*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65037 ***

[Illustration]

 YOUNG
 FOLKS
 MAGAZINE

 VOLUME 1  NUMBER 2
 1902
 APRIL


 An ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY JOURNAL for BOYS & GIRLS

 The Penn Publishing Company Philadelphia




CONTENTS FOR APRIL


  FRONTISPIECE--Valley Forge--Washington and Lafayette             Page

  WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE (Serial)  W. Bert Foster           37
    Illustrated by F. A. Carter

  THE FRESHMAN BANQUET                      Harriet Wheeler          48
    Illustrated by H. M. Brock

  MR. NOBODY 51

  A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST (Serial)         Evelyn Raymond           52
    Illustrated by Ida Waugh

  APRIL--Selected from “In Memoriam”                                 61

  WOOD-FOLK TALK                            J. Allison Atwood        62

  LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS (Serial)            Elizabeth Lincoln Gould  64
    Illustrated by Ida Waugh

  APRIL LEAVES                              Julia McNair Wright      71

  WITH THE EDITOR                                                    72

  EVENT AND COMMENT                                                  73

  IN-DOORS (Parlor Magic, Paper II)         Ellis Stanyon            74

  THE OLD TRUNK (Puzzles)                                            76

  WITH THE PUBLISHER                                                 77


  YOUNG FOLKS MAGAZINE

  _An Illustrated Monthly Journal for Boys and Girls_

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  Copyright 1902 by The Penn Publishing Company.

[Illustration: VALLEY FORGE--WASHINGTON AND LAFAYETTE]




  Young Folks Magazine

  VOL. I APRIL 1902 No. 2




  WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE

  By W. Bert Foster


  CHAPTER III

  Black Sam


 SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

 The story opens in the year 1777, during one of the most critical
 periods of the Revolution. Hadley Morris, our hero, is in the employ
 of Jonas Benson, the host of the Three Oaks, a well known inn on the
 road between Philadelphia and New York. Like most of his neighbors,
 Hadley is an ardent sympathizer with the American cause. When,
 therefore, the bearer of dispatches, having been captured on his way
 to Philadelphia, gives Hadley the all-important packet to be forwarded
 to General Washington, the boy immediately makes his escape with it,
 in spite of the risk to his own life from the pursuing horsemen. In
 the darkness the fleeing boy meets a friendly teamster, Lafe Holdness,
 in reality a patriot spy and friend of Washington. At his suggestion
 the boy and his horse take safety in the low, covered wagon just as
 the closely pursuing horsemen come dashing up the road.

The covered wagon went creaking on until the officer, wheeling his big
steed directly across the road, halted the astonished team of draught
horses perforce.

“Who be yeou, Mister, an’ what d’ye want?” drawled the teamster, rising
in his seat and throwing the light of his lantern directly into the
colonel’s eyes, so that by no possibility he might see into the back
of the wagon. “There seems to be a slather o’ folks ridin’ this road
ter-night.”

“See you, sirrah!” exclaimed the colonel, riding close up to the
driver and scanning his smoothly-shaven, humorous face closely. “Has a
boy on horseback just passed you?”

“Wa-al, now, I couldn’t tell whether it was a boy ’r th’ old Nick
himself,” declared Holdness, with apparent sincerity; “but suthin’ went
by me as slick as er streak o’ greased lightnin’.”

“Sure he passed you?” repeated the British officer.

“Honest Injun!” returned Holdness, with perfect truth. “I didn’t ketch
much of a sight of him; but he went past. What’s goin’ on, anyway, sir?”

But Colonel Knowles, having considered that he had found out all that
was possible from the countryman, paid no attention to his question,
but turned to the dragoons who now thundered up. “He’s still ahead of
us, men!” he cried. “We must overtake him before he reaches the ferry--”

“Indeed, we must, Colonel,” interposed the sergeant in command of
the dragoons. “There will be a force of the enemy at the ferry, it’s
likely, and we must not be drawn into any skirmish. Those were my
orders, sir, before I started.”

“After him at once!” shouted the older officer. “I tell you, the boy
must be stopped. The papers he bears may be of the utmost importance.”

They were all off at a gallop the next instant, and the axles of the
heavy wagon began to creak again. “Them fellers seem toler’ble anxious
ter see you, Had,” drawled Holdness, turning half around in his seat.
“What yeou been doin’?”

Hadley related in a few words the excitement at the inn and his escape
from the barn on Black Molly. “And now I want to know what to do with
the papers, Lafe. Will you take ’em, and--”

“No, sir! I can’t do it. I’ve orders to perceed just as I am perceedin’
now, an’ nothin’ ain’t goin’ ter stop me.”

“But the papers may be of importance. The man said they were for
General Washington.”

“Then take ’em across the river an’ give ’em ter the Commander-in-Chief
yourself. That’s what yeou do, sonny!”

“Me go to General Washington?” cried Hadley. “What would Jonas say,
anyway?”

“Don’t yeou fret erbout Jonas. I’ll fix him as I go by. I can’t relieve
ye of any responsibility; the duty’s yourn--yeou do yer best with it.”

Hadley was silent for a time. “I’ll do it, Lafe!” he exclaimed,
finally. “But I don’t know what Uncle Ephraim will say when he hears of
it. He’ll think I’ve run away to join the army.”

“Don’t yeou worry erbout ol’ Miser Morris, Had. He’s as mean a Tory as
there is in New Jersey, ef he is your kin. I’ll stop right here an’ you
git the mare out.”

He pulled up his plodding horses, thus giving Hadley no further
opportunity for objection, and the youth leaped up and spoke to Black
Molly, who scrambled to her feet at once. She knew what was expected
of her, and she squeezed around and stood head to the rear of the big
wagon without any command from Hadley. The boy pulled up the curtain,
dropped out himself, and then spoke to the intelligent animal. Out
she leaped, he caught her bridle, and, while Holdness dropped the end
curtain again, the boy mounted the mare and was ready to start.

“Take the lower road,” Holdness advised again, “an’ try to git across
the river before midnight. When those dragoons find nobody at the ferry
they might take it inter their pesky heads s’arch along the river bank.
The Alwoods have got a bateau there--”

“I don’t believe I could trust them,” Hadley interrupted.

“I know. They’re pizen Tories--the hull on ’em. But there’s a
long-laiged boy there; what’s his name?”

“’Lonzo.”

“Ya-as. That’s him. Mebbe you c’d make him pole yer over.”

“’Lonzo don’t like me any too well,” Hadley returned, with a laugh.
“He wanted to work for Jonas, and Jonas wouldn’t have him, but took me
instead.”

“An’ good reason for it, too,” Holdness said. “Jonas didn’t want one o’
that nest o’ Tories spyin’ on everything that goes on up to the inn.
Wa-al, ye’ll hafter do what seems best ter ye when yeou git there, Had.
That’s all I kin tell yer erbout it. Ride quick, an’ find some way of
crossing as soon as possible.”

Hadley hurried on. Along the road were a few scattered dwellings,
mostly inhabited by farmers of more than suspected royalist tendencies.
In the house nearest the river lived a family named Alwood, the oldest
son of which was in a Tory regiment; the other boy, a youth of about
Hadley’s age, was one with whom our hero had come in contact more than
once.

Hadley and Lon Alwood had attended the same school previous to the
breaking out of the war, and for months before the massacre at
Lexington, in the Massachusetts colony, feeling had run high here in
Jersey. The school itself had finally been closed, owing to the divided
opinions of its supporters; and whereas Hadley had been prominent among
the boys opposed to King and Parliament, Lon was equally forward among
those on the other side. Many of their comrades, boys little older
than themselves, were in one or the other army now, and Hadley Morris
thought of this with some sadness as he rode on through the night. But
his thoughts were soon in another channel.

“I only hope I won’t run across Lon,” Hadley muttered, as Black Molly
clattered along. “I don’t just see how I am to pole that heavy flatboat
across the river alone, but I cannot call upon any of the Alwoods to
help me. Ah! there’s Sam.”

Not that Hadley saw the individual of whom he spoke ahead of him.
Indeed, he could not see a dozen feet before the mare’s nose. But there
had flashed into his mind the remembrance of the black man, who was
one of the few slaves in the neighborhood. Black Sam belonged to the
Alwoods, and, although an old man, he was still vigorous. He lived
alone in a little hut on the river bank, and it was near his cabin that
the Alwood’s bateau was usually chained. The old slave was a favorite
with all the boys, and Hadley Morris had reason to know that Sam was to
be trusted.

When the young dispatch bearer reached the river bank and the black
man’s hut, his mare was all of a lather and it was upwards of ten
o’clock. The Alwood house was several rods away, and, as was the case
with all the other farmhouses he had passed since crossing his uncle’s
estate, was wrapped in darkness. Nobody would travel these Jersey roads
by night, or remain up to such an hour, unless urgency commanded.

Hadley rolled off his mount and rapped smartly on the cabin door.

A long silence followed, then, to his joy, a voice from within called,
“Who’s dar?”

“It’s me--Had Morris. I want you,” whispered the boy.

“Want me!” exclaimed the astonished Sam. “Is dat sho’ ’nough you,
Moster Had? How come yo’ ’way down yere fr’m de T’ree Oaks? Whadjer
want?”

“I’ve got to get across the river--quick, Sam! I haven’t a minute to
lose.”

“Why don’ yo’ go up ter de ferry, Moster?” demanded the negro, still
behind the closed door.

“I can’t go there. The Britishers are there--and they’re after me!”

By this time the old negro had opened the door.

“Lawsey, Moster Had! It is sho’ ’nough you. How come yo’ ter git in
such er fix?”

“I can’t stop to tell you that, Sam.” Then he drew nearer and whispered
in the old man’s ear: “I’m going to headquarters. I’ve got dispatches
that must reach General Washington.”

With this the old slave’s interest seemed to awaken.

“Good! Ah’ll come right erlong, Moster Had--Ah’ll come right erlong.”

Sam went hurriedly down to the boat and unfastened the chain. Then,
both putting their shoulders to the gunwale, they shoved the craft down
the sloping beach into the water. Sam placed a wide plank from the
shore, and Hadley led Black Molly across and urged her into the boat.

Just as they were ready to shove off and the young courier was
congratulating himself on the safety of his project, there came a
startling interruption. A figure ran down to the landing from the
direction of the cabin, and, finding the boat already afloat, the
newcomer leaped aboard before Sam and Hadley could push away.

“You black limb! I’ve caught you this time. What are you gettin’ the
boat out for at this time o’ night?” demanded a wrathful voice which to
Hadley seemed familiar.

Black Sam, who stood beside him, and whom he could feel begin to shake,
whispered in his ear: “Dat ar’s Moster Lon--whadjer goin’ ter do?”


  CHAPTER IV

  MAKING AN ENEMY SERVE THE PATRIOT CAUSE

At any other time Hadley would not have been so disturbed at meeting
Lon Alwood, for, though they were not friends, he was scarcely afraid
of the Tory youth. But now, when he was in such haste and so much
depended upon his getting across the river in the quickest possible
time, the unexpected appearance of young Alwood unnerved him.

“Whadjer goin’ ter do, Moster Had?” whispered the frightened darkey.
“Sho’s yo’ bawn, Ah’ll be skinned alibe fur dis.”

“Who’s that with you, Sam?” demanded his young master. “You’re helping
some rebel across the river--I know your tricks. I tell you, when
father hears of this he’ll make you suffer for it!”

“It’s Had Morris,” said the young courier, before his companion had a
chance to answer. “You needn’t come any nearer Lon, to find out. But,
as long as you are aboard, you can pick up the other pole and help Sam.”

“Had Morris!” shouted the other boy in astonishment and wrath. “Do you
think I’m going to do what you say?”

“Take up your pole, Sam!” commanded Hadley, hastily. “The boat’s
swinging down stream. Quick now!”

He had heard a door shut somewhere near, and was quite sure that the
elder Alwood had heard the noise at the riverside and was coming to see
about it. Hadley stepped to where Lon stood in frozen amazement, and,
holding a pistol at a threatening angle, patted each of his enemy’s
side pockets and the breast of his shirt. Lon was without arms.

“Lon, you pick up that other pole and set to work, or I’ll shoot you!”
commanded the young American, sternly. “If you were in my shoes you’d
treat me just as I’m treating you. I’ve got to get across the river,
and nothing you can do will stop me. No you don’t!” Lon had half
turned, as though he contemplated leaping into the river. Hadley raised
the pistol menacingly. “Pick up that pole!” he commanded.

At that moment the voice of the elder Alwood came to their ears.

“Lon! Lon! Is that you out there? What air you and Sam doin’ with the
boat?”

“Keep on poling and save your wind!” commanded Hadley, threateningly,
still with the pistol at Lon’s side.

But the old gentleman’s wrath rose, and, believing that it was not his
son aboard the boat, he brought his old-fashioned squirrel rifle to
his shoulder. “Stop where you be!” he called, threateningly. “I ain’t
goin’ to let you scalawags run off with my property--not by a jugful!
Come back here with that boat or I’ll see if a charge of shot’ll reach
ye!”

“Don’t shoot, dad!” yelled Lon, in deadly fear of the old man’s gun.
“You’ll like enough shoot me instead of him. I can’t help it. He’s got
a pistol an’--”

“Who is it?” cried the elder Alwood. “Where’s Sam?”

“It’s Had Morris. He’s makin’ Sam and me take him across the river.”

“Is that his horse I see there?” demanded the wrathful farmer.

“Yes, dad. Shoot it!” shouted Lon.

“Don’t you do it, Mr. Alwood,” warned the dispatch bearer. “I’ve got
my pistol right against your son’s ribs, and when you fire your gun I
shall pull the trigger.”

“Don’t, dad!” yelled Lon. “Don’t shoot the horse.”

Hadley nearly choked over his captive’s sudden change of heart, and
even black Sam chuckled as he bent his body against the pole at the
other side of the boat. They were now well out from the shore and the
water was deepening. Suddenly, above the loudly expressed indignation
of Farmer Alwood, sounded the clash of accoutrements and the ring of
hoofs. A cavalcade was coming along the edge of the river from the
direction of the regular ferry.

“What is to do here, sirrah?” demanded a sharp voice, which Hadley knew
very well. It was the troop of dragoons with Colonel Knowles at their
head. They had not found him up the river, and, suspecting that he had
struck out for some other place of crossing, were scouring the bank of
the stream. Alwood’s boat was the nearest.

Farmer Alwood explained the difficulty he was in--his son and slave
being obliged, at the point of a pistol, to pole the stable boy of the
Three Oaks Inn across to the Pennsylvania side of the river.

“Ha! Hadley Morris, you say? The very boy we’re after!” cried the
colonel. “Men, give them a volley!”

“No, no!” cried the old man. “That’s my son out there and my servant.
You want to commit murder, do ye?”

“This Alwood is a loyal man, colonel,” the sergeant said.

Colonel Knowles snorted in disgust. For the moment he was evidently
sorry that the Alwoods were not the worst rebels in the country, so
that he could have a good excuse for firing on the rapidly disappearing
boat. Their voices still floated across the water to Hadley, and he
heard the sergeant say:--

“We’d best give it up, sir. There’s no way of crossing near here, and
the whole country will be aroused if we don’t get back to our command.
There are more rebels than Tories in this neighborhood, sir.”

“Keep at it, boys!” Hadley commanded. “I’ve got my eye on you.
Lon--don’t shirk. Hurry up there, Sam, you black rascal!”

He could have hugged Sam in his delight at getting away from his
enemies: but he did not wish to get the old man into trouble. So he
treated him even more harshly than he did Lon all the way across the
wide stream. But Lon was in a violent rage when the big flatboat
grounded on the Pennsylvania shore.

“You may think you’re smart, Had Morris!” he exclaimed, throwing down
the pole as Hadley took Molly’s bridle to lead her ashore. “But you
an’ me haven’t squared accounts yet. If you’re running away to join
Washington’s ragamuffins, you’d better not come back here on our side
of the river. We’ll fix you if you do. Anyway, the British army will be
here like enough in a few days, and they’ll eat up the last rag, tag,
an’ bobtail of ye!”

Hadley laughed, but kept a grip on the pistol until he got Molly
ashore. He knew that, had he dared, young Alwood would have done
something besides threaten; he was not a physical coward by any means.

“Don’ yo’ run away wid ol’ Sam’s pistol, Moster Had,” whispered the
negro. “Dat pistol goin’ ter sabe ol’ Sam’s life sometime, like ’nough.”

“You’ll get into trouble with the farmers if they catch you with such
an ugly thing in your clothes,” Hadley returned, doubtfully, for, like
the other whites of the neighborhood, he did not believe in too much
liberty for the blacks, although the masters were struggling for their
freedom.

“Moster Holdness gib me dat weapon,” responded Sam, “an’ he mighty
pleased wid me, Moster Had.”

Hadley handed back the pistol when he heard the scout’s name, for he
knew that Holdness must have some good reason for wishing Black Sam to
be armed. Lon had not seen this little byplay; but he shouted for Sam
now to help pole the boat back across the river.

“Be as slow as possible, Sam!” Hadley whispered, leaping astride his
mare. “Those chaps over there might take it into their heads to cross,
after all--though they’d be running their necks into a noose. Our
people must be all about here.”

Sam pushed the heavy landing plank aboard again and picked up his pole,
while Hadley rode up the steep bank and reached the highway.

Black Molly had recovered her wind now, and as soon as she struck the
hard road started at a good pace without being urged. Hadley knew the
general direction which he was to follow--for the first few miles at
least; but he had never been over the road before.

The possibility of falling in with royalist sympathizers on the dark
woodroad along which the little mare bore him caused the boy to fairly
shake with dread.

Every little noise startled him. If Molly stepped upon a crackling
branch, he threw a startled look from left to right, fearing that some
enemy lurked in the thickets which bordered the road. It would be an
awful thing to be shot down from ambush, and it would scarcely matter
whether he was shot by bushwhackers or scouts of the American army.
By and by, however, the narrow woodroad opened into a broader highway.
He was on the Germantown pike, and there were houses scattered along
the roadside--but all dark and silent, save for the baying of watchdogs
as Molly bore him on and on, her tireless feet clattering over the
hard-packed road. The mist rising from the low lands stretched itself
in ribbons across the road, as though to stop his progress. He drew up
the collar of his coat and bent low over Molly’s neck, shivering as the
dampness penetrated his garments. It was early cockcrow.

Suddenly, from just before him where the mist hid the way, came the
clatter of arms. A cry rang out on the morning air, Molly rose on her
haunches and backed without her rider’s drawing rein. Hadley was nearly
flung to the ground.

“Halt!” cried a voice, and in front of the startled youth appeared
half a dozen figures all armed with muskets, and dressed in garments
so nondescript that their affiliation, whether with the British or
American armies, it would have been hard to guess. “Who are you,
Master?” demanded the voice which had cried “Halt!” “Why do you ride so
fast on this road at night?”

“See if he has the word, Bumbler,” advised a second man, and the party
advanced on the mare and her rider.

“It’s a good horse--but she’s been ridden far,” declared a third.
“She’ll sell for something handsome in Germantown.”

At this Hadley was quite assured that he had fallen into the enemy’s
hands with a vengeance. He dared not say that he had dispatches for
General Washington, for he believed the men who had stopped him to be
either royalist sympathizers, or a party of stragglers seeking what
unattached property they might obtain, being sure of going unscathed
for their crimes because of the unsettled state of the country.
Uniforms among the American troops were scarce at best. At this
time some of the regiments were distinguished merely by a cockade,
or a strap on their coats, while their uniforms were naught but the
home-spun garments they had worn on joining the army.

“He’s only a boy, Corporal,” said the first speaker, and a lean,
unshaven face was thrust close to Hadley’s. “Get off the horse, lad.
It’s too good for you to ride--unless you’re riding for the right side?”

This was said questioningly, and Hadley realized that he was being
given an opportunity to answer with the countersign but whether British
or American he did not know. And little good would it have done him had
he been sure of the affiliation of these men. He knew the countersign
of neither army.

“I’m only riding in a hurry to Germantown, sirs,” he said. “I do not
know the password. I hope you will not stop me--”

“What are you doing on this road?” demanded the corporal. “And without
the word? Didn’t you expect to fall in with the outposts?”

“With what outposts?” cried Hadley.

“Ours, of course--the American outposts? Are you one of this Tory tribe
with which the country is overrun?”

At this Hadley, scarce convinced, flung much of his caution to the
winds and replied: “I am as anxious to reach the American outposts as I
can be. I have got to go to headquarters--”

“Whose headquarters?”

“The Commander-in-Chief’s.”

“I believe the lad’s got dispatches, Corporal!” declared Bumbler.
“Let’s pull him off that horse and see.” So saying, he grasped Hadley
by the collar and dragged him bodily from the saddle.

“Easy with the boy, man!” returned the other. “See if he’s got any
papers about him. This is a queer set-up altogether, for a lad to be
riding like mad toward headquarters--and over this road.”

Breathless and disposed to believe the worst of his captors, Hadley
fought with all his strength to retain the packet; but Bumbler tore
open his coat, and his big hand sought the boy’s inner pocket, where
the precious papers lay.


  CHAPTER V

  THE MAGIC OF A NAME

Flat upon his back on the hard roadway, with the knee of Bumbler
pressing upon his chest, Hadley Morris was little able to defend the
dispatches which he had received from the injured courier in the yard
of the Three Oaks Inn. The man tore his coat apart, felt first in
one inner pocket and then in the other, and finally, with a grunt of
satisfaction, brought the sealed packet to light.

“Dispatches, Corporal, as sure as aigs is aigs!” he exclaimed, passing
the packet up to the officer.

“Huh! we’d better go careful here, Bumbler--we’d better go careful,”
said the portly man, doubtfully. “None of you know the boy?”

The men, who had crowded around, all shook their heads. “Like enough
he’s no business with the papers,” Bumbler declared. “He’s no regular
dispatch bearer, an’ mayhap those papers came from York.”

“They’re addressed to nobody,” grumbled the corporal.

“Open ’em and see what’s in ’em,” suggested Bumbler, his sharp eyes
twinkling. He was still on his knees and holding Hadley on the ground.

There was just enough light now for the boy to see the faces of the men
rather more distinctly than at first. The mist grew thinner as the dawn
advanced, and there was a faint flush of pink in the east above the
treetops.

While he lay there on the ground, wondering how he might escape, his
ear caught the sudden rumble of carriage wheels coming swiftly along
the pike.

In a few moments a heavy carriage drawn by four fine horses dashed
into view. It was indeed a chariot, as the private traveling coaches
of England were called at that day, and this vehicle was evidently
of English manufacture. Besides the coachman there was a footman, or
outrider, on a fifth horse and a darkey in livery sat up behind.

The corporal shouted hoarsely to the coachman, and the presentation of
five muskets, Bumbler still holding on to Hadley, quickly brought the
carriage to a halt. In answer to the challenge the door of the coach
opened and a sharp voice demanded the cause of the disturbance.

“Travelers on this road must have the password, master,” the corporal
said. “You are near the outposts of the army.”

The man in the coach at once leaped out and approached the scouting
party. He was rather a tall man, dressed in semi-military manner, for
he wore a sword at his side and a buff coat with satin facings of blue.
His long, clean-shaven face was lean and ruddy, and his hair was rolled
up all around the back in the fashion of the day. His nose was aquiline
and his chin long and prominent--such a chin as physiognomists declare
denotes determination and perseverance. When he removed his hat to let
the cool morning air breathe upon his uncovered head, his brow was so
high that it fairly startled the beholder. Hadley, from his station
beside the road, was vastly interested in this odd-looking gentleman.

“So you wish the countersign, do you, my man?” demanded the stranger,
looking the corporal over with hauteur. “What regiment are you?”

The corporal mentioned one of the regiments of State troops which at
that time formed a part of Washington’s forces.

“Then you should know me, sirrah, although I have not the countersign,”
the gentleman said. “I am John Cadwalader.”

“Colonel Cadwalader--of the Silk Stocking Regiment!” Hadley heard
Bumbler mutter.

The corporal looked undecided, and stammered: “Faith, Mr. Cadwalader,
ye may be whom ye say; but it’s our orders to let no one pass without
an investigation--”

“Investigate, then!” snapped the gentleman. “If you do not know me,
send one of your men on with my carriage to the nearest officer. I am
on my way to headquarters and should not be delayed.”

“I can spare no men, for I’m foraging,” declared the corporal, still
hesitating.

“What do you intend doing, then, dolt?” cried the officer, wrathfully.
“Will you keep me here all the morning?” Then, seeing Hadley in the
grasp of Bumbler, he added: “And you are keeping that boy prisoner,
too, are you? You’ll have your hands full, Sir Corporal, before you get
back from this foraging expedition of yours. Your commanding officer
is to be congratulated on having such well-disciplined men in his rank
and file.” Evidently noticing the disarrangement of Hadley’s garments,
he added, looking at the boy again: “And why do you hold this farm lad
prisoner, pray?”

At that the boy made bold to speak for himself, for he believed
this gentleman must really be somebody of importance. “If it please
you, sir, I was hastening to General Washington’s headquarters with
dispatches--which, I believe, only yesterday came from New York--when
these men stopped me and have taken away my papers--”

“Ha!” exclaimed the gentleman, scrutinizing the youth sharply,
“you’re over young to be trusted with important news for the
Commander-in-Chief. How came you by these papers?”

In a few words Hadley told of the injury to the dispatch bearer at the
Three Oaks Inn, and how he had escaped with the papers and crossed the
river.

“Well done!” cried Cadwalader, evidently enjoying the story. “Ye did
well. And now these fellows have taken your packet, eh?” He turned a
frowning visage upon the corporal. “How is this?” he demanded.

“We know nothing about the lad, your honor,” said the corporal.

“Return to him the papers and let him go with me in the carriage. His
horse looks fagged and had best be left in the care of some loyal
farmer nearby.”

“But how do we know you?” began the corporal, desperately.

At this Bumbler left Hadley’s side and plucked at the petty officer’s
sleeve. “Don’t be a fool, Corporal!” he whispered, hoarsely. “It’s
Colonel Cadwalader true enough. I’ve seen him in Philadelphia many a
time.”

At this assurance the other grudgingly gave up the papers to their
rightful possessor again, and Hadley turned a beaming face upon Colonel
Cadwalader. “You get right into the carriage, boy, and let my man here
lead your mare. We will find a safe place for her ere long, and you
can pick her up on your way home--if you return by this road. But a
well-set-up youngster like you should be in the army. We’ll need all
such we can get shortly, I make no doubt.”

Hadley had no fitting reply to this, but, urged by the gentleman,
entered the coach, and the horses started again, leaving the chagrined
corporal and his men standing beside the road.

The boy had never heard of John Cadwalader, or the Silk Stocking
Regiment, of which he was originally the commander; but the gentleman
was prominent in Philadelphia before the war broke out, and was one of
Washington’s closest and most staunch friends throughout the struggle
for independence.

John Cadwalader, son of Thomas Cadwalader, a prominent physician
of the Quaker City, was thirty-three years of age when the War for
Independence began. At the time of the Lexington massacre he was in
command of a volunteer company in Philadelphia organized among the
young men of the élite, or silk-stocking class. But, despite the
rather sneering cognomen applied to it, the authorities found the Silk
Stocking Regiment well drilled and disciplined, and every member of it
was a welcome addition to the State troops.

Hadley Morris might have sought far before finding a more able friend
to introduce him into the presence of the Commander-in-Chief of the
American forces. So close were the relations between Cadwalader and
Washington that later, after the battle of Monmouth, the former took up
the commander’s personal quarrel and fought and wounded the notorious
Conway in a duel near Philadelphia.

As the heavy coach hurried on, they were stopped half a dozen times,
but at no point was there any difficulty. There was always somebody who
knew Colonel John Cadwalader. The magic of his name opened the way to
the very presence of the Commander-in-Chief, into whose hands Hadley
had been told to deliver the packet in his possession. The boy was
finally aroused from his uneasy sleep when the traveling coach stopped
before the door of a large residence beyond Germantown, which happened,
for the nonce, to be the headquarters of General Washington.

“General Washington is exceedingly busy this morning, Colonel,” said
one of the officers, doubtfully, as the two alighted from the coach.
“Unless this be an important matter--”

John Cadwalader’s head came up and his keen eyes flashed. “Tell the
General that Mr. Cadwalader awaits his pleasure,” he said, briefly,
“and that he brings a lad with him whom it would be well for his honor
to see.”

He turned his back upon the group and waited with marked impatience
until a servant came with a request from the Commander-in-Chief for
Colonel Cadwalader and his charge to come into the house at once.

“Follow me, lad,” the gentleman said. “You have risked much and
traveled far to do the cause a service, and you shall have fair play!”


  CHAPTER VI

  A GREAT MAN’S COUNSEL

Officers stood about in the hall of the house, as they did outside,
and many spoke to Colonel Cadwalader as he led his protégé in; but he
answered them but briefly. Evidently his pride had been touched by the
incident of the moment before, and he was struggling to keep his temper
in check. He was kindness itself to Hadley Morris, however.

“Have no fear of your reception by General Washington,” he whispered.
“The dispatches you bear will be sufficient introduction.”

But Hadley was afraid. Not, perhaps, that he feared any unkind
treatment; but in kind with most youth of his bringing up and station
in life, he looked in actual awe upon such a great man as the
Commander-in-Chief of the American forces. Nor did his fear lessen as
they entered the room.

Washington sat at a little deal table, which evidently at the moment
served him as a desk. In those days his headquarters were scarcely the
same twenty-four hours at a time. When he glanced up, seeing Colonel
Cadwalader, he arose to greet him, coming forward a pace to do this
with much cordiality.

“We have great need of you, Mr. Cadwalader,” the General said, waving
Hadley’s new friend to a seat near the little table. “You come from the
river?”

“Aye, General. But I can give you little news of a satisfactory
character, I fear. However, here is a young lad who bears something
which may prove of moment.”

Washington glanced swiftly at Hadley, who stood, plainly ill at ease,
and wringing his old cap in his hand. The brilliant, if travel-stained,
uniforms of the officers who surrounded the general contrasted oddly
with the patched and soiled garments the boy wore. He had ridden
away from the Three Oaks Inn in his stable dress, and he felt the
incongruity of his presence now more keenly than before.

“What does the young man bring?” asked Washington.

“Come forward, my lad,” Cadwalader Urged. “Give the General your
packet.”

With trembling fingers Hadley unbuttoned his coat and drew forth the
sealed papers. He knew all the time that those keen eyes were looking
him over. They seemed to penetrate even the wrapper of the packet.

[Illustration: HADLEY DELIVERED THE PACKET TO WASHINGTON]

“Where are you from, boy?” asked Washington.

“From--from the Three Oaks Inn,” stammered Hadley. In his own ears his
voice sounded from a long way off.

“And who gave them to you?” was the next query.

Hadley stammered worse than ever in trying to tell this, and John
Cadwalader took pity upon him. “So many strangers confuse the lad,
General. But he’s by no means a youngster without resources. From his
own story I reckon him a youth of action rather than of words,” the
colonel said, smiling.

“Egad!” exclaimed one of the amused officers, under his breath, “it’s
boys like him we want, then.”

Rapidly Cadwalader related the story of the injury to the dispatch
bearer at the Three Oaks Inn, of Hadley’s escape from the dragoons with
the papers, and of his adventures on the road; just as the boy had told
it to him in the carriage. Meanwhile General Washington had slit the
wrapper of the packet and unfolded the papers it contained. He nodded
now and then as Cadwalader’s story progressed, but at the same time he
glanced hastily over the papers.

“Ha! the boy has done us all a service,” the Commander said at length.
“These matters are most important. The papers come direct from New
York, gentlemen, and we have here at last a sure outline, I believe, of
His Lordship Howe’s intentions. It is well, my lad,” he said, glancing
again at Hadley, “that you let not the packet fall into the hands
of the enemy. Our work would have been put back some days,--perhaps
crippled. I must see more of you. You seem heartily in sympathy with
our country’s cause. Why have you not enlisted?”

“Egad, General!” exclaimed the same subordinate who had before spoken,
“I’ll set him to drilling myself if he’ll enlist. He’s a man’s stature
now, if not a man’s age.”

The boy flushed and paled by turns as he listened to this. “Come, speak
up, Master Morris!” exclaimed Cadwalader, encouragingly.

“I--I cannot enlist, if it please your honors,” the boy said. “My uncle
will not let me.”

“And who is this precious uncle of yours who’d keep a well-set-up lad
like you out of the army?” demanded the second officer.

“Ephraim Morris is his name, sir. We live hard by the Three Oaks,
across the river. I work for Jonas Benson, who keeps the inn.”

“We have record of this Ephraim Morris,” said a dark-faced man in the
corner, looking from under lowering brows at the boy. “As rank a Tory
as there is in all Jersey. I’d not put too much trust in what the boy
brings, gentlemen, if he’s Miser Morris’s nephew.”

The words stung Hadley to the quick. Unconsciously he squared his
shoulders, and his eyes flashed as he looked in the direction of the
last speaker. “My uncle refuses me permission to join the army, it is
true,” he said, chokingly; “but he has no power to change my opinions.”

For an instant there was silence. Washington flashed a glance at
Colonel Cadwalader.

“Master Morris,” Washington said, “we doubt not that you have good
reasons for not enlisting. But I believe you are in sympathy with us
and heed your country’s peril. You live in a community where you may be
of great benefit to us in the future. You have mentioned a man named
Holdness. You know him well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then deliver this note to him when next he passes the Three Oaks Inn.
He will return on the morrow or next day, I hear. Meanwhile be always
ready to serve the cause as you did last night, and, despite your
uncle’s prohibition against your joining the army, we shall count you
among our most useful servants. What say you, Mr. Cadwalader?”

The colonel bowed. “My mind exactly, General,” he said.

“This will pass you through the outposts,” the Commander said, handing
the two papers he had written to Hadley. “The colonel tells me you have
a horse not many miles from here. I wish you a safe return.”

Too disturbed to scarce know what he replied, young Morris got out
of the room, and not until he reached the open highway did he take a
free breath. And all the way back to the farmhouse where Molly had
been left, he grew hot and cold by turns as he thought of the awkward
figure he must have cut in the presence of the leader of the American
cause. It was mid-afternoon ere he recovered his horse and started for
the river. Molly had been refreshed and carried him swiftly over the
road to the regular ferry, where he had been unable to cross the night
before.

He met with no difficulty in passing the outposts and such scouting
parties of the American army as he met. There was no sign of British
soldiery upon this side of the river. He crossed the ferry at dark, and
three hours later rode quietly into the inn yard from the rear and put
Black Molly into her stall. Then he approached the house, wondering
what reception he should meet if Colonel Knowles and his daughter were
still sheltered there.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

[Illustration]




  THE FRESHMAN BANQUET

  BY HARRIET WHEELER


The bell was tolling for the vesper service. The students trooped out
of the various buildings and wended their way, more or less hastily,
towards the chapel. The last stroke had just ceased to vibrate as two
girls slipped into opposite ends of a rear seat and dropped down side
by side. As soon as it was safe, one of them pulled a note from her
pocket and stealthily tucked it into the hand of the other.

“Read it and hand it over to Nellie Gaines,” she whispered.

Edith Latta spread the note open on her lap and read:--

“Girls:--The Sophs have got news of our banquet, so we have changed
from the Watson House to the Goodwin. Everybody go down to Fanny
Berginrose’s right after chapel. The fish have come.”

Within ten minutes every member of the Freshman class had read the
note, and it is to be feared that during the next half-hour their
minds were less occupied with the services than with curiosity and the
thought of planked white fish.

Immediately after chapel the Freshman girls separated.

A party of Sophomore boys gathered behind the chapel and eyed the
retreating Freshmen suspiciously.

“There’s something up, fellows, sure,” said Bert Loranger. “We’d better
shadow the Freshies.”

“You and George go, Bert,” said Theodore Lathrop. “They’ll smell a
mouse if a crowd follows. We’ll go up to Chapin Hall and you can ’phone
us the news.”

The party separated, and George and Bert strolled down the path leading
through the campus toward town. The girls were in sight as they crossed
Pleasant Street and turned up Public Avenue. Bert slipped behind the
Parsonage and watched them cat-a-cornered through its bay window.

[Illustration: BERT WATCHED THEM THROUGH THE BAY WINDOW]

“They’re going to Fanny Berginrose’s!” he exclaimed.

“And there come two more Juniors, with another crowd of girls, down the
hill.”

“That’s all right,” declared George Nelson. “Come on down to Blake’s.
We’ll ’phone the fellows from there.”

The boys hastened over to the livery stable. “Hello, there, Ted! We’ve
tracked the girls to Fanny Berginrose’s. You know the scheme. Hurry
down.”

Ten minutes later a dozen Sophomores entered Blake’s, hot and
breathless.

“Everything’s moving,” said Bert Loranger. “We’ve ordered two ’buses.
We’ll go down to Fanny’s in a body and politely offer to escort the
Fresh-Ladies. Once in, we’ll drive them over to Rockton and across to
Freeville, and keep them going till midnight.”

As soon as the ’buses were ready the boys sprang in and started for the
Berginrose mansion. As they drew up in imposing array along the curb,
they stood up and, swinging their hats, gave the Freshman yell: “Siss,
bang! Boom-a-lang! Roar! Vive-la, Belmont! 1904!”

Long before that all the girls were watching them from the window.

“The Sophomores! What shall we do? Don’t let them in!” cried they in a
chorus.

Fanny stuck her head out the window and asked, “What’s wanted?”

“We’ve come to offer our services as escorts to the hotel,” said Ted,
bowing as gracefully as possible to a second-story window.

“They’re up to some trick,” whispered Edith Latta. “Anyhow, they still
think we’re going to the Watson House. That’s good.”

“Declined with thanks,” responded Fanny, slowly withdrawing her head
and closing the window.

The boys began to get out of the ’bus, and very deliberately surrounded
the house.

“I do believe they’re going to try to break in,” cried one of the
younger girls. “Call up the police.”

Fanny considered for a moment, but the sounds below dispelled her
doubt. Going to the ’phone, she called up the city marshal.

His laugh could be heard through the ’phone. “All right,” he shouted;
“I’ll be up with force big enough to quell all disturbances.”

In a few moments the officials appeared, followed by three Juniors.
Fanny let them in and bolted the door behind them.

“What shall we do, Mr. Appleton?” said the girls, surrounding the
marshal.

“Do! Jump into the ’buses and we’ll see that the drivers carry you
all to wherever you want to go. And at their expense, too,” he said,
chuckling at the thought. “Here, you boys,” to the Juniors, “no time
for coats.”

The girls put on their wraps. The marshal threw the doors open and
shouted, “The girls accept your offer. Clear the way!”

The girls followed the marshal into the ’buses. The Sophomores
surrounded them and attempted to climb over the wheels. But the
policemen, by some well-directed rib-poking with their clubs, were
enabled to free the ’bus. The three Juniors mounted to the drivers’
seats, and then, leaving a crowd of chagrined and disgusted Sophomores
on the sidewalk, the ’buses rattled down the street.

At the hotel the Freshmen boys greeted the new arrivals from the steps
and escorted them to the parlors.

“How in the world did you boys get over here?” asked Edith.

“Sneaked,” responded Addison Meyers, briefly. “Three or four of the
boys are putting themselves a good deal in evidence over at the Watson
House, just to keep up appearances. They’ll come later.”

Then the party proceeded to take sole possession of the second floor
of the hotel. There was a cozy little dining-room on that floor, just
large enough for their use. Their rather sudden descent upon his
establishment had evidently taken the landlord by surprise, and, red of
face and short of breath, he was now doing his best to catch up.

“I’m actually faint,” declared Belle Shephard, twenty minutes later. “I
hope the spread ’ll be ready on time. This terrible excitement makes me
hungry.”

Kauffman responded gallantly. “What, ho, landlord!” he said, rapping
vigorously on the door of the dining-room. Immediately a shuffling step
was heard within, and the door was opened but a few inches.

“Mein Herr, these ladies are ravenous. They demand planked white fish
or your life. How soon--”

“Planked white fish?” interrupted the landlord, in indignant
astonishment. “I give you not one white fish. I promised them not. For
so little money, it is not--” But Kauffman had suddenly shut the door
upon his protesting countenance, and turned to the group behind him.

“How’s this, His Excellency denies the white fish?”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” exclaimed Edith Latta, tragically grasping the two girls
within her reach, and drawing all eyes in her direction. “We forgot
to have them sent down. We were scared out of our wits and we forgot
everything.”

Jack Kauffman, who seemed to thrive on bad luck, made straightway for
the ’phone, his first resort in all such cases. He rang up Klumpf, the
baker.

“What about those fish? Are they done?”

A silence.

“How’s that? I couldn’t quite hear.”

“Taken? Who-- Say! what was he like? Tall, light hair, wore a spotted
vest and patent leathers. Well, I--”

Kauffman hung up the receiver with an impatient twang.

“I say, fellows and gentlemen, we’re done for. The Sophs have hooked
our fish. Jim Wilmore and that crowd--”

“Hello!” The door flew open suddenly, and Bill Winters, one of the
Juniors, burst in.

“Here’s something for you fellows. The Sophs sent it over to the Watson
House, thinking you were there.” As he spoke he handed what looked like
a letter to Jack Kauffman. “Looks as if they have taken your coats,” he
added.

“Coats!” exclaimed Crawford, in sudden surprise. “Why, I left mine in
the ’bus.”

“So did I, and I!” exclaimed several voices at once.

Kauffman read the letter.

“Ye green and verdant Freshmen are cordially invited to attend an
auction sale of coats, to be held in the lower hall of the Goodwin
immediately after the Sophomores partake of their white fish supper.
We would state privately that in the pockets of these garments will be
found many rare and valuable relics, such as autograph letters, signed
by your own classmates, unpaid laundry bills, etc. These will be sold
to the lowest bidder.”

Embarrassment and indignation were plainly visible on the faces of the
Freshmen, and both feelings were reflected in no small degree in the
countenances of the girls.

“White fish!” exclaimed Crawford, who was the first to recover from the
general consternation. “That explains it.”

“Why! How!” exclaimed the girls, who could not fully take in the
situation. Kauffman looked up with a grim smile that was not entirely
mirthful. “In other words,” he began, and his teeth seemed to cut each
syllable, “they have scooped our coats and obtained our planked white
fish under false pretenses. Now they propose to eat the fish under our
very noses and sell the coats at public auction. Can such things be?”
He looked about him upon the comical dismay of the group. Then a storm
of indignant protests filled the air.

“See here, Jack.” Crawford plucked Kauffman by the elbow and led him to
one side. There was a hurried consultation between the two and a sudden
decision. When it was reached Crawford slipped from the room and left
the hotel by the little street in the rear. Presently those nearest the
front windows became aware of some unusual commotion at the entrance to
the hotel, and, when somebody cautiously raised the window and reclosed
the inside blinds, the sound of Crawford’s voice was distinctly heard.

“Blame you fellows,” he was saying; “give me my coat. I left something
valuable in the pocket. It’s a mean trick, anyway.”

“What was it, Freshie?” came from a lower window in a taunting voice.
“Handkerchief?”

A laugh and a chorus of derisive responses sounded at once, some of
the latter expressing deep sympathy, others suggesting more or less
practical substitutes for the supposedly missing handkerchief.

The Freshmen above could see that Crawford was the centre of a rapidly
increasing crowd of Sophomores, to whom he continued earnestly to
appeal for his missing coat. There was a whine in his voice that none
of his classmates ever remembered to have heard before, and which
stirred the Sophomores to wonderful flights of sarcasm.

“What does he mean?” whispered Fanny Berginrose, in genuine perplexity,
to the girls about her. “He must know that that kind of talk will never
do any good. Catch me begging them for anything. John Kauffman, what’s
this all about. Why--where is John?”

Nobody knew. He had slipped away unobserved. So, also, had Addison
Meyers and Harry Bartlett. While the girls were still expressing their
wonder, sounds of cautious footsteps were heard upon the narrow back
stairs which connected the second floor with the kitchen. The door was
pushed open, and Kauffman appeared, bearing a great covered platter,
which was just all he could handle. But he was grinning. Behind him
were Meyers and Bartlett, ears deep in heaping armloads of coats.

Jack passed into the little private dining-room in which the spread
was now ready. For a few minutes there came sounds of protest and
explanation, and then Jack and the landlord came in together. Suddenly,
as if he had forgotten something, the latter went to the window and
gave a low whistle.

In a minute, Crawford, bubbling over with laughter, came up the stairs
two steps at a time.

“How was that, fellows, for an indignant Freshie?”




  MR. NOBODY


    There is a funny little man,
        As quiet as a mouse,
    Who does the mischief that is done
        In everybody’s house.
    There’s no one ever sees his face,
        And yet we all agree
    That every plate and cup was cracked
        By Mr. Nobody.

    ’Tis he who always tears our books,
        Who leaves our doors ajar;
    He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
        And scatters pins afar.
    That squeaking door will always squeak
        For, prithee, don’t you see,
    We leave the oiling to be done
        By Mr. Nobody.

    The finger marks upon the doors
       By none of us are made;
    We never leave the blinds unclosed,
       To let the curtains fade;
    The ink we never spill; the boots
        That lying round you see
    Are not our boots--they all belong
        To Mr. Nobody.




  A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

  By Evelyn Raymond


  CHAPTER IV

  The Stranger’s Name


 SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

 Brought up in the forests of northern Maine, and seeing few persons
 excepting her uncle and Angelique, the Indian housekeeper, Margot
 Romeyn knows little of life beyond the deep hemlocks. Naturally
 observant, she is encouraged in her out-of-door studies by her
 uncle, at one time a college professor. The cyclone from which they
 barely escape with their lives appeals to her only as an interesting
 phenomenon. Later in the same day, through her woodland instinct, she
 and her uncle are enabled to save the life of Adrian Wadislaw, a youth
 who, lost and almost overcome with hunger, has been wandering in the
 neighboring forest.


Thrusting back the hair that had fallen over her eyes, Margot sprang
up and stared at the floundering mass of legs, arms, and wings upon
the wide lounge--a battle to the death, it seemed. Then she caught the
assailant in her strong hands and flung him aside, while her laughter
rang out in a way to make the stranger also stare, believing she had
gone crazy with sudden fear.

But his terror had restored his strength most marvelously, for he, too,
leaped to his feet and retreated to the furthest corner of the room,
whence he regarded the scene with dilated eyes.

“Why--why--it’s nobody, nothing, but dear old Tom!”

“It’s an eagle! The first--”

“Of course he’s an eagle. Aren’t you, dear? The most splendid bird in
Maine, or maybe Canada. The wisest, the most loving, the-- Oh! You big,
blundering, precious thing! Scaring people like that. You should be
more civil, sir.”

“Is--is--he tame?”

“Tame as Angelique’s pet chicken. But mischievous. He wouldn’t hurt you
for anything.”

“Humph! He would have killed me if I hadn’t waked and yelled.”

“Well, you did that surely. You feel better, don’t you?”

“I wish you’d put him outdoors, or shut him up where he belongs. I want
to sit down.”

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t,” she answered, pushing a chair
toward him.

“Where did you get it--that creature?”

“Uncle found him when he was ever so young. Somebody or something, a
hunter or some other bird, had hurt his wing and one foot. Eagles can
be injured by the least little blow upon their wings, you know.”

“No. I know nothing about them--yet. But I shall, some day.”

“Oh! I hope so. They’re delightful to study. Tom is very large, we
think. He’s nearly four feet tall, and his wings--Spread your wings,
sir! Spread!”

Margot had dropped upon the floor before the wide fireplace, her
favorite seat. Her arms clasped her strange pet’s body, while his white
head rested lovingly upon her shoulder. His eyes were fixed upon the
blazing logs, and the yellow irises gleamed as if they had caught and
held the dancing flames. But at her command he shook himself free, and
extended one mighty wing, while she stretched out the other. Their tips
were full nine feet apart and seemed to fill and darken the whole place.

In spite of this odd girl’s fearless handling of the bird, it looked
most formidable to the visitor, who retreated again to a safe distance,
though he had begun to advance toward her. And again he implored her
to put the uncanny monster out of the house.

Margot laughed, as she was always doing; but, going to the table,
filled a plate with the fragments from the stew, and, calling Tom, set
the dish before him on the threshold.

“There’s your supper, Thomas the King! Which means, no more of
Angelique’s chickens, dead or alive.”

The eagle gravely limped out of doors and the visitor felt relieved,
so that he cast somewhat longing glances upon the table, and Margot
was quick to understand them. Putting a generous portion upon another
plate, she moved a chair to the side nearest the fire.

“You’re so much stronger, I guess it won’t hurt you to take as much as
you like now. When did you eat anything before?”

“Day before yesterday--I think. I hardly know. The time seems confused.
As if I had been wandering, round and round, forever. I--was almost
dead, wasn’t I?”

“Yes. But ’twas Angelique who was first to see it was starvation.
Angelique is a Canadian. She lived in the woods long before we came to
them. She is very wise.”

He made no comment, being then too busy eating; but at length even his
voracity was satisfied, and he had leisure to examine his surroundings.
He looked at Margot as if girls were as unknown as eagles; and, indeed,
such as she were--to him, at least. Her dress was of blue flannel, and
of the same simple cut that she had always worn. A loose blouse, short
skirt, full knickers, met at the knees by long shoes, or gaiters of
buckskin. These were as comfortable and pliable as Indian moccasins,
and the only footgear she had ever known. They were made for her in a
distant town, whither Mr. Dutton went for needed supplies, and like
the rest of her costume, after a design of his own. She was certainly
unconventional in manner, but not from rudeness so much as from a
desire to study him--another unknown specimen from an outside world.
Her speech was correct beyond that common among school girls, and her
gaze was as friendly as it was frank.

Their scrutiny of each other was ended by her exclaiming:--

“Why--you are not old! Not much older than Pierre, I believe! It must
be because you are so dirty that I thought you were a man like uncle.”

“Thank you,” he answered, dryly.

But she had no intention of offense. Accustomed all her own life to the
utmost cleanliness, in the beginning insisted upon by Angelique because
it was proper, and by her guardian for health’s sake, she had grown up
with a horror of the discomfort of any untidiness, and she felt herself
most remiss in her attentions that she had not earlier offered soap and
water. Before he realized what she was about, she had sped into the
little outer room which the household used as a lavatory, and whirled a
wooden tub into its centre. This she promptly filled with water from a
pipe in the wall, and, having hung fresh towels on a chair, returned to
the living room.

“I’m so sorry. I ought to have thought of that right away. But a bath
is ready now, if you wish it.”

The stranger rose, stammered a little, but accepted what was in truth a
delightful surprise.

“Well, this is still more amazing! Into what sort of a spot have I
stumbled? It’s a log house, but with apparently several rooms. It has
all the comforts of civilization, and at least this one luxury. There
are books, too. I saw them in that inner apartment as I passed the open
door. The man looks like a gentleman in the disguise of a lumberman,
and the girl--what’ll she do next? Ask me where I came from, and why, I
presume. If she does, I’ll have to answer her, and truthfully. I can’t
fancy anybody not telling the truth to those blue eyes. Maybe she won’t
ask.”

She did, however, as soon as he reëntered the living room, refreshed
and certainly much more attractive in appearance than when he had the
soil and litter of his long wandering upon him.

“Oh! how much more comfortable you must be. How did you get lost? Is
your home far from here?”

“A long, long way,” and for a moment something like sadness touched his
face. That look passed quickly and a defiant expression took its place.

“What a pity! It will be so much harder to get word to your people.
Maybe Pierre can carry a message, or show you the road, once you are
strong enough again.”

“Who’s Pierre?”

“Mother Ricord’s son. He’s a woodlander and wiser even than she is.
He’s really more French than Indian, but uncle says the latter race is
stronger in him. It often is in his type.”

“A-ah, indeed! So you study types up here, do you?”

“Yes. Uncle makes it so interesting. You see, he got used to teaching
stupid people when he was a professor in his college. I’m dreadfully
stupid about books, though I do my best. But I love living things; and
the books about animals and races are charming. When they’re true,
that is. Often they’re not. There’s one book on squirrels uncle keeps
as a curiosity, to show how little the writer knew about them. And the
pictures are no more like squirrels than--than they are like me.”

“A-ah!” said the listener, again. “That explains.”

“I don’t know what you mean. No matter. It’s the old stupidity, I
suppose. How did you get lost?”

“The same prevailing stupidity,” he laughed. “Though I didn’t realize
it for that quality. Just thought I was smart, you know--conceit.
I--I--well, I didn’t get on so very well at the lumber camp I’d joined.
I wasn’t used to work of that sort, and there didn’t seem to be room,
even in the woods, for a greenhorn. I thought it was easy enough. I
could find my way anywhere, in any wilderness, with my outfit. I’d
brought that along, or bought it after I left civilization; so one
night I left, set out to paddle my own canoe. I paddled it into the
rapids, what those fellows called Rips, and they ripped me to ruin.
Upset, lost all my kit, tried to find my way back, wandered and
walked, forever and ever, it seemed to me, and--you know the rest.”

“But I do not. Did you keep hallooing all that long time? How did it
happen we heard you?”

“I was in a rocky place when that tornado came, and it was near the
water. I had just sense enough left to know the rocks would shelter me
and crept under them. Oh! that was awful--awful!”

“It must have been, but I was so deep in our cave that I heard but
little of it. Uncle and Angelique thought I was out in it and lost.
They suffered about it, and uncle tried to make a fire and was sick. We
had just returned home when we heard you.”

“After the storm I crawled out and saw you in the boat. You seemed to
have come right out of the earth, and I shouted, or tried to. I kept on
shouting even after you were out of sight, and then I got discouraged
and tried once more to find a road out.”

“I was singing so loud I suppose I didn’t hear at first. I’m so sorry.
But it’s all right now. You’re safe, and some way will be found to get
you to your home, or that lumber camp, if you’d rather.”

“Suppose I do not wish to go to either place--what then?”

Margot stared. “Not--wish--to go--to your own dear--home?”

The stranger smiled at the amazement of her face.

“Maybe not. Especially as I don’t know how I would be received there.
What if I was foolish and didn’t know when I was well off? What if I
ran away, meaning to stay away forever?”

“Well, if it hadn’t been for the rocks, and me, it would have been
forever. But God made the rocks and gave them to you for a shelter;
and He made me and sent me out on the lake so you should see me and be
found. If He wants you to go back to that home, He’ll find a way. Now,
it’s queer. Here we’ve been talking ever so long, yet I don’t know who
you are. You know all of us: Uncle Hugh Dutton, Angelique Ricord, and
me. I’m Margot Romeyn. What is your name?”

“Mine? Oh! I’m Adrian Wadislaw. A good-for-nought, some people say.
Young Wadislaw, the sinner, son of old Wadislaw, the saint.”

The answer was given recklessly, while the dark young face grew sadly
bitter and defiant.

After a moment, something startled Margot from the shocked surprise
with which she had heard this harsh reply. It was a sigh, almost a
groan, as from one who had been more deeply startled even than herself.
Turning, she saw the master standing in the doorway, staring at their
visitor as if he had seen a ghost, and nearly as white as one himself.


  CHAPTER V

  IN ALADDIN LAND

It seemed to Margot, watching, that it was an endless time her uncle
stood there gazing with that startled look upon their guest. In reality
it was but a moment. Then he passed his hand over his eyes, as one
who would brush away a mist, and came forward. He was still unduly
pale, but he spoke in a courteous, almost natural manner, and quietly
accepted the chair Margot hastened to bring him.

“You are getting rested, Mr.--”

“Oh! please don’t ‘Mister’ me, sir. You’ve been so good to me, and
I’m not used to the title. Though, in my scratches and wood dirt,
this young lady did take me for an old fellow. Yes, thanks to her
thoughtfulness, I’ve found myself again, and I’m just Adrian, if you’ll
be so kind.”

There was something very winning in this address, and it suited the
elder man well. The stranger was scarcely out of boyhood, and reminded
the old collegian of other lads whom he had known and loved. Wadislaw
was not a particularly pleasing name that one should dwell upon it,
unless necessary. Adrian was better and far more common. Neither did
it follow that this person was of a family he remembered too well; and
so Mr. Dutton reassured himself. In any case, the youth was now “the
stranger within the gates,” and therefore entitled to the best.

“Adrian, then. We are a simple household, following the old habit of
early to bed and to rise. You must be tired enough to sleep anywhere,
and there is another big lounge in my study. You would best occupy it
to-night, and to-morrow Angelique will fix you better quarters. Few
guests favor us in our far-away home,” he finished, with a smile that
was full of hospitality.

Adrian rose at once, and, bidding Margot and Angelique good-night,
followed his host into a big room which, save for the log walls, might
have been the library of some city home. It was a room which somehow
gave him the impression of vastness, liberality, and freedom--an
inclosed bit of the outside forest. Like each of the other apartments
he had seen, it had its great fireplace and its blazing logs, not at
all uncomfortable now in the chill that had come after the storm.

But he was too worn out to notice much more than these details, and,
without undressing, dropped upon the lounge and drew the Indian blanket
over him. His head rested upon great pillows stuffed with fragrant
spruce needles, and this perfume of the woods soothed him into instant
sleep.

But Hugh Dutton stood for many minutes, gravely studying the face of
the unconscious stranger. It was a comely, intelligent face, though
marred by self-will and indulgence, and with each passing second its
features grew more and more painfully familiar. Why, why had it come
into his distant retreat to disturb his peace? A peace that it had
taken fifteen years of life to gain, that had been achieved only by
bitter struggle with self and with all that was lowest in a noble
nature.

“Alas! And I believed I had at last learned to forgive!”

But none the less because of the bitterness would this man be unjust.
His very flesh recoiled from contact with that other flesh, fair as it
might be in the sight of most eyes, yet he forced himself to draw with
utmost gentleness the covering over the sleeper’s shoulders, and to
interpose a screening chair between him and the firelight.

“Well, one may at least control his actions, if not his thoughts,” he
murmured, and quietly left the place.

A few moments later he stood regarding Margot, also, as she lay in
sleep, and all the love of his strong nature rose to protect her from
the sorrow which she would have to bear sometime, but--not yet! Oh! not
yet! Then he turned quickly and went out of doors.

There had been nights in this woodlander’s life when no roof could
cover him. When even the forest seemed to suffocate, and when he had
found relief only upon the bald, bare top of that rocky height which
crowned the island. On such nights he had gone out early and come home
with the daybreak, and none had known of his absence, save, now and
then, the faithful Angelique, who knew the master’s story but kept it
to herself.

Margot had never guessed of these midnight expeditions, nor understood
the peculiar love and veneration her guardian had for that mountain
top. She better loved the depths of the wonderful forest, with its
flowers and ferns, and its furred or feathered creatures. She was
dreaming of these, the next morning, when her uncle’s cheery whistle
called her to get up.

A second to awake, a swift dressing, and she was with him, seeing no
signs of either illness or sorrow in his genial face, and eager with
plans for the coming day. All her days were delightful, but this would
be best of all.

“To think, uncle dear, that somebody else has come at last to see our
island! Why, there’s so much to show him I can hardly wait, nor know
where best to begin.”

“Suppose, Miss Impatience, we begin with breakfast? Here comes Adrian.
Ask his opinion.”

“Never was so hungry in my life!” agreed that youth, as he came hastily
forward to bid them both good-morning. “I mean--not since last night.
I wonder if a fellow that’s been half-starved, or three-quarters even,
will ever get his appetite down to normal again? It seems to me I
could eat a whole wild animal at a sitting!”

“So you shall, boy; so you shall!” cried Angelique, who now came in,
carrying a great dish of browned and smoking fish. This she placed at
her master’s end of the table and flanked it with another platter of
daintily crisped potatoes. There were heaps of delicate biscuits, with
coffee and cakes galore; enough, the visitor thought, to satisfy even
his own extravagant hunger, and again he wondered at such fare in such
a wilderness.

“Why, this might be a hotel table!” he exclaimed, in unfeigned
pleasure. “Not much like lumberman’s fare: salt pork, bad bread,
molasses-sweetened tea, and the everlasting beans. I hope I shall never
have to look another bean in the face! But that coffee! I never smelled
anything so delicious.”

“Had some last night,” commented Angelique, shortly. She perceived that
this stranger was in some way obnoxious to her beloved master, and she
resented the surprise with which he had seen her take her own place
behind the tray. Her temper seemed fairly cross-edged that morning, and
Margot remarked:--

Don’t mind Mother Angelique. She’s dreadfully disappointed that nobody
died and no bad luck followed her breaking a mirror, yesterday.

“No bad luck?” demanded Angelique, looking at Adrian with so marked a
manner that it spoke volumes. “And as for dying--you’ve but to go into
the woods and you’ll see.”

Here Tom created a diversion by entering and limping straight to the
stranger’s side, who moved away, then blushed at his own timidity,
seeing the amusement with which the others regarded him.

“Oh! we’re all one family here, servants and everybody,” cried the
woman, tossing the eagle a crumb of biscuit.

But the big bird was not to be drawn from the scrutiny of this new
face; and the gravity of his unwinking gaze was certainly disconcerting.

“Get out, you uncanny creature! Beg pardon, Miss Margot, but I’m--he
seems to have a special grudge against me.”

“Oh! no. He doesn’t understand who you are yet. We had a man here last
year, helping uncle, and Tom acted just as he does now. Though he never
would make friends with the Canadian, as I hope he will with you.”

Angelique flashed a glance toward the girl. Why should she, or anybody,
speak as if this lad’s visit were to be a prolonged one? And they had,
both she and the master. He had bidden the servant fill a fresh tick
with the dried and shredded fern leaves and pine needles, such as
supplied their own mattresses; and to put all needful furnishings into
the one disused room of the cabin.

“But, Master! When you’ve always acted as if that were bein’ kept for
somebody who was comin’ some day. Somebody you love!” she protested.

“I have settled the matter, Angelique. Don’t fear that I’ve not thought
it all out. ‘Do unto others,’ you know. For each day its duty, its
battle with self, and, please God, its victory.”

“He’s a saint, ever’body knows; and there’s something behind all this I
don’t understand. But, all the same, I wish my hand had shivered before
I broke the glass!” she had muttered, but had done his bidding, still
complaining.

Commonly, meals were leisurely affairs in that forest home, but on this
morning Mr. Dutton set an example of haste that the others followed;
and as soon as their appetites were satisfied he rose and said:--

“I’ll show you to your own room now, Adrian. Occupy it as long as you
wish. And find something to amuse yourself with while I am gone, for I
have much to do out of doors. It was the worst storm, for its duration,
that ever struck us. Fortunately, most of the outbuildings need only
repairs, but Snowfoot’s home is such a wreck she must have a new one.
Margot, will you run up the signal for Pierre?”

“Yes, indeed! Though I believe he will come without it. He’ll be
curious about the tornado, too, and it’s near his regular visiting
time.”

The room assigned to Adrian excited his fresh surprise; though he
assured himself that he would be amazed at nothing further, when he
saw, lying upon a table in the middle of the floor, two complete suits
of clothing, apparently placed there by the thoughtful host for his
guest to use. They were not of the latest style, but perfectly new, and
bore the stamp of a well-known tailor of his own city.

“Where did he get them, and so soon? What a mammoth of a house it is,
though built of logs. And isn’t it the most fitting and beautiful of
houses, after all? Whence came those comfortable chairs? And the books?
Most of all, where and how did he get that wonderful picture over
that magnificent log mantel? It looks like a room made ready for the
unexpected coming of some prodigal son! I’m that, sure enough; but not
of this household. If I were--well, maybe--Oh! hum!”

The lad crossed the floor and gazed reverently at the solitary painting
which the room contained. A marvelously lifelike head of the Man of
Sorrows, bending forward and gazing upon the onlooker with eyes of
infinite tenderness and appealing. Beneath it ran the inscription,
“Come Unto Me”; and in one corner was the artist’s signature--a broken
pine branch.

“Whew! I wonder if that fellow ran away from home because he loved a
brush and paint tube! What sort of a spot have I strayed into, anyway?
A paradise? Um! I wish ‘the mater’ could see me now. She’d not be so
unhappy over her unworthy son, maybe. Bless her, anyhow. If everybody
had been like her--”

He finished his soliloquy before an open window, through which he could
see the summit of the bare mountain that crowned the centre of the
island, and was itself crowned by a single pine tree. Though many of
its branches had been lopped away, enough were left to form a sort of
spiral stairway up its straight trunk to its lofty top.

“What a magnificent flagstaff that would make! I’d like to see Old
Glory floating there. Believe I’ll suggest it to the Magician--that’s
what this woodlander is--and doubtless he’ll attend to that little
matter. Shades of Aladdin!”

Adrian was so startled that he dropped into a chair, the better to
sustain himself against further Arabian-Nights-like discoveries.

It was a flagstaff! Somebody was climbing it--Margot! Up, up, like a
squirrel, her blonde head appearing first on one side, then the other,
a glowing budget strapped to her back.

Adrian gasped. No sailor could have been more fleet or sure-footed. It
seemed but a moment before that slender figure had scaled the topmost
branch and was unrolling the brilliant burden it had borne. The Stars
and Stripes, of course. Adrian would have been bitterly disappointed
if it had been anything else this agile maiden hoisted from that dizzy
height.

[Illustration: MARGOT UNFURLED THE FLAG]

In wild excitement and admiration the watcher leaned out of his window
and shouted hoarsely:--

“Hurrah! H-u-r-rah! H-U-R--!”

The cheer died in his throat. Something had happened. Something too
awful to contemplate. Adrian’s eyes closed that he might not see. Had
her foot slipped? Had his own cry reached and startled her?

For she was falling--falling! And the end could be but one.


  CHAPTER VI

  A ONE-SIDED STORY

Adrian was not a gymnast, though he had seen and admired many wonderful
feats performed by his own classmates. But he had never beheld a
miracle, and such he believed had been accomplished when, upon reaching
the foot of that terrible tree, he found Margot sitting beneath it,
pale and shaken, but, apparently, unhurt.

She had heard his breathless crashing up the slope and greeted him with
a smile and the tremulous question:--

“How did you know where I was?”

“You aren’t--dead?”

“Certainly not. I might have been, though, but God took care.”

“Was it my cheers frightened you?”

“Was it you, then? I heard something, different from the wood sounds,
and I looked quick to see. Then my foot slipped and I went down--a way.
I caught a branch just in time, and--please, don’t tell uncle. I’d
rather do that myself.”

“You should never do such a thing. The idea of a girl climbing trees at
all, least of any such a tree as that!”

He threw his head back and looked upward, through the green spiral, to
the brilliant sky. The enormous height revived the horror he had felt
as he leaped through the window and rushed to the mountain.

“Who planned such a death-trap as that, anyway?”

“I did.”

“You! A girl!”

“Yes. Why not? It’s great fun, usually.”

“You’d better have been learning to sew.”

“I can sew, but I don’t like it. Angelique does that. I do like
climbing and canoeing and botanizing and geologizing and astronomizing
and--”

Adrian threw up his hands in protest.

“What sort of creature are you, anyway?”

“Just plain girl.”

“Anything but that!”

“Well, girl, without the adjective. Suits me rather better,” and she
laughed in a way that proved she was not suffering from her mishap.

“This is the strangest place I ever saw. You are the strangest family.
We are certainly in the backwoods of Maine, yet you might be a college
senior, or a circus star, or--a fairy.”

Margot stretched her long arms and looked at them quizzically.

“Fairies don’t grow so big. Why don’t you sit down? Or, if you will,
climb up and look toward the narrows on the north. See if Pierre’s
birch is coming yet.”

Again Adrian glanced upward, to the flag floating there, and shrugged
his shoulders.

“Excuse me, please. That is, I suppose I could do it, only, seeing you
slip--I prefer to wait awhile.”

“Are you afraid?”

There was no sarcasm in the question. She asked it in all sincerity.
Adrian was different from Pierre, the only other boy she knew, and she
simply wondered if tree-climbing were among his unknown accomplishments.

It had been, to the extent possible with his city training and his
brief summer vacations, though unpracticed of late; but no lad of
spirit, least of all impetuous Adrian, could bear even the suggestion
of cowardice. He did not sit down, as she had bidden, but tossed aside
his rough jacket and leaped to the lower branch of the great pine tree.

“Why, it’s easy! It’s grand!” he called back, and went up swiftly
enough.

Indeed, it was not so difficult as it appeared from a distance.
Wherever the branches failed the spiral ladder had been perfected by
great spikes driven into the trunk, and he had but to clasp these in
turn to make a safe ascent. At the top he waved his hand, then shaded
his eyes and peered northward.

“He’s coming! Somebody’s coming!” he shouted. “There’s a little boat
pushing off from that other shore.”

Then he descended with a rapidity that delighted even himself and
called forth a bit of praise from Margot.

“I’m so glad you can climb. One can see so much more from the
tree-tops; and, oh! there is so much, so much to find out all the time!
Isn’t there?”

“Yes. Decidedly. One of the things I’d like to find out first is who
you are and how you came here. If you’re willing.”

Then he added, rather hastily: “Of course, I don’t want to be
impertinently curious. It only seems so strange to find such educated
people buried here in the north woods. I don’t see how you live here.
I--I--”

But the more he tried to explain the more confused he grew, and Margot
merrily simplified matters by declaring:--

“You are curious, all the same, and so am I. Let’s tell each other all
about everything, and then we’ll start straight without the bother of
stopping as we go along. Do sit down and I’ll begin.”

“Ready.”

“There’s so little, I shan’t be long. My dear mother was Cecily Dutton,
my Uncle Hugh’s twin. My father was Philip Romeyn, uncle’s closest
friend. They were almost more than brothers to each other, always;
though uncle was a student and, young as he was, a professor at
Columbia. Father was a business man, a banker or a cashier in a bank.
He wasn’t rich, but mother and uncle had money. From the time they were
boys, uncle and father were fond of the woods. They were great hunters
then, and spent all the time they could get up here in northern Maine.
After the marriage mother begged to come with them, and it was her
money bought this island, and the land along the shore of this lake
as far as we can see from here. Much farther, too, of course, because
the trees hide things. They built this log cabin, and it cost a great,
great deal to do it. They had to bring the workmen so far, but it was
finished at last, and everything was brought up here to make it--just
as you see.”

“What an ideal existence!”

“Was it? I don’t know much about ideals, though uncle talks of them
sometimes. It was real, that’s all. They were very, very happy. They
loved each other so dearly. Angelique came from Canada to keep the
house, and she says my mother was the sweetest woman she ever saw. Oh!
I wish--I wish I could have seen her! Or that I might remember her.
I’ll show you her portrait. It hangs in my own room.”

“Did she die?”

“Yes, when I was a year old. My father had died long before that, and
my mother was broken-hearted. Even for uncle and me she could not bear
to live. It was my father’s wish that we should come up here to stay,
and Uncle Hugh left everything and came. I was to be reared ‘in the
wilderness, where nothing evil comes,’ was what both my parents said.
So I have been, and--that’s all.”

Adrian was silent for some moments. The girl’s face had grown dreamy
and full of a pathetic tenderness, as it always did when she discussed
her unknown father and mother, even with Angelique; though, in reality,
she had not been allowed to miss what she had never known. Then she
looked up with a smile and observed: “Your turn.”

“Yes--I--suppose so. May as well give the end of my story first--I’m a
runaway.”

“Why?”

“No matter why.”

“That isn’t fair.”

He parried the indignation of her look by some further questions of his
own. “Have you always lived here?”

“Always.”

“You go to the towns sometimes, I suppose.”

“I have never seen a town, except in pictures.”

“Whew! Don’t you have any friends? Any girls come to see you?”

“I never saw a girl, only myself in that poor broken glass of Angel’s;
and, of course, the pictured ones--as of the towns--in the books.”

“You poor child!”

Margot’s brown face flushed. She wanted nobody’s pity, and she had not
felt that her life was a singular or narrow one till this outsider
came. A wish very like Angelique’s, that he had stayed where he
belonged, arose in her heart, but she dismissed it as inhospitable. Her
tone, however, showed her resentment.

“I’m not poor. Not in the least. I have everything any girl could want,
and I have--uncle! He’s the best, the wisest, the noblest man in all
the world. I know it, and so Angelique says. She’s been in your towns,
if you please. Lived in them, and says she never knew what comfort
meant until she came to Peace Island and us. You don’t understand.”

Margot was more angry than she had ever been, and anger made her
decidedly uncomfortable. She sprang up hastily, saying:--

“If you’ve nothing to tell I must go. I want to get into the forest and
look after my friends there. The storm may have hurt them.”

She was off down the mountain, as swift and sure-footed as if it were
not a rough pathway that made him blunder along very slowly. For
he followed at once, feeling that he had not been fair, as she had
accused, in his report of himself; and that only a complete confidence
was due these people who had treated him so kindly.

“Margot! Margot! Wait a minute! You’re too swift for me! I want to--”

Just there he caught his foot in a running vine, stumbled over a hidden
rock, and measured his length, head downward on the slope. He was not
hurt, however, though vexed and mortified. But when he had picked
himself up and looked around the girl had vanished.

[TO BE CONTINUED]




  APRIL

  FROM “IN MEMORIAM”


    Now rings the woodland loud and long,
      The distance takes a lovelier hue,
      And, drowned in yonder living blue,
    The lark becomes a sightless song.

    Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
      The flocks are whiter down the vale,
      And milkier every milky sail
    On winding stream or distant sea;

    Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
      In yonder greening gleam, and fly
      The happy birds, that change their sky
    To build and brood; that live their lives

    From land to land; and in my breast
      Spring wakens, too; and my regret
      Becomes an April violet,
    And buds and blossoms like the rest.




  WOOD-FOLK TALK

  By J. ALLISON ATWOOD


  HOW OWL BECAME A NIGHT BIRD.

Why anybody, especially such a sociable fellow as Owl, should stay
indoors all day and go out only after the other birds are asleep, would
be hard to guess. Yet there is a reason, and a good one, too.

It was the third year after the king’s reception that Owl moved into
Birdland. He was a stranger to every one and, moreover, he seemed
reserved, seldom joining in any of the social functions. Indeed, he was
considered by many to be a wizard, so eccentric was he. Wren had once
remarked, Owl always seemed to have something on his mind. Whereupon
Brown Thrasher, with his usual sarcasm, replied that he didn’t think
that Owl had any mind. Of course, this created a laugh at Owl’s
expense, but he took it good-naturedly, for he knew that Thrasher’s
opinions were as airy as his flight.

Owl’s first great trouble was house hunting. He had been brought up and
accustomed to live in a hollow tree, and, if the truth must be told, he
was far too clumsy to build such a house for himself. No wonder, then,
that he was overcome with gratitude when Flicker offered him the one
which he had built the year before. Like all the woodpeckers, Flicker
was a good deal of a carpenter and always persisted in building himself
a new house each spring, even though it might be but a short flight
from his last year’s home.

Flicker had taken quite a liking to Owl, who always behaved like a
gentleman, but the real reason was because of Thrasher’s attempt to
tease him. Flicker and Thrasher were not very good friends. Many
years ago Thrasher had insinuated that Flicker wore a black patch of
feathers on his breast so that he might claim relationship with Meadow
Lark. This, of course, was not true, and Flicker, who, by means of the
red mark on the back of his head, could trace his ancestry back to the
great Ivory Bill, could well laugh at the accusation. Nevertheless, he
had always remembered it, and it was, therefore, with a double pleasure
that he let Owl occupy his last year’s house.

As for Owl, it mattered little as to the real reason of his getting the
house. So pleased was he that he even contemplated holding a reception
in his new home. But then, as he thought how plain and old-fashioned it
would seem to such a fastidious housekeeper as Oriole, his desire left
him.

Now, when Sparrow Hawk, who had just arrived in Birdland, learned that
Flicker had given one of his houses to Owl, he was very angry, for he
had wanted it himself. He resolved to outwit Owl. Being rather stupid
himself, he could not believe that Owl was really a bright fellow. So,
with this object in view, Sparrow Hawk chose a nice, quiet spot in
the nearby underbrush. Song Sparrow, who lived in the thicket, moved
to the other end. He had never been fully satisfied as to how Sparrow
Hawk received his name. However, Sparrow Hawk did not disturb him in
the least, but remained hidden in the brush. “When Owl goes out to
dinner,” thought he, “I’ll take possession of his house.” But Owl saw
through his plan with half an eye and remained at home. At night, as
soon as it became dark, he would slip quietly out and get himself a
very comfortable meal. Then he would go back chuckling to himself as
he thought of Sparrow Hawk’s plan. This went on for many days, and each
morning Sparrow Hawk would say to himself, “He must come out to-day or
he will starve.” Little did he know how Owl was getting ahead of him.

At length Sparrow Hawk became tired of hiding and flew up to Owl’s
door. He expected to find the latter dead from starvation, or at
least too weak to make any resistance. But when he saw Owl, plump and
healthy, puff out his chest with an angry snap of his bill, he changed
his mind and left in a hurry.

He was at a loss to account for Owl’s sleek condition. One day,
however, he overheard one of his neighbors say that he had seen Owl fly
out of his house late on the evening before.

Sparrow Hawk was more angry than ever. He saw that Owl had outwitted
him. He resolved to be revenged, yet he knew that he could not stay
awake all night to get possession of Owl’s house. Instead, he made up
a lot of scandalous stories about Owl, and even went so far as to say
that he ate other birds. At first Birdland would not believe these
stories about Owl, but, when finally they learned his queer habits,
they began to think that they must be true. So it happened that Owl
became confirmed in his night-going habits.

One time he stayed out later than usual, and it was daybreak when he
got near home. Instead of going in immediately, he remained in a nearby
pine tree. It was so much more pleasant outside than in the house. His
eyes had been troubling him of late, so he closed them. Then, before
he knew it, Owl fell asleep. Very soon the sun rose and all Birdland
was in a great bustle. Suddenly Chick-a-dee, who was searching for his
breakfast, gave a startled little shriek. Who was that in the pine
tree? It must be Owl. Blue Jay, too, was excited when Chick-a-dee,
breathless and with feathers in disorder, hurried to him with the news.
And so it spread. Everybody was indignant, for they remembered the
stories told by Sparrow Hawk. Owl, they thought, should be put out of
the way. This they whispered excitedly to each other as they surrounded
the tree. Flicker was the only one who had heard the news and would
not join the gathering. He sat on his doorstep watching them as they
silently approached Owl, and he trembled, for it would be a very easy
matter to kill poor Owl while he was asleep.

Sparrow Hawk was exultant. Now at last he would be revenged. Everybody
believed Owl to be a villain and wished to kill him.

But to tell the truth, the birds were afraid of Owl. Even Sparrow Hawk
hesitated about attacking him. Finally, it was planned that every one
should fly at him at once while he slept, unconscious of his danger. As
Flicker understood their plan, he became alarmed almost to distraction,
and then, as if on a sudden thought, his anxious voice rang out, “Wake
up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

For a moment the birds were speechless. Then, “Kill him! Kill him! Kill
him!” cried Sparrow Hawk, and at that instant they all flew at him.
Owl’s big eyes popped open and his feathers stood on end. So large did
he appear and so terrible did the snap of his bill seem that, for the
minute, his enemies stopped half way in their flight, and then, before
they could collect their scattered wits, Owl darted noiselessly into
his house.

It is very easy for us to understand now how all the scandals about Owl
were started and why he lives such a hermit’s life. We know, too, why
Flicker and Sparrow Hawk cannot get along together since the former
saved Owl’s life. To tell the truth, Flicker is not a bit afraid of
Sparrow Hawk, but when he sees him coming, hides behind a tree and
calls, “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” just to anger him. Sparrow Hawk
knows well that he would have little chance of catching Flicker, who
can dodge around the tree as nimbly as any squirrel, so his only retort
is to call out to an imaginary ally, “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”




  LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS

  BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD


  CHAPTER III

  MISS POMEROY COMES


 SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

 Polly Prentiss is an orphan who lives with a distant relative, Mrs.
 Manser, the mistress of Manser farm. Miss Hetty Pomeroy, a maiden
 lady of middle age, has, ever since the death of her favorite niece,
 been on the lookout for a little girl whom she might adopt. She is
 attracted by Polly’s appearance and quaint manners, and finally
 decides to take her home with her and keep her for a month to see if
 the plan would be agreeable to both. If Polly, whose real name is
 Mary, should fulfill her expectations she would then wish to adopt her.


Polly ran out of the room, and Mrs. Manser hurried through the house
to open the front door; she stepped out to the wagon to greet Miss
Pomeroy, and stood with the breeze fluttering her scanty front locks
till Polly reappeared.

“I don’t know as she’ll be what you want, at all,” said Mrs. Manser,
blinking up at the grave, kind face above her, for the sun shone in
her eyes. “I’ll leave you to find out what sort of a child she is, as
I told you the other day, for nobody can tell what will suit anybody
else. I’ve tried to bring her up well, but, of course, she hasn’t had
advantages, though she’s pretty bright in school, her teacher says.”

“I’m glad it’s vacation time,” said Miss Pomeroy, cheerily. “Polly and
I will have so much better chance to get acquainted with each other,
and become friends whether she stays with me always or not. Is she
pleased to go, Mrs. Manser?”

“I guess she realizes what a great chance ’tis for her, and how good
you are,” said Mrs. Manser, avoiding the direct gaze of the keen gray
eyes. She began to wish she had left unsaid a few things, with which
she had charged Polly’s mind. “Of course, ’tisn’t as if she had the
sense of a grown person,” she added, somewhat vaguely.

“I don’t know about that,” laughed Miss Pomeroy; “it seems to me that
little people have a wonderful amount of sense sometimes.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Manser, dubiously, “perhaps they have.”

Meanwhile Polly had run out to the shed, where the old people were
waiting to say good-by to her. They had been marshaled into a line by
Uncle Sam Blodgett, so that Polly might be hugged and kissed by each
in turn, without loss of time; but the line wavered and broke as the
little figure they all loved to see came flying in at the door. Poor
Bob Rust, from his humble stand at the rear, gave a strange, sorrowful
cry and turned to go out of the shed.

“Here,” called Polly, peremptorily, “I’ll kiss you first of all, on
your forehead, because I don’t like all your whiskers, you know,” and
the man stooped for his good-by, and then ran, stumbling, out of the
shed and away to the cow pasture.

“I said good-by to the cows and all the hens and the pigs when I
first got up,” said Polly, turning to her friends; “and I gave Prince
some oats and said good-by to him right after breakfast. Now, Uncle
Blodgett, it’s your turn.”

The old man swung her quickly up into his arms and gave her a hearty
kiss.

“Here,” he said, as he set her down, “you take this bunch o’ slippery
elm to keep me in mind, and you take this knife. One blade’s all right,
and ’twould be an extra fine article if the other blade was fixed up a
bit.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Polly, fervently, as she slipped her two presents
into her petticoat pocket, “you’re just as good as you can be. Perhaps
I shall come back here to stay, but, anyway, Miss Pomeroy would let me
come to see you all, sometimes, I’m sure.”

“I reckon you’ll never come back here,” muttered Uncle Blodgett to the
chopping block, “not to stay, if that Pomeroy woman has got eyes and a
heart.”

Mrs. Ramsdell pressed Polly fiercely to her breast, and then let her
go, after a searching look into the brown eyes.

“There, that’s over with,” she said, firmly. “One more thing gone,
along with all the rest.”

“But I shan’t forget you,” faltered Polly, whose eyes were getting very
misty indeed.

“Of course you won’t, dear child,” quavered Aunty Peebles, as she
folded Polly in her arms, and as she released the little girl she
pressed a tiny pin cushion into her hand, which speedily found a
hiding-place with the slippery elm and the bladeless knife.

Last of all came Grandma Manser, who smoothed Polly’s curls with her
trembling hands and could hardly bear to say good-by at all.

“If you get adopted, my lamb,” she whispered in Polly’s ear, “daughter
Sarah says it’s likely she can buy me something to hear with, and
Uncle Sam Blodgett’s promised to read to us now you’re going. But if
you aren’t happy at Miss Hetty’s, dear, you come back, and nobody
will be better pleased than I to see you; ’twill joy me more than an
ear-trumpet!”

Polly swallowed hard, and dashed something from her eyes as she
ran into the house. She said a hasty good-by to Father Manser, who
was washing his hands at the kitchen sink for the third time since
breakfast, and hurried out of doors with the big enamel cloth bag which
contained her wardrobe.

She courtesied to Miss Pomeroy, and gave a faint “good-morning, ma’am,”
in response to the cheery salutation from her new friend. Mrs. Manser
gave her a peck on the lips and a forlorn “Good-by, child, and be as
little trouble as you can to Miss Pomeroy,” and then Polly climbed into
the wagon.

In another minute the wagon was rolling quickly down the road, the
chorus of good-bys from old, familiar voices had hushed into silence,
and Polly, stealing a glance at the gray eyes so far above the brim
of her Sunday hat, felt that old things had passed away, and a new,
strange life stretched out before her.

“Let me see, Mary, you are ten years old, aren’t you? When does your
birthday come?” Miss Hetty asked suddenly, when they had gone a little
way down the hill toward the village. The voice was kind and friendly,
but the unwonted “Mary” which she must expect always to hear now, gave
Polly a homesick twinge.

“It’s come,” she answered, glancing timidly up at Miss Hetty. “I had my
birthday two weeks ago, and I was ten--if you please,” added the little
girl, hastily.

“I guess I was just as polite as Eleanor that time,” she thought, and
the idea that she had made a fair start cheered Polly, so that she
smiled confidingly at Miss Pomeroy, who smiled at her in return.

“You don’t look as old as that,” she said, kindly, but her voice had a
sober sound at which Polly took alarm.

“Yes’m. I’m small for my age,” she said, slowly, “but I’m real strong.
I’ve never been sick, not one single day.” And then she thought, “Oh,
dear! probably Eleanor was tall! I’m going to see if I can’t stretch
myself out the way Ebenezer did when he was little. I can lie down
on the floor in my room and reach my arms and legs as far as they’ll
go--What, ma’am?” said Polly, quickly, as she realized that Miss
Pomeroy was speaking.

“I was saying that I suppose you’re accustomed to play out of doors a
good deal,” said Miss Hetty, a little sharply, “for you have such rosy
cheeks. What are you thinking about, my dear?”

“I was thinking about Ebenezer, for one thing,” said Polly, truthfully.
“Yes’m, my cheeks are always pretty red.” Then she was seized with
dismay; probably Eleanor’s cheeks were white, like snowdrops. “They
aren’t quite so red when I’m in the house,” she ventured, bravely,
“and, of course, I shall be in the house a great deal now I’m getting
on in years.”

Polly felt that this phrase, borrowed from Mrs. Manser’s stock, was
most happily chosen. Miss Hetty made an inarticulate sound, and touched
up her brown mare, but all she said was, “Who is Ebenezer?”

“Ebenezer is Mrs. Manser’s cat,” said Polly, glad to be on safe ground,
“and he knows a great deal, Father Manser says. He is nearly as old as
I am, and he has caught forty-three rats to Uncle Blodgett’s certain
sure knowledge, and nobody knows how many more. He has eaten them,
too,” said Polly, gravely, “though I don’t see how he could ever in
this world; do you?”

“They wouldn’t be to my taste,” said Miss Pomeroy, briskly. “Who is
Uncle Sam Blodgett? I mean, is he any relation of yours?”

“Oh, no, ma’am; he isn’t any relation of anybody,” said Polly.
“His kith and kin have all died, he says, and he is a lonely old
hulk--that’s what he told me he was,” she added, seeing a look which
might be disapproval on Miss Hetty’s face. “He’s had adventures by land
and sea and suffered far and near, and it’s a tame thing for him to saw
and split now that his days are numbered.”

“Mercy on us!” ejaculated Miss Pomeroy. “Where did you ever get such a
memory, child?”

“From--from my father, Mrs. Manser said,” faltered Polly. Here was
a new cause of anxiety; evidently Eleanor’s memory had been quite
different from hers. Polly looked steadily before her, and set her
little mouth firmly. “Perhaps Arctura Green, that they’ve spoken of,
can tell me about Eleanor’s memory,” she thought, suddenly; “maybe I
can ask her about a good many things.”

Just then Daisy, the pretty brown mare, turned the curve at the foot of
the long hill, and they were in the main street of Mapleton.


  CHAPTER IV

  POLLY’S FIRST JOURNEY

“Now, I have some errands to do,” said Miss Pomeroy; “perhaps you’d
like to get out of the wagon at Burcham’s and see the new toys.”

“No, ma’am, thank you; I will stay here and hold the horse,” said
Polly, and, after a keen look at her, Miss Pomeroy drove to the butcher
shop and alighted, leaving Daisy in her charge.

“I guess that is what Eleanor would have said,” remarked Polly, in a
low, confidential tone to the horse, as she carefully flicked an early
fly from Daisy’s back; “and, truly, I don’t care a bit about seeing the
dolls or anything to-day. Of course, I mustn’t tell stories, trying to
be like Eleanor; I’ve just got to stop wanting to do things, so I can
tell the truth.”

As she faced this tremendous task, Polly sat so still and erect that
she looked like a stern little sentinel, and her motionless figure
attracted the attention of a number of people whom she did not see. In
a few moments Miss Pomeroy came out of the butcher’s and went across
the road to the post office. The butcher brought out a package in brown
paper and stowed it carefully in at the back of the wagon. Then he
stepped around to pat Daisy and speak to Polly. He was a red-faced,
hearty man who had lost two front teeth and talked with a slight lisp.
He and Polly had always been on excellent terms.

“How d’ye do, Polly?” he said, reaching up his unoccupied hand to grasp
the little girl’s; “thso this is the day you thstart in to live with
Miths Pomeroy? Well, you’re going to have a fine home, and she’ths an
exthtra good woman, when you get uthsed to her being a mite quick and
up-and-coming.”

“Mr. Boggs,” said Polly, anxiously, “you know I’m Mary Prentiss now.
You mustn’t please call me by my old name any more--not unless Miss
Pomeroy decides not to adopt me. I don’t suppose you ever saw Eleanor,
Miss Pomeroy’s niece that died? No, of course you couldn’t have.”

“I thsaw her when thshe came here, a year-older,” said Mr. Boggs, as
he turned to greet a customer; “just like mothst children of that age,
thshe looked, for all I could thsee. I reckon her qualitieths weren’t
what you could call developed then. Well, good-day to you, Miths Mary
Prentiths, and the bethst of luck,” he said, with a laugh and a low
bow as he gave Polly’s hand a final shake.

Just then Miss Pomeroy came across the road with her hands full of
papers and letters, and with a little white bag, which she put in
Polly’s lap as she took her seat. The bag had a deliciously lumpy
feeling, and Polly’s mind leaped to gum-drops in an instant.

“Open it and let us see what they are like,” said Miss Pomeroy, as she
gathered up the reins, which had slackened in Polly’s hands during the
interview with Mr. Boggs. “Chocolate creams and gum-drops. I suspect
you’ll like the chocolates best, but I am very fond of gum-drops; so
I’ll take one of those. One piece of candy is all I allow myself in a
day, so you may carry off the bag to your own room when we get there,
to keep me from being tempted.”

Polly took one bite of a big chocolate drop after Miss Pomeroy had been
served to her taste, and then she gave a little sigh of delight.

“I never tasted a chocolate cream before,” she said, slowly. “I don’t
suppose there’s anything else so nice to eat in all the world, is
there? I wish Aunty Peebles had some of these. I shall save her half;
that is, if you’re willing,” she added, hastily.

“I’m afraid they’ll be pretty hard and dry before you see Aunty Peebles
again,” said Miss Pomeroy, and Polly’s heart sank in spite of the
delicious taste in her mouth.

“I don’t expect she’s going to let me see Manser Farm again, till next
Christmas, probably, if she adopts me,” thought Polly. “Of course,
candy is good for ’most a year if you keep it carefully, but it does
begin to get a little hard. I know, because those two peppermints
Father Manser gave me yesterday were the last of the ones he bought for
Thanksgiving, and they were just a little hard, though, of course, they
were nice.”

“Maybe I could give some of them to the butcher to take to Aunty
Peebles, if--if he comes to Pomeroy Oaks,” ventured Polly, after a
short silence, during which Daisy was trotting along the road, out of
the village, past the square white church with its tall steeple, past
the tinsmith’s shop, on toward the meadows beyond which lay Polly’s
undiscovered country.

“He comes twice a week,” said Miss Pomeroy; “but wouldn’t you like to
send Aunty Peebles a little box of fresh candy by mail, some day, to
surprise her? You could put it in the post office, and Mr. Manser would
get it when he goes for the mail, and take it to her.”

“Oh!” said Polly, her eyes brimming over with gratitude; “oh, aren’t
you good! Why, Aunty Peebles hasn’t ever had anything from the post
office excepting once a year her second cousin from way out West sends
her a paper with the list of deaths in the town where she lives, and
sometimes there’s an ink mark to show it’s been a friend of her second
cousin’s family; but,” said Polly, shaking her head, “it ’most always
made Aunty Peebles cry when it came, and I believe she would rather not
have had it.”

“I should say not, indeed,” assented Miss Pomeroy; “just hear that
bird, Mary! He’s telling cheerful news, isn’t he?”

Polly hugged herself with sudden joy. Miss Pomeroy evidently liked
birds, or she would never have spoken in that way. “Probably she’ll
leave the windows open, so I can hear them when I’m reading and sewing
and doing quiet things, like Eleanor,” she thought, happily; but all
she said was, “Oh, yes’m; isn’t he glad spring has come, don’t you
believe?”

“I believe he is, my dear,” said Miss Pomeroy; “and now, if you look
ahead, you can see through the trees the roof of the house where you
are going to live for a little while, at any rate.”

“For always,” said Polly, firmly, to herself. “Miss Pomeroy’s good as
she can be, and there’s Grandma Manser’s ear trumpet, and Mrs. Manser’s
poor health, and all I’ve got to do is to learn to like to sew and read
better than to play, and to stay in the house and be quiet instead of
running wild outdoors. That isn’t much,” said Polly, scornfully, to
herself, “for a big girl like me.”

Past the rich meadows through which ran the little brook that joined
Ashdon River, over the wooden bridge that rumbled under her feet, along
the brook road beneath the arching willows, up the easy hill, and into
the avenue of stately oaks that gave Miss Pomeroy’s home its name,
trotted Daisy, carrying her mistress with the grave, kind eyes and
little, eager-faced Polly. The child gazed with awe and excitement at
the flying panorama, and gave quick, short breaths as the pretty mare
made a skillful turn and stopped before a porch over which was trained
an old grape vine. In the porch stood Arctura Green, Miss Pomeroy’s
faithful helper, and at the foot of the steps Hiram, Arctura’s brother,
waited to take Daisy, who rubbed her nose against his rough hand and
gave a little whinny of pleasure before she crunched the lump of sugar
which Hiram slipped into her mouth.

“Here we are, my dear,” said Miss Pomeroy, briskly, and Polly, feeling
as if she were sound asleep and wide awake all together, jumped out of
the wagon.


  CHAPTER V

  AT POMEROY OAKS

“This is little Mary Prentiss,” said Miss Pomeroy to Arctura Green, who
stood beaming down on Polly.

“Well, I’m glad enough to see you,” said Arctura, heartily, reaching
out her long arm and drawing the little girl close to her side;
“something young is just what we need here. We’re all growing old, Miss
Hetty and Hiram and I, and Daisy and the cows and all hands; we’ve got
a couple of kittens, to be sure, but they’re always busy about their
own affairs and don’t talk much, so they’re no great company.”

“Why, Arctura, I don’t know when I’ve heard you make such a long
speech,” said Miss Pomeroy. “I hope you have something good for dinner,
for Mary and I have had a long drive and a great deal of excitement,
and we shall be hungry pretty soon.”

“It’s only just turned half-past eleven,” said Arctura, releasing Polly
after a good squeeze against her big checked apron, “so there’ll be an
hour to wait. Where’s the little girl’s baggage, Miss Hetty?”

“It’s there in the back of the wagon,” said Miss Pomeroy; “a big black
bag.”

“If you please, I can carry it, Miss Arctura,” said Polly, stepping
forward to take the bag. “I’m real strong.”

“I want to know,” said Arctura, placidly. “Well, considering how many
times as big as you are I am, supposing you let me lug it upstairs for
you just this once. I shouldn’t know I was hefting more’n a feather’s
weight,” and she swung the bag jauntily as she marched into the house
after Miss Pomeroy, gently pushing the little girl before her.

Hiram stood looking into the house for a moment. His mouth had fallen
open, as was its wont in times of meditation. Hiram had what his
sister frankly called a “draughty countenance,” with a large-nostriled
nose, big, prominent ears, and bulging eyes, but the same spirit of
good-nature that illumined Arctura’s face shone from her brother’s.

“She’s a neat little piece,” remarked Hiram to Daisy, as he headed her
for the barn; “a neat little piece, if ever I saw one, but she looks a
mite scared, seems’s if. This is a kind of a quiet place for a young
one to be set down, no mistake, and there ain’t any passing to speak
of. Children like to see things a-going, even if they’re a-going by,
seems’s if. She gave me a real pretty smile, say what you’ve a mind
to,” he insisted, as if Daisy had expressed violent remonstrance.

The side porch led into a small, square hall; opposite the porch door
was one which Arctura opened, and Polly saw that it was at the foot of
a flight of stairs. Arctura and the black enamel cloth bag vanished
from sight as the door closed. In the hall stood a hat-tree with curved
mahogany branches, tipped with shining brass.

“Now, I hang my everyday coat and hat here,” said Miss Pomeroy,
suiting the action to the word, “and you’d better do the same. What’s
the matter, child?” she asked, at the sight of Polly’s face.

“These--these are not my everyday hat and jacket, Miss Pomeroy, if you
please,” said Polly. “My everyday jacket is a shawl, and my everyday
hat is a sunbonnet sometimes, and sometimes it isn’t--it hasn’t been
anything. These are my Sunday best, and they are used to lying in a
drawer on account of the dust--though I don’t believe there’s one speck
of dust here,” she added, politely.

“Arctura would be pleased to hear that,” said Miss Pomeroy. “I think we
may venture to leave the Sunday hat and coat here until after dinner.
When you go upstairs, you will find a drawer in which you can put them,
I’m sure.”

Then Miss Hetty led the way through a door at the left of the hall into
a big, comfortable room, the walls of which were lined with book-cases.
There was a bow window around which ran a cushioned seat; there were
lounging chairs and rocking chairs, and a long sofa; a great round
mahogany table covered with books and papers; and, best of all, a
fireplace with a bright fire burning under the black pot which hung on
the iron crane; and, guarding the fire, were two soldierly figures with
stern profiles.

“These were my great-great-grandfather’s andirons,” said Miss Pomeroy,
as she watched Polly’s eyes. “Suppose you sit down by the fire and get
warmed through, for there was a little chill in the air, after all;
and you might take a book to amuse yourself. I have to be busy with
something for awhile. Would you--I suppose you wouldn’t care to look at
the newspaper?” questioned Miss Pomeroy, doubtfully. “The child looks
so absurdly young,” she thought, “and yet she talks as if she were
fifty.”

“No’m, thank you,” said Polly; “I will just look at the fire and the
books;” so Miss Pomeroy opened another door that led into the great
front hall, and went out of the room. She left the door open, and
Polly could hear a solemn ticking. She tiptoed to the door and,
looking out into the hall, saw a tall clock with a great white face,
above which there was a silvery moon in her last quarter. Polly looked
at the slowly-swinging pendulum with shining eyes.

“That must be Mrs. Ramsdell’s clock,” she said, softly. “I mean her
father’s. She described it just that way, and she said its like was
never seen in these parts; no, it was those parts,” said Polly,
correcting herself, “for it was ’way off in Connecticut. Well, then,
there must have been two made alike, and Mrs. Ramsdell never knew it; I
guess I won’t tell her, for she might be sorry.”

Polly stood a moment in the doorway; she could hear the sound of Miss
Pomeroy’s voice in some distant part of the house. She tiptoed back
into the library. The carpet was so thick and soft that Polly knelt
down and rubbed it gently with her little hand; then she put her head
down and pressed her cheek against the faded roses.

“It feels like Ebenezer’s fur,” said Polly. “I wonder if Ebenezer will
miss me.”

Polly sat still for a moment with wistful eyes, and then hastily
scrambled to her feet as the door into the side hall opened partway and
Arctura stuck her head in.

“Here,” she said, dropping a struggling heap on the floor, “I thought
maybe you’d like to see these two little creatures; I call ’em Snip and
Snap, and I’ve had a chase to find ’em for you. There’s nothing they
can break in the library, so Miss Hetty lets ’em run wild once in a
while. I’ll just shut that other door.”

Arctura marched across the floor and shut the door into the front hall;
then she marched back toward her own quarters. “If I were in your
place,” she said, looking at the kittens instead of Polly, “I wouldn’t
make a practice of sitting on the floor. I don’t know as it’s any harm,
really, but a chair looks better for little girls.”

“Yes’m,” said Polly, with scarlet cheeks, as Arctura vanished with a
good-humored smile. “I expect she thought I was turning somersaults,
maybe,” said Polly to the kittens; “oh, dear!”

But the kittens were quite undisturbed by Arctura’s remarks. As Polly
stood still for a moment, they began an acrobatic performance which
always gave them keen enjoyment. Snip made a clutch for the hem of
Polly’s skirt in front at the same instant that Snap sprang upon her
from the rear. They secured a good hold on the pink gingham, and
clambered up to Polly’s shoulder as fast as they could go. There they
met and shifted positions with considerable scratching of their sharp
little claws, and descended, Snap in front and Snip at the back,
tumbling around Polly’s feet, and then scampering away from each other
sidewise with arched backs and distended tails.

[Illustration: THE KITTENS CLAMBERED TO POLLY’S SHOULDERS]

“Oh, you little cunnings!” cried Polly, forgetting all her troubles
in a minute. To the window seats flew Snip and Snap, and there they
swung back and forth on the stout curtain cords, and made dashes at
each other; then they were off to the seat of an old leather-covered
chair. Snip mounted to the top of the back and patted Snap on the head
with a paw whose claws were politely sheathed, as often as he started
to spring to his brother’s side. Over and under chairs and tables they
went, and Polly, full of delight, followed them, catching up one or the
other whenever she could.

At last the kittens grew tired of play, and when Miss Hetty opened the
library door they were comfortably seated on Polly’s shoulders, and
there was a sound in the room as of two contented little mill wheels.

[TO BE CONTINUED]




  APRIL LEAVES

  By Julia McNair Wright


Foliage is the most prominent feature of the plant world. Trunks and
branches are large and grand, the parti-colored flowers are, at first
glance, more beautiful, but the leaf is the most conspicuous part of
the vegetation. If flowers and leaves, and wherever is now a leaf we
should have a blossom, the eyes would soon tire of the glare of vivid
color, and we should long for the soft, restful green of leaves.

Early in April we find the leaf buds unfolding upon the sides of the
stems, or pushing up through the ground. Some of these buds are placed
opposite to each other upon the stem, others are set alternately,
others spirally, so that if you follow with a thread the placing of a
certain number of buds you will see that the thread has made a complete
circuit of the stem, and then another. Where the leaves are in a spiral
placement it is merely a whorl drawn out; where there is a whorl it is
merely a compressed spiral.

Let us look at a leaf blade. The woody fibre which makes up the main
stem and, bound into a little bundle, composes the foot stalk, spreads
out into a light, woody framework for the leaf. This framework is
usually in two layers, like the nervures in a butterfly’s wing. The
central line of the frame is called the mid-rib, the other parts are
styled the veins. Some of these veins are coarser and stronger than
others, as, for example, those which expand in the large side lobes
of the maple and oak leaves; other veins are as fine as spider’s web.
Every student of botany should make studies in venation, by soaking
leaves until the green part has decayed, then laying them on black
cloth, and brushing the pulp away gently with a fine brush, when
perfect specimens of framework will remain. It is this framework which
gives the form to the leaf.

Leaves were not created for beauty, but for use. Animals and plants
alike are indebted to the shade of foliage for much comfort, and for
some further possibilities of life and growth. You suggest, as another
use, the supply of food. Yes, the grasses and many herbage plants are
greedily browsed by animals; thus we owe to them indirectly our food
supply.

Yet we have not reached the most important function of the leaf. To
the plant itself the leaf serves as a food purveyor, gathering perhaps
the larger portion of plant food from air and moisture by absorption.
The leaf is also the main breathing apparatus of the plant; the leaf
spreads out to air and sunlight the food received by the entire plant,
and thus secures chemical changes in it similar to assimilation and
digestion. The leaf makes possible the circulation of the sap. Thus the
leaf serves the plant as throat, lungs, and stomach. What the human
being would be without such organs the plant would be without the leaf,
or some part modified, as in the cactus family, to serve the purposes
of the leaf.

So, when in April, we see the trees on all sides bursting forth in
verdant foliage, let us remember the manifold purposes of the leaf.




  WITH THE EDITOR


The launching of a new magazine can fairly be compared to the
opening of a new house. In it there are various rooms--which we call
departments--to be opened and furnished.

Our house-warming was well attended. At our fireside were seen the
faces of young folks from all parts of the United States, from Canada,
England, and even far-off Hawaii. To please such a gathering it is
necessary to meet many requirements.

Although gratified by the praise which we have received in good
measure, and so encouraged to new ambitions, we, nevertheless, desire
the guidance of earnest criticism. In the spirit of mutual helpfulness,
then, we ask your opinion upon the departments already begun and your
advice as to the opening of others.

       *       *       *       *       *

Young people starting out with the ambition to accomplish something of
importance in the world naturally place great stress upon the element
of originality. To them, at first glance, the world’s great discoveries
and inventions seem based upon a learning totally new--the sudden
flash of genius rather than the natural growth of knowledge. But a
closer study of each achievement, even of genius itself, will show
that in reality it is but the finishing touch upon work already nearly
accomplished.

For example, let us consider Darwin and Wallace. Important as were
their services, their greatness does not rest upon the element of
originality. The knowledge necessary for the construction of the
theory of evolution had been accumulating in the minds of men for
centuries. These two did but observe and utilize that knowledge.
Others, whose names have been forgotten, have, doubtless, worked just
as earnestly and just as intelligently. How many of us have ever
heard of Lamarck, or even of Charles Darwin’s grandfather. Yet each
of these men, separately, brought the theory of evolution almost to
the threshold of public belief. Their lives were spent in building the
foundation, while Darwin and Wallace, using their data, finished the
work thus made possible. The men whom the world remembers are the ones
who recognize these chances and make perfect use of the past.

To-day, we see several minds struggling to interpret the problem of
wireless telegraphy. Their experiments are going on before the eyes
of the world. It is no sudden stroke of genius. What is in its effect
a decided originality, is largely the ability to make practical
application of past labor. Our knowledge of electricity has been
accumulating. The step is certain. The telegraph, the telephone, and
the electric light have long since ripened. Soon we may know who will
give wireless telegraphy its finishing touch.

Let us remember, therefore, that the great opportunities of the present
lie, not so much in the shaping of new castles of imagination, as in
patiently and carefully building upon the foundations already laid.




  EVENT AND COMMENT


  St. Louis Exposition

An event which stands prominently before us is the Exposition to be
held in St. Louis in the summer of 1903. Its double purpose is to
portray civilization in its most advanced state and to celebrate the
100th anniversary of the Louisiana Purchase--the historic transaction
whereby the United States purchased from France the territory lying
between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains.

The ground area of the proposed fair is nearly 1200 acres and the
appropriation, raised by the united efforts of the city of St. Louis,
the State of Missouri, and the national government, will reach thirty
millions of dollars.

The principal departments are Education, Art, Manufacture, Machinery,
Liberal Arts, Electricity, Transportation, Agriculture, Horticulture,
Forestry, Mining and Metallurgy, Fish and Game, Anthropology, and
Physical Culture. Each of these is to be represented by a building and
the whole group will be arranged in a symmetrical fan-shaped figure.

Through the center of this, extending from what we might term the
handle to the outer arc, will be a boulevard six hundred feet in width.
Where this intersects the circumference, some sixty feet above the
general level of the grounds, will be the Art Palace. It is to be a
permanent building and will cost at least one million dollars.

As much as possible the exhibits will show the process of manufacture
and development of the articles displayed. Raw materials also will
occupy a prominent place. St. Louis is the commercial center of the
Mississippi Valley--one of the world’s great areas of production.

The Louisiana Exposition as planned should be most convincing that the
United States has well utilized the territory purchased in 1803.


  Interior Heat

Professor T. C. Mendenhall has recently suggested that the internal
heat of the earth might be used as a source of power. In such an age we
are bound to be a little cautious in pronouncing anything impossible.
Experiments show that the temperature of the earth, as we descend into
its depths, increases one degree for every sixty feet. At this rate it
would be necessary to bore ten thousand feet to obtain the temperature
necessary to convert water into steam.

Professor William Hallock, of Columbia University, has already a plan
in mind. A few feet apart he would sink two parallel pipes into the
earth to the distance required. Both of these would terminate in a
subterranean reservoir which could be made by the explosion of dynamite
cartridges.

Then through one of the pipes a supply of water would be introduced
into the reservoir. Here, by the earth’s heat, it would be converted
into steam, and in this form conducted, by the other pipe, to the
surface, where it would be utilized.


  Prince Henry

Although the name Prince Henry has been in our ears for several weeks
past, some of us may not know his relation in the royal family.

He is the second son of an emperor and the brother of the present
Emperor of the German Empire. He is a descendant of the line of
Prussian kings which included one of the world’s greatest generals,
Frederick the Great.

On one side his grandfather, William I, of Prussia, was the first
emperor of the modern German Empire. On the other, his grandmother was
Queen Victoria of England. His wife is the granddaughter of the latter
sovereign.


  A Change In the Cabinet

On March 10, the Hon. John D. Long, Secretary of the Navy, tendered his
resignation from office. Mr. Long has been in the Presidential Cabinet
since 1897.

William H. Moody, who, like the former, hails from the State of
Massachusetts, has been appointed as his successor.

Mr. Moody is forty-nine years old, a lawyer by profession, and has been
a member of Congress for the past seven years. He will take up the
duties of his office on May 1.


  The New States

Bills are now before the House of Representatives for the admission to
Statehood of our remaining Territories--New Mexico, Arizona, Oklahoma,
and Indian Territory.

This movement was favored as far back as 1896.

The chief objection raised at present is, that most of the inhabitants
are of Mexican and Indian descent and are unfit for the responsibility
of citizenship.


  The Irrigation Bill

In the bill on irrigation recently passed in the Senate, provisions
were made for what is known as a Reclamation Fund. This is to be formed
from the proceeds of the sales of public lands and will be devoted to
the irrigation of the arid districts in the United States.

By means of such a movement it is proposed to reclaim and utilize a
great area of land which has heretofore been worthless to agriculture.


  Methuen’s Defeat.

By a night attack made on March 7, 1902, General Delarey, with a force
of fifteen hundred Boers, captured, near Vryburg, several hundred
British soldiers, all their supplies and four guns. Among the prisoners
was General Methuen, the commander of the British.

Such a demonstration of reserve strength upon the part of the Boers
should make the British Government cautious in declaring the war in
South Africa to be at an end.


  Photography In Colors

Mr. A. H. Verrill, of New Haven, Conn., has discovered a method in
photography for reproducing all natural tints and colors. He terms it
the autochromatic process. Its success is due to the paper used, which
is five times as sensitive to red and yellow light as ordinary paper,
and to the sharpness of the lenses. These latter were made under his
own direction.




[Illustration: IN-DOORS]

  PARLOR MAGIC

  By Ellis Stanyon

 The first of this series of papers on Magic, commencing with the March
 number, included directions to the beginner for Palming and the Pass.


Magical Production of a Coin.--Come forward with a coin palmed in the
right hand. Draw attention to the left hand, showing it back and front
as empty, and, as if in illustration of what you say, give the palm a
smart slap with the right hand, leaving the coin behind, and slightly
contracting the fingers so as to retain it; now show the right hand
empty, pulling up the sleeve with the left, which masks the presence of
the coin, then close the left hand and, after one or two passes over it
with the right hand, produce the coin.

       *       *       *       *       *

A New Coin Fold.--Take a piece of paper four inches by five inches,
place a coin on it, and fold the top of the paper down over the coin
to within one inch of the bottom. Then fold the right-hand side of the
paper under the coin, treating the left-hand side in a similar way. You
must now fold the one inch of paper at the bottom, under the coin, and
you will, apparently, have wrapped it securely in the paper; but really
it is in a kind of pocket, and will readily slip out into either hand
at pleasure.

Allow several persons in the audience to feel the coin through the
paper, then take it from the left hand to the right, letting the coin
slip out into the left hand, which picks up a plate from the table. You
may burn the paper in the flame of a candle, and, dropping the ashes on
the plate, the coin is found to have disappeared.

       *       *       *       *       *

To Vanish a Marked Coin from a Tumbler and Cause it to Appear in a
Small Box Wrapped in Paper in the Centre of a Large Ball of Wool.--For
this very surprising trick you will require to make the following
preparations:

Procure a tumbler having a slit cut flush with and parallel to the
bottom, which should be flat. The opening should be just large enough
to allow a half-dollar dropped into the tumbler to slip through into
your hand (see Fig. 6).

[Illustration: Fig. 6]

Obtain a small metal box large enough to take the coin easily, also a
flat tin tube just wide enough for the half-dollar to slide through it.
Place one end of this tube inside the box and close the lid on it,
keeping it in position by passing an elastic band over the box. You now
wrap the box in paper and wind a quantity of wool around it until you
get a large ball with the end of the tube projecting about one inch.
Place the ball thus prepared on the table at the rear of the stage, and
you are ready to perform. Show the tumbler, and draw attention to the
fact that it is an ordinary one by filling it with water, which can
be done by holding the forefinger around the slit. Empty the tumbler
and borrow a half-dollar, which has been marked by the owner, allowing
him to actually drop it into the glass. Cover the tumbler with a
handkerchief, shaking it continually to prove that your coin is still
there, and then place it down on your table, securing the coin through
the slit as you do so. Going to the back of the stage for the ball of
wool, you insert the coin into the tube and withdraw the latter, when
the action of the elastic band closes the box. Bring the ball forward
in a large glass basin and have the wool unwound, disclosing the box;
on this being opened the marked coin will be found within.

       *       *       *       *       *

Coin, Wine Glass, and Paper Cone.--This very pretty and amusing table
trick consists in causing a coin placed under a wine glass, the whole
being covered with a paper cone, to disappear and return as often as
desired.

The following arrangements are necessary: Take a wine glass and, having
placed a little gum all around its edge, turn it over on a sheet of
white paper, and when dry cut away the paper close to the glass. Obtain
a Japanese tray and on it lay a large sheet of paper similar to that
covering the mouth of the glass, and stand the glass, mouth downward,
on it. Make a paper cone to fit over the glass, and you are ready to
present the illusion.

Borrow a penny and lay it on the large sheet of paper by the side of
the wine glass; cover the glass with the paper cone, and place the
whole over the coin. Command the penny to disappear, and, on removing
the cone, it will seem to have done so, as the paper over the mouth
of the glass, being the same color as that on the tray, effectively
conceals the coin. To cause it to reappear, you replace the cone and
carry away the glass under it. This can be repeated as often as desired.

To make the experiment more effective, use colored paper, which shows
up against the coin more than white.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Pocket Vanish.--Take a coin in the right hand and make believe to
place it in the left, really palming it. The left hand is closed as
if it contained the coin and held away from the body. The right hand
pulls back the sleeve slightly, as if to show that the coin has not
been vanished in that direction. This movement brings the right hand
over the outside breast pocket, into which the coin is allowed to
fall unperceived. The coin is now vanished from the left hand in the
orthodox manner, and both hands are shown empty.

Should you desire to regain possession of the coin, have the outside
pocket made communicating with an inner one on the same side of the
coat; when, having shown the right hand unmistakably empty, you produce
the coin thence, in a magical manner.

       *       *       *       *       *

To Pass a Coin Into an Ordinary Matchbox Held by One of the
Spectators.--Prepare a matchbox as follows: Push open the sliding
portion about one inch. Then fix between the top of the slide and the
back end of the box a coin, the greater part of which is overhanging
the box, the whole being out of sight of the casual observer. Arranged
thus, give the box to someone to hold, with instructions that when you
count three the box is to be closed smartly. This will have the effect
of jerking the coin into the box.

You may now take a duplicate coin by means of the “Pocket Vanish,” or
any other convenient method, counting “One! two! three!” when, acting
according to your instructions, the person will close the box, and the
coin will be heard to fall inside.




[Illustration: THE OLD TRUNK]


This department we believe is destined soon to become one of the most
popular features of the magazine. Not only shall we spare no pains upon
our part, but we also earnestly ask your co-operation in providing
puzzles of all shapes and descriptions to bewilder and tangle the
most ingenious of intellects. To each of the first three persons who
shall correctly solve all the following puzzles, we will give a year’s
subscription to Young Folks Magazine, to be sent to any desired address.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following are the names of the first three persons to solve
correctly the puzzles in last month’s number and who are, therefore,
each entitled to a year’s subscription to Young Folks Magazine:

Amabel Jenks, Lawrence Park, Bronxville, New York.

Ethel Olive Bogert, 85 West 34th St., Bayonne, N. J.

Flora H. Towne, 178 Francisco St., Chicago, Ill.

Perfect solutions were also received from many other young people and,
as we offer the same inducement for this month, we hope to hear from
them again.

       *       *       *       *       *

The correct answers are given below.

  1. Feldspar.
  2. Independence Hall.
  3. Kinglet.
     Bluejay.
     Robin.
     Blackbird.
     Crow.
     Woodthrush.
  4. Alice in Wonderland.
  5. Saratoga.
  6. Beaver.
     Bear.
     Weasel.
     Puma.
     Deer.
     Otter.
     Seal.
     Ferret.
     Elk.
  7. Donkey.
     Turnkey.
     Monkey.
     Whiskey.
     Lackey.
     Turkey.


  AQUARIUM

In each of the following sentences are three fish. Can you catch them?

With difficulty she found her ring among the array of carpets.

The multitudes harkened: the vesper chimes had sounded.

So, leaving Elba’s shore, they turned the ship’s keel homeward.

                                             --Flora Linwood.


  DIAGONAL

When you have guessed correctly the following eight-letter words and
placed them one above the other in the order given, the diagonal from
upper left to lower right-hand corner will spell the name of one of the
very first men to explore America.

  An inscription.
  A kind of force.
  A system for conveyance.
  Quiet.
  Agreeable.
  A species of monkey.
  Kinship.
  A charm.

  --Warren Lee.

       *       *       *       *       *

  TWISTED RIVERS

The names of the following rivers do not run as smoothly as they might.
Can you straighten them?

  Nnmgaahoeol.
  Nkyou.
  Zaanom.
  Heirn.
  Lodacoor.

  --Burt L. Watson.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ENIGMA

  I am composed of eighteen letters.
  My 9-16-2 is that which covers the greater part of the world.
  My 3-6-8 is an abbreviation and a title.
  My 15-4-12-18 is something from which water is obtained.
  My 1-10-15-4-17 is a gem.
  My 11-7-13-18 is to quiet.
  My 5-14-12-4 is part of a shoe.
  My whole is a well known author.

                                 --Edith Irene.

       *       *       *       *       *

    My number, definite and known,
      Is ten times ten told ten times o’er;
    One-half of me is one alone,
      The other exceeds all count and score.

                                 --Selected.

       *       *       *       *       *

  DOUBLE CROSSWORD ENIGMA

              In bump not in hurt,
              In deep not in dirt
              In alas not in cry
              In rare not in nigh,
    A fruit and an animal here you find
    If to think and to search you are inclined.

                                        --Ruth.


Transcriber’s Notes:

A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.

Archaic spellings have been retained.

Cover image is in the public domain.

"latter" was changed to "former" in the Wood-folk tale as it was incorrect.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65037 ***