miranda have my room," said Dab. "I don't think I shall board here long."

"I don't think you will, either," said Ham, emphatically. "You're going away to boarding-school. Miranda, is there any reason why Dabney can't have the south-west room, upstairs, with the bay-window?"

That room had been Samantha's choice, and she looked at Dab reproachfully, but Miranda replied:

"No, indeed; not if you wish him to have it."

"Now, Ham," said Dabney, "I'm not big enough to fit that room. Give me one nearer my size. That's a little loose for even Sam, and she can't take any tucks in it!"

Samantha's look changed to one of gratitude, and she did not notice the detested nickname.

"Well, then," said Ham, "we'll see about it. You can sleep in the spare chamber to-night. Mother Kinzer, I couldn't say enough about this house business if I talked all night. It must have cost you a deal of money. I couldn't have dared to ask it. I guess you'd better kiss me again."

Curious thing it was that came next. One that nobody could have reckoned on. Mrs. Kinzer—good soul—had set her heart on having Ham's house and Miranda's "ready for them" on their return, and now Ham seemed to be so pleased about it she actually began to cry. She said, too: "I'm so sorry about the barn!" But Ham only laughed in his quiet way as he kissed his portly mother-in-law, and said:

"Come, mother Kinzer, you didn't set it afire. Can't Miranda and I have some supper? Dab must be hungry, after all that roof-sweeping."

There had been a sharp strain on the nerves of all of them that day and evening, and they were glad enough to gather around the tea-table, while what was left of the old barn smoldered away, with the village boys on guard. Once or twice Ham or Dab went out to make sure all was right, but there was no danger, unless a high wind should come.

By this time the whole village was aware of Dabney's adventure with the tramp, and it was well for that individual that he had walked fast and far before suspicion settled on him, for men went out to seek for him on foot and on horseback.

"He's a splendid fellow, anyway."

Odd, was it not, but Annie Foster and Jenny Walters were half a mile apart when they both said that very thing, just before the clock in the village church hammered out the news that it was ten and bed-time. They were not speaking of the tramp.

It was long after that, however, before the lights were out in all the rooms of the Morris mansion.



CHAPTER XVII.

Sleep?

One of the most excellent things in all the world, and very few people get too much of it nowadays.

As for Dabney Kinzer, he had done his sleeping as regularly and faithfully as even his eating, up to that very night after Ham Morris came home to find the big barn afire. There had been a few, a very few exceptions. There were the nights when he was expecting to go duck-shooting before daylight, and waked up at midnight with a strong conviction that he was already too late about starting. There were perhaps a dozen or so of "eeling" expeditions which had kept him out late enough for a full basket and a proper scolding. There, too, was the night when he had stood so steadily by the tiller of the "Swallow," while she danced through the dark across the rough waves of the Atlantic.

But on the whole, Dab Kinzer had been a good sleeper all his life till then. Once in bed, and there had been an end of all wakefulness.

On that particular night, for the first time, sleep refused to come, late as was the hour when the family circle broke up. It could not have been the excitement of Ham's and Miranda's return. He'd have gotten over that by this time. No more could it have been the fire, though the smell of the smoldering hay came in pretty strongly, at times, through the wide-open windows. If any one patch of that great roomy bed was better made up for sleeping than the rest of it, Dab would surely have found the spot, for he tumbled and rolled all over it in his restlessness. Some fields on a farm will "grow" better wheat than others, but no part of the bed seemed to grow any sleep. At last Dab got wearily up and took a chair by the window. The night was dark, but the stars were shining, and every now and then the wind would make a shovel of itself and toss up the hot ashes the fire had left, sending a dull red glare around on the house and barns for a moment, and flooding all the neighborhood with a stronger smell of burnt hay.

"If you're going to burn hay," soliloquized Dab, "it wont do to take a barn for a stove. Not that kind of a barn. But what did Ham Morris mean by saying I was to go to boarding-school? That's what I'd like to know."

The secret was out.

He had kept remarkably still, for him, all the evening, and had not asked a question; but if his brains were ever to work over his books as they had over Ham's remark, his future chances for sound sleep were all gone. It had come upon him so suddenly, the very thing he had been wishing for during all those walks and talks and lessons of all sorts with Ford Foster and Frank Harley ever since the cruise of the "Swallow."

It was a wonderful idea, and Dab had his doubts as to the way his mother would take to it when it should be brought seriously before her. Little he guessed the truth. Ham's remark had found other ears as well as Dabney's, and there were reasons, therefore, why good Mrs. Kinzer was sitting by the window of her own room, at that very moment, as little inclined to sleep as was the boy she was thinking of. So proud of him, too, she was, and so full of bright, motherly thoughts of the man he would make "one of these days, when he gets his growth."

There must have been a good deal of sympathy between Dab and his mother, for, by and by, just as she began to feel drowsy and muttered, "Well, well, we'll have a talk about it to-morrow," Dab found himself nodding against the window-frame, and slowly rose from his chair, remarking:

"Guess I might as well finish that dream in bed. If I'd tumbled out o' the window I'd have lit among Mirandy's rose-bushes. They've got their thorns all on at this time o' night."

It was necessary for them both to sleep hard after that, for more than half the night was gone and they were to be up early. So indeed they were; but what surprised Mrs. Kinzer when she went into the kitchen was to find Miranda there before her.

"You here, my dear? That's right. I'll take a look at the milk-room. Where's Ham?"

"Out among the stock. Dab's just gone to him."

Curious things people will do at times. Miranda had put down the coffee-pot on the range. There was not a single one of the farm "help" around, male or female, and there stood the blooming young bride, with her back toward her mother, and staring out through the open door. And then Mrs. Kinzer slipped forward and put her arms around her daughter's neck.

Well, it was very early in the morning for those two women to stand there and cry; but it seemed to do them good, and Miranda remarked, at last, as she kissed Mrs. Kinzer: "O mother, it is all so good and beautiful, and I'm so happy."

And then they both laughed in a subdued and quiet way, and Miranda picked up the coffee-pot while her mother walked away into the milk-room.

Such cream as there seemed to be on all the pans that morning!

As for Ham Morris, his first visit, on leaving the house, had been to the ashes of the old barn, as a matter of course.

"Not much of a loss," he said to himself; "but it might have been but for Dab. There's the making of a man in him. Wonder if he'd get enough to eat if we sent him up yonder. On the whole, I think he would. If he didn't, I don't believe it would be his fault. He's got to go, and his mother'll agree, I know. Talk about mothers-in-law. If one of 'em's worth as much as she is, I'd like to have a dozen. Don't know, though. I'm afraid the rest would have to take back seats while Mrs. Kinzer was in the house."

Very likely Ham was right; but just then he heard the voice of Dab Kinzer behind him.

"I say, Ham, when you've looked at the other things I want to show you the 'Swallow.' I haven't hurt her a bit, and her new grapnel's worth three of the old one."

"All right, Dab. I think I'd like a sniff of the water. Come on. There's nothing else like that smell of the shore with the tide half out."

No more there is, and there have been sea-shore men, many of them, who had wandered away into the interior of the country, hundreds and hundreds of long miles, and settled there, and even got rich and old there, and yet who have come all the way back again just to get another smell of the salt marshes and the sea breeze and the outgoing tide.

Ham actually took a little boat and went on board the "Swallow" when they reached the landing, and Dab kept close by him.

"She's all right, Ham. But what are you casting loose for?"

"Dab, they wont all be ready for breakfast in two hours. The stock and things can go. The men 'll 'tend to 'em. Just haul on that sheet a bit. Now the jib. Look out for the boom. There. The wind's a little ahead, but it isn't bad. Ah!"

The last word came out in a great sigh of relief, and was followed by a chuckle which seemed to gurgle up all the way from Ham's boots.

"This is better than railroading," he said to Dabney, as they tacked into the long stretch where the inlet widened toward the bay. "No pounding or jarring here. Talk of your fashionable watering-places! Why, Dab, there aint anything else in the world prettier than that reach of water and the sand island with the ocean beyond it. There's some ducks and some gulls. Why, Dab, do you see that? There's a porpoise inside the bar."

It was as clear as daylight that Ham Morris felt himself "at home" again, and that his brief experience of the outside world had by no means lessened his affection for the place he was born in. If the entire truth could have been known, it would have been found that he felt his heart warm toward the whole coast and all its inhabitants, including the clams. And yet it was remarkable how many of the latter were mere empty shells when Ham finished his breakfast that morning. He preferred them roasted, and his mother-in-law had not forgotten that trait in his character.

Once or twice in the course of the sail Dabney found himself on the point of saying something about boarding-schools, but each time his friend suddenly broke away to discuss other topics, such as blue-fish, porpoises, crabs, or the sailing qualities of the "Swallow," and Dab dimly felt it would be better to wait till another time. So he waited.

And then, as they sailed up the inlet, very happy and very hungry, he suddenly exclaimed: "Ham, do you see that? How could they have guessed where we had gone? There's the whole tribe, and the boys are with 'em, and Annie."

"What boys and Annie?"

"Oh, Ford Foster and Frank Harley. Annie is Ford's sister."

"What's become of Jenny?"

"You mean my boat? Why, there she is, hitched a little out, there by the landing."

And Dabney did not seem to guess the meaning of Ham's queer, quizzical smile.



CHAPTER XVIII.

There was a sort of council at the breakfast table of the Foster family that morning, and Ford and Annie found themselves "voted down."

"Annie, my dear," said Mrs. Foster, in a gentle but decided way, "I'm sure your aunt Maria, if not your uncle, must feel hurt about your coming away so suddenly. If we invite Joe and Foster to visit us, it will make it all right."

"Yes!" sharply exclaimed Mr. Foster. "We must have them come. They'll behave themselves here. I'll write to their father; you write to Maria."

"They're her own boys, you know," added Mrs Foster, soothingly.

"Well, mother," said Annie, "if it must be. But I'm sure they'll make us all very uncomfortable."

"I can stand 'em for a week or so," said Ford, with the air of a man who can do or bear more than most people. "I'll get Dab Kinzer to help me entertain them."

"Excellent," said Mr. Foster, "and I hope they will be civil to him."

"To Dabney?" asked Annie.

"Fuz and Joe civil to Dab Kinzer?" exclaimed Ford.

"Certainly, I hope so."

"Father," said Ford, "may I say just what I was thinking?"

"Speak it right out."

"Well, I was thinking what a good time Fuz and Joe would be likely to have trying to get ahead of Dab Kinzer."

Annie looked at her brother and nodded, and there was a bit of a twinkle in the eyes of the lawyer himself, but he only remarked:

"Well, you must be neighborly. I don't believe the Hart boys know much about the sea-shore."

"Dab and Frank and I will try and educate them."

Annie thought of the ink and her box of ruined cuffs and collars while her brother was speaking. Could it be that Ford meant a good deal more than he was saying? At all events she fully agreed with him on the Dab Kinzer question. That was one council, and it was of peace or war according as events and the Hart boys themselves should determine.

At the same hour, however, matters of even greater importance were coming to a decision around the well-filled breakfast-table in the Morris mansion. Ham had given a pretty full account of his visit to Grantley, including his dinner at Mrs. Myers', and all he had learned of the academy.

"It seems like spending a great deal of money," began Mrs. Kinzer, when Ham at last paused for breath, but he caught her up at once with, "I know you've been paying out a great deal, Mother Kinzer, but Dab must go if I pay—"

"You pay, indeed, for my boy! I'd like to see myself. Now I've found out what he is, I mean he shall have every advantage, if this Grantley's the right place."

"Mother," exclaimed Samantha, "it's the very place Mr. Foster is to send Ford to, and Frank Harley."

"Exactly," said Ham. "Mr. Hart spoke of a Mr. Foster,—his brother-in-law,—a lawyer."

"Why," said Keziah, "he's living in our old house now! Ford Foster is Dab's greatest crony."

"Yes, I heard about it last night, but I hadn't put the two together," said Ham. "Do you really mean Dab is to go?"

"Of course," said Mrs. Kinzer.

"Well, if that isn't doing it easy. Do you know it's about the nicest thing since I got here?"

"Except the barn afire," said Dabney, unable to keep still any longer. "Mother, may I stand on my head a while?"

"You'll need all the head you've got," said Ham. "You wont have much time to get ready."

"Books enough after he gets there," exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer. "I'll risk Dabney."

"And they'll make him give up all his slang," added Samantha.

"Yes, Sam, when I come back I'll talk nothing but Greek and Latin. I'm getting French now from Ford, and Hindoo from Frank Harley. Then I know English and slang and Long Islandish. Think of one man with seven first-rate languages."

But Dabney found himself unable to sit still, even at the breakfast-table. Not that he got up hungry, for he had done his duty by Miranda's cookery, but the house itself seemed too small to hold him, with all his new prospects swelling so within him. Perhaps, too, the rest of the family felt better able to discuss the important subject before them after Dab had taken himself into the open air.

"It beats dreaming all hollow," said the latter to himself, as he stood, with his hands in his pockets, half-way down toward the gate between the two farms. "Now I'll see what can be done about that other matter."

Two plans in one head, and so young a head as that? Yes, and it spoke very well for Dab's heart, as well as his brains, that plan number two was not a selfish one. The substance of it came out in the first five minutes of the talk he had with Ford and Frank, on the other side of the gate.

"Ford, you know there's twenty dollars left of the money the Frenchman paid us for the blue-fish."

"Well, what of it? Isn't it yours?"

"One share's mine, the rest yours and Dick's."

"He needs it more'n I do."

"Ford, did you know Dick was real bright?"

"'Cute little chap as I ever saw. Why?"

"Well, he ought to go to school."

"Why don't he go?"

"He does, except in summer. He might go to the academy if they'd take him and he had money enough."

"What academy?"

"Why, Grantley, of course. I'm going, and so are you and Frank. Why shouldn't Dick go?"

"You're going? Hurrah for that! Why didn't you say so before?"

"Wasn't sure till this morning. You fellows'll be a long way ahead of me, but I mean to catch up."

For a few minutes poor Dick was lost sight of in a storm of talk, but Dab came back to him with:

"Dick's folks are dreadful poor, but we might raise it. Twenty dollars to begin with—"

"I've ten dollars laid up, and I know mother'll say pass it right in," exclaimed Ford.

It was hardly likely Mrs. Foster would express her assent precisely in that way, but Frank added:

"I think I can promise five."

"I mean to speak to Ham Morris and mother about it," said Dab. "All I wanted was to fix it about the twenty to start on."

"Frank," shouted Ford, "let's go right in and see our crowd."

Ford was evidently excited, and it was hardly five minutes later when he wound up his story with:

"Father, may I contribute my ten dollars to the Richard Lee Education Fund?"

"Of course, but he will need a good deal more than you boys can raise."

"Why, father, the advertisement says half a year for a hundred and fifty. He can board for less than we can. Perhaps Mrs. Myers would let him work out a part of it."

"I can spare as much as Ford can," said Annie.

"Do you leave me out entirely?" asked her mother, with a smile that was even sweeter than usual. As for sharp-eyed lawyer Foster, he had been hemming and coughing in an odd sort of way for a moment, and he had said, "I declare," several times, but he now remarked, somewhat more to the purpose: "I don't believe in giving any man a better education than he will ever know what to do with, but then, this Dick Lee, and you boys,—well, see what you can do, but no one must be allowed to contribute outside of the Foster and Kinzer families and Frank. As for the rest, hem,—ah, I think I'll say there wont be any difficulty."

"You, father?"

"Why not, Annie? Do you s'pose I'm going to be beaten by a mere country boy like Dab Kinzer?"

"Father," said Ford, "if you'd seen how Dick behaved, that night, out there on the ocean, in the 'Swallow!'"

"Just as well, just as well, my son!"

"Hurrah!" shouted Ford, "then it's all right, and Dick Lee'll have a fair shake in the world."

"A what, my son?" exclaimed his mother.

"I didn't mean to talk slang, mother, I only meant,—well, you know how dreadfully black he is, but then he can steer a boat tip-top, and he's splendid for crabs and blue-fish, and Dab says he's a good scholar, too."

"Dab's a very good boy," said Mrs. Foster, "but your friend Dick will need an outfit, I imagine. Clothes and almost everything. I must see Mrs. Kinzer about it."

Meantime Dick Lee's part in the matter had been taken for granted all around. An hour later, however, Mrs. Kinzer's first reply to her son, after a calculation on his part which made it almost seem as if Dick would make money by going to Grantley, was: "What if Mrs. Lee says she can't spare him?"

Dab's countenance fell. He knew Mrs. Lee, but he had not thought so far as that.

"Well, Dabney, if we can make the other arrangements, I'll see her about it."

Ham Morris had been exchanging remarkable winks with Miranda and Samantha, and now gravely suggested: "May be the academy authorities will refuse to take him."

"They had a blacker boy than he is there last year, Ford says."

"Now, Dab," exclaimed Ham.

"Well, I know he's pretty black, but it don't come off."

"Mother," said Samantha, "Mrs. Foster and Annie are coming through the gate."

Dab just waited long enough, after that, to learn the news concerning the "Richard Lee Education Fund," and Mr. Foster's offer, and then he was off toward the shore. He knew very well in which direction to go, for, half-way to the landing, he met Dick coming up the road with a basket of eels on his arm.

"Dick, I'm going to boarding-school, at an academy."

"Cad'my? Whar?"

"Up in New England. They call it Grantley Academy. Where Ford and Frank are going."

"Dat spiles it all," exclaimed Dick, ruefully. "Now I's got to fish wid fellers 'at don't know nuffin."

"No you wont. You're going with us. It's all fixed, money and all."

Dick would never have thought of questioning a statement made by "Captain Kinzer," but the rueful expression deepened on his face, the basket of eels dropped heavily on the grass, the tough, black fingers twisted nervously together for a moment, and then he sat mournfully down beside the basket.

"It aint no use, Dab."

"No use? Why not?"

"I aint a w'ite boy."

"What of it? Don't you learn well enough over at the school?"

"More dar like me. Wot'd I do in a place whar all de res' was w'ite?"

"Well as anybody."

"Wot'll my mudder say, w'en she gits de news? You isn't a jokin', is you, Dab Kinzer?"

"Joking? I guess not."

"You's lit on me powerful sudden, 'bout dis. Yonder's Ford an' Frank a-comin'. Don't tell 'em, not jist yet."

"They know all about it. They helped raise the money."

"Did dey? Well, 'taint no use. All I's good for is eels and crabs and clams and sech. Har dey come. Oh, my!"

But Ford and Frank brought a fresh gust of enthusiasm with them, and they had Dick and his eels up from the grass in short order. "We must see Mrs. Lee right away," said Ford. "It would never do to let Dick tell her."



"Guess dat's so," said Dick.

Quite an embassy they made, those four boys, with Dab Kinzer for spokesman, and Dick half crouching behind him. Mrs. Lee listened with open mouth while Dab unfolded his plan, but when he had finished she shut her lips firmly together. They were not very thin and not at all used to being shut, and in another instant they opened again.

"Sho! De boy! Is dat you, Dick? Dat's wot comes of dressin' on him up. How's he goin' to git clo'es? Wot's he got to do wid de 'cad'my, anyhow? Wot am I to do, yer, all alone, arter he's gone, I'd like to know? Who's goin' to run err'nds an' do de choahs? Wot's de use ob bringin' up a boy 'n' den hab 'im go trapesin' off to de 'cad'my? Wot good 'll it do 'im?"

"I tole yer so, Dab," groaned poor Dick. "It aint no use. I 'most wish I was a eel."

Dab was on the point of opening a whole broadside of eloquence when Ford Foster pinched his arm and whispered: "Your mother's coming, and our Annie's with her."

"Then let's clear out. She's worth a ten-acre lot full of us. Come on, boys."

If Mrs. Lee was surprised by their very sudden retreat, she need not have been after she learned the cause of it. She stood in wholesome awe of Mrs. Kinzer, and a "brush" with the portly widow, re-enforced by the sweet face of Annie Foster, was a pretty serious matter. Still, she did not hesitate about beginning the skirmish, for her tongue was already a bit loosened.

"Wot's dis yer, Mrs. Kinzer, 'bout sendin' away my Dick to a furrin 'cad'my? Isn't he most nigh nuff sp'iled a'ready?"

"Oh, it's all arranged, nicely. Miss Foster and I only came over to see what we could do about getting his clothes ready. He must have things warm and nice, for the winters are cold up there."

"I hasn't said he might go,—Dick, put down dem eels,—an' he hasn't said he'd go,—Dick, take off your hat,—an' his father—"

"Now, Glorianna," interrupted Mrs. Kinzer, calling Dick's mother by her first name, "I've known you these forty years, and do you s'pose I'm going to argue about it? Just tell us what Dick'll need, and don't let's have any nonsense. The money's all provided. How do you know what'll become of him? He may be governor yet—"

"He mought preach."

That idea had suddenly dawned upon the perplexed mind of Mrs. Lee, and Dick's fate was settled. She was prouder than ever of her boy, and, truth to tell, her opposition was only what Mrs. Kinzer had considered it, a piece of unaccountable "nonsense," to be brushed away by such a hand as the widow's.



CHAPTER XIX.

That was a great day for the boys, but, before the close of it, Ford Foster had told his friends the news that Joe Hart and his brother Fuz had been invited to visit with him.

"Will they come?" asked Dab.

"Certainly. That kind of boy always comes. Nobody wants to keep him from coming."

"When do you look for them?"

"Right away. Vacation's most gone, you know."

"Wont they be ashamed to meet your sister!"

"Not a bit. They'll try their tricks even after they get here."

"All right. We'll help 'em all we know how. But, boys, I tell you what we must try for."

"What's that?"

"One grand, good sailing party, in the 'Swallow,' before they get here."

"Hurrah for that! Annie was wishing for one only yesterday."

"We'll have all of your folks and all of ours. The 'Swallow' 's plenty big enough."

"Mother wouldn't go and father can't, just now. He's trying a case. But there's Annie and Frank and me—"

"And my mother and Ham and Miranda and our girls. Ham'll go, sure. Then we must take Dick Lee along. It'd make him sick if we didn't."

"Of course. And aint I glad about him? Could we get ready and go to-morrow?"

"Guess not so quick as that. We might by the day after, if the weather's all right."

Exactly. There is always a large sized "if" to be put in where anything depends on the weather. Mrs. Kinzer took the matter up with enthusiasm, and so did the girls, Miranda included, and Ford Foster was right about his own part of the company.

But the weather!

It looked well enough to unpracticed eyes, but Ham Morris shook his head and went to consult his fishermen friends. Every human barometer among them warned him to wait a day or so.

"Such warm, nice weather," remonstrated Ford Foster, "and there isn't any wind to speak of."

"There's too much of it coming," was Ham's response, and there was no help for it. Not even when the mail brought word from "Aunt Maria" that her two boys would arrive in a day or so.

"Our last chance is gone, Annie," said Ford, when the news came.

"O, mother, what shall we do?"

"Have your sail, just the same, and invite your cousins."

"But the Kinzers—"

"Why, Annie! Mrs. Kinzer will not think of neglecting them. She's as kind as kind can be."

"And we are to pay her with Joe and Fuz," said Ford. "Well, I wish Ham Morris's storm would come along."

He only had to wait till next day for it, and he was quite contented to be on shore while it lasted. There was no use in laughing at the prophecies of the fishermen after it began to blow. Still, it was not a long one, and Ham Morris remarked: "This is only an outside edge of it. It's a good deal worse at sea. Glad we're not out in it."

Ford Foster thought the worst of it was when the afternoon train came in, and he had to show a pair of tired, moist and altogether unpleasant cousins to the room set apart for them. Just after tea a note came over from Mrs. Kinzer, asking the Hart boys to join the yachting party next morning.

"The storm may not be over," growled Ford.

"Oh," said Annie, "Mrs. Kinzer adds that the weather will surely be fine after such a blow, and the bay will be quite safe and smooth."

"Does she know the clerk of the weather," asked Joe Hart.

"Got one of her own," said Ford.

Fuz Hart laughed but said nothing. Both he and his brother felt a little "strange" as yet, and were almost inclined to try and behave themselves.

When morning came, however, sea and earth and sky seemed to be the better for what they had just been through. The grass and trees were greener and the bay seemed bluer, while the few clouds visible in the sky were very white and clean, as if all the storms had been washed out of them. Not a single thing went wrong in Mrs. Kinzer's management of the "setting out" of the party, and that was half the day now to begin with. Ford had some trouble in getting Joe and Fuz up so very early, but an intimation that "Ham Morris wouldn't wait five minutes for the Queen of England, or even me," was sufficient to rouse them.

"Joe," whispered Fuz, after they got on board, "are we to be gone a week?"

"Why? What's up?"

"Such piles of provisions as they've stowed away in that kennel!"

The bit of a water-tight cabin under the half-deck, at which Fuz pointed, was pretty well filled, beyond a doubt, but Mrs. Kinzer knew what she was about. She had provided lunch for most of that party before, and the effect of the sea-air was also to be taken into account.

"Dab," said Ford Foster, "you've forgotten to unhitch the 'Jenny.' Here she is, towing astern."

"That's all right. We may need her. She's too heavy to take on board."

A careful fellow was Mr. Hamilton Morris, and he knew very well the value of a row-boat to a picnic party. As for Joe and Fuz they were compelled to overcome a strong inclination to cast the boat loose. Such a joke it would have been, but Ham was in the way as long as he held the tiller.

The "Swallow" was "steady" enough to inspire even Annie Foster with a feeling of confidence, but Ford carefully explained to her the difference between slipping along over the little waves of the land-locked bay, and plunging into the great billows of the stormy Atlantic.

"I prefer this," said Annie.

"But I wouldn't have missed the other for anything," replied Ford. "Would you, Dick?"

Mr. Richard Lee had taken his full share in the work of starting, and had made himself singularly useful, but if all the rest had not been so busy they would have noticed his silence. Hardly a word had he uttered, that anybody could remember, and, now he was forced to say something, his mouth opened slowly, as if he had never tried to speak before and was not quite sure he knew how:

"No,-Mr.-Foster,-I-would-not-have-missed-that-trip-for-a-good-deal."

Every word by itself, and as different from Dick's ordinary talk as a cut stone is from a rough one. Ham Morris opened his eyes wide, and Ford puckered up his lips in a sort of a whistle, but Annie caught the meaning of it quicker than they did.

"Dick," she said, "are we to fish to-day?"

"May be,-but-that-depends-on-Mr.-Morris."

Every word slowly and carefully uttered, a good deal like a man counts over doubtful money, looking sharp for a counterfeit.

"Look here, Dick!" suddenly exclaimed Dab Kinzer, "I give it up. You can do it. But don't try to keep it up all day. Kill you, sure as anything, if you do."

"Did I say 'em all right, Cap'n Dab?" anxiously inquired Dick, with a happy look on his black, merry face.

"Every word," said Dab. "Well for you they were all short. Keep on practicing."

"I'll jest do dat, shuah!"

Practicing? Yes, that was it, and Dick himself joined heartily in the peal of laughter with which the success of his first attempt at "white folk's English" was received by the party. Dab explained that as soon as Dick found he was really to go to the academy he determined to teach his tongue new habits, and the whole company heartily approved, even while they joined Dab in advising him not to try too much at a time.

Plenty of talk and fun all around as the "Swallow" skimmed onward, and the long, low outlines of the narrow sand-island were rapidly becoming more distinct.

"Is that a light-house?" asked Annie of Dab.

"Yes, and there's a wrecking station close by."

"Men there all the while? Are there many wrecks on this coast?"

"Ever so many, and there used to be more of them. It was a bad place to run ashore, in those days. Almost as bad as Jersey."

"Why?"

"Because of the wreckers. The shore's bad enough, and the bar's a mean place to escape on, but the wreckers used to make it worse."

And Dab launched out into a slightly exaggerated description of the terrors of the Long Island coast in old times and new, and of the character of the men who were formerly the first to find out if anything or anybody had gone ashore.

"What a prize that French steamer would have been!" said Annie, "the one you took Frank Harley from."

"No, she wouldn't. Why, she wasn't wrecked at all. She only stuck her nose in the sand and lay still till the tugs pulled her off. That isn't a wreck. A wreck is where the ship is knocked to pieces and people are drowned, and all that sort of thing. Then the wreckers have a notion that everything that comes ashore belongs to them. Why, I've heard even some of our old fishermen—best kind of men, too—talk of how government has robbed 'em of their rights."