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L, I , :1 I I :, . , 111 -- ,;" , _-", . '_ " S_ '_ L' I . -, :, y'- z, ,- ,* , ,I -, '. 11 r I --_ ,,, _ ,_ I ; -, '' ,,, I 1z , I _,,n, wi, I I I- ,"q[ ,"" ,%, ' i I 1, iil "I"; 11 I "I I- I_ I :"IS" 11 I , I I "., ;1 -', -'.,,,-- I- ,,, .,.', '' ;, TS, S ,4, ,-,", I - 1, .1 11 ,I:, _, I ; ,,,, ','I : ',- ,.'-' ',; Ii' ", I r' I ", 'L ,T, I" r ,. I, I,; i 1 : :i, 2 1 ".I, I I _ "' '. -, ', 1, I -;, '_ P..,1- -1 I ,,.;, ; I , __' `, -,, : : '4' _L e ,-I ,, _,:-.- __- : ,,, - -1. I L ,,, ,,, II,;;,,._,,,' ` ', ,_ __ ' I ` 4- - _- 11 :; "' I ,,, . Si :I c ni * The Bi\ ' ad m LFlbriay ~."I. 'In ae " ~R~c3-< ^.***11" ^1,0-,~ THE MIRAGE MAN. YOU would never guess how to tell which was Pet and which was Pearl; for they were twins, ex- actly of a size, and both blue-eyed and golden-haired, -in fact, so near alike that mamma Lovejoy herself was sometimes quite bewildered by the pretty darlings. Yet there was a difference. Hidden away in one of Pearl's teeth, as white and dainty as the jewel from which she had derived her name, was a tiny lump of gold. I'm Pearl, and you can tell me by my toof-ache," was the way the little creature sometimes introduced herself. The twins were Boston children. Papa Lovejoy had brought them to the prairie with their sweet pale mother, who had left the crowded city in search of THE MIRAGE MAN. the bloom of health that had vanished from her cheek. And that was how Pet and Pearl saw the Mirage Man. He was such a wonderful, wonderful creature! The Mirage Man could shape himself from anybody riding out against the clear sunlit horizon on a sum- mer's day. Even Smut Patch, the black herdsboy, mounted on his tiny mustang, seemed a giant horse- man to the blue eyes of the two small gazers in the cabin door. Mr. Lovejoy had often explained to them the mirage of the prairie which caused the wonderful illusion; and seizing the fancy with their strong imaginations Pet and Pearl had named the mystery, the Mirage Man." Such magical things as they believed this being capable of doing! The prairie over which he rode grew green beneath his horse's feet, and all springs from which he stooped to drink would sparkle cool and deep always after. It was even whispered between Pet and Pearl that the Mirage Man could turn whole fields of parsnips into lumps of gold. "The drouth grows worse and worse," said Mr. Lovejoy one midsummer morning. "The crops are THE MIRAGE MAN. fairly gasping for a drop of moisture, and the springs are almost dry." Mrs. Lovejoy looked troubled, and.Pet and Pearl, sitting in the shadow of the little vine-wreathed porch, listened and felt seriously concerned. Down upon the prairie the sun seemed pouring liquid fire. In the fields the crisp brown corn-blades clashed like two- edged swords. "Oh dear dear sighed Pet; "I'm afraid we've done something awful wicked, like the Egyptians, and so the drouth-plague has come." "Pet," said Pearl, leaning near, and speaking in a low mysterious voice, "there's the Mirage Man, you know." "To be sure," returned Pet, brightening. "I reckon he would help us if we could find him." "Yes," said Pearl, "I know he'd come and drink the dregs of our spring, and turn it back into a nice cool fountain. Wouldn't it be beautiful to lead mamma down there when she was so thirsty, with her eyes shut tight, and let her open them to find the rock-bowl running over with water cold as ice and "clear as moonlight!" THE MIRAGE MAN. It was indeed a refreshing vision. The children dwelt upon it until not the shadow of a doubt re- mained that, if they could find him, the Mirage Man would transform their homestead into an oasis on the drouthy prairie. Away across the sun-scorched lowland was a ridge that seemed to reach to heaven, crowned with dark- green foliage, which always looked as if a shower had lately fallen over it. Pet pointed to it now: "Do you remember the deep ravine we found over there when we went wonder-hunting with papa last spring? I think the Mirage Man probably lives down there, for he always rides right over that ridge and out of sight. Do you believe it would be naughty if we should walk over and hunt him up, without telling mamma a word about it to spoil the nice surprise?" "No-o," answered Pearl a little doubtfully. At last, assured by each other, Pet and Pearl decided to slip away in search of the Mirage Man. Early the next morning, after their papa had gone out into the corn-field, and mamma was busy in the THE MIRAGE MAN. summer kitchen adjoining the cabin, they put on their sun-bonnets and took their little twin umbrellas, and started on their pilgrimage. It was a long and toilsome walk; but they tramped bravely on until they reached the ridge. Climbing to the summit they were not long in finding the ravine. In the little narrow valley everything looked fresh and lovely. Wild flowers were growing there, and underneath the bending grasses at the bottom could be heard the sound of trickling water. Overhanging trees filled the ravine with long cool shadows. The children scrambled down the bank and found a spring, which to their delight was welling deep, clear, and deliciously cold. They quenched their thirst and dipped their tiny feet into the brook that gurgled from the rock basin, and then peered through every bush, and even peeped beneath the grass; but the Mirage Man was invisible. "Perhaps," said Pet, with a slight shade of. disap- pointment on her sunny face, he's gone off on a little journey and will be back soon. Here's a bed of something that smells so nice and sweet. Let's rest on it awhile, and watch for him." THE MIRAGE MAN. Sitting down in the midst of the fragrant herbs, they waited patiently. At length the sound of footsteps was distinctly heard. Pet and Pearl peered forward eagerly; but instead of the grand strong form and kindly face they had ex- pected, they saw a weird figure wrapped in a scarlet blanket, and a painted face too disagreeable for de- scription. Now it was none other than the old Indian doctor, Wo-ho, out searching for the herbs with which he worked his cures. And it chanced that Pet and Pearl had ensconced themselves directly in the middle of the wild-sage bed from which Doctor Wo-ho had plucked his "medicine bush" for unnumbered summers. Half-way down the bank the doctor's glance fell upon the wee pale-faces looking up at him with wide, frightened eyes. He stopped suddenly, uttering a deep guttural which sounded like this: "Ugh / Wajatotaquahaya, ugh I" He then strode nearer, and with a strong swoop lifted them quite out of the wild-sage bed, landing them some distance up the bank. THE MIRAGE MAN. "Please, sir, are you the Mirage Man?" Pet at length found voice to say. Umr! chekaquetatokoo, ugh!" I don't say that this is just what Doctor Wo-ho an- swered, but that this is how it sounded to -the chil- dren's frightened ears. Doctor Wo-ho filled a curious bag to overflowing with the potent herb. Flinging this across his shoulder, he next snatched up Pet and Pearl, and bore his various burdens off to a mustang pony that stood champing his bits with savage restlessness. Placing the little girls before him on the pony's back, Doctor Wo-ho rode away toward the cabin in the timber where he lived with Mistress Wa-hoo and her pappooses. Mistress Wa-hoo was making Indian podge in an old black pot perched upon some crutches near the cabin, and the pappooses were watching her with the greediness of starving cayotes. Doctor Wo-ho lifted the little girls to the ground, and pointing to them, said something, to which the squaw responded: "Ugh! White pappoose-ee lost. Heap bad." THE MIRAGE MAN. With this, she began dishing up the podge in the queerest of wooden bowls, offering one to Pet and Pearl. They did not dare refuse it, although nothing could now tempt the hungry little wanderers. Doctor Wo-ho and the pappooses ate with a keen relish, after which the Indian mother devoured the remainder of the feast. Dinner over, Doctor Wo-ho stretched himself to sleep, while his wife started into the timber in search of fire-wood, leaving the little pale-faced guests in charge of the pappooses. After playing and quarrelling awhile, the pappooses scampered off into the woods, leaving Pet and Pearl alone before the cabin door. "Oh these frightful, frightful creatures! Do you suppose they're really mirages?" Pet whispered. "No," said Pearl. "I think they're the Indians we heard about when we first came from Boston. I don't believe they mean to hurt us, but," glancing at the doctor who was snoring loudly, "if we should run as fast as ever we could, maybe we could get away before the rest of them came back." Linking hands, they scudded away as fast as their THE MIRAGE MANO feet could carry them. Once out upon the prairie, they ran until they had passed over a little ridge which hid them from the cabin. Here they stopped a moment to take breath and look about for the di- rection home. We'll never find it in the midst of this great burn- ing wilderness. We shall wander about and die, and the prairie chickens will cover us with grass and rosin-flowers," wailed Pet, with pathetic remem- brance of the fate of the immortal Babes in the Wood. "I'm more afraid of that Indian man catching us again," said Pearl; "but look, oh, look!" her tone changing to quick excitement, "'that's him, that's him!" "The Indian ?" gasped Pet, clutching Pearl's arm in an agony of fear. "No, the Mirage Man-see, see!" In the distance appeared what seemed to be a giant horseman riding directly toward the children. In spite of the awe which filled them at the actual prospect of meeting the true Mirage Man, they ran forward, waving their umbrellas wildly in the air. To THE MIRAGE MAN. their surprise the rider and his horse dwindled upon near approach until they assumed the size of ordinary objects. "Why, it's papa on old Katy!" Pet cried with joyful astonishment. It was indeed papa Lovejoy searching almost frantically for his lost babies. That night Pet and Pearl awoke to hear the patter of real rain-drops on the cabin roof.. "What wicked twins we were," whispered Pearl remorsefully, "to trust the Mirage Man that isn't anybody, when God has got whole floods of rain that he can pour down on us any minute!" RIX'S FIRST ERRAND. SHEN Rix Hart was nine, his family moved from Chautauqua Lake to Alabama, where he was at the time he was sent upon his first errand. This was -when he was ten. Mr. Dill, happening overnight at Mr. Hart's, had traded for Selim. Rix was to go home with Mr. Dill and ride back the new horse. His lonely plantation-life made this prospective trip of thirty-six miles such a joy that he forgot to be sorry about parting with Selim. Straight after breakfast he began with an air of importance to get ready. A "snack" of ham and beaten biscuits was put in one side the saddlebags, the horse's snack being in the other. He said good-by to all the folks as if he had little hope of ever seeing them again. Then he RIX'S FIRST ERRAND. lugged the saddlebags out, led Selim alongside the horse-block, and was mounted when his father and Mr. Dill came out. "Look sharp, Rix, so that you can find the way back," the father cautioned. Mr. Dill promised to point out the landmarks, and the travellers started down the lane, Selim briskly trotting, shaking Rix about in the father's big sad- dle, the saddlebags flopping like heavy wings. But Rix didn't mind, he was interested. The road, after the first few miles, was new to him. It soon became wild and lonely, leading through miles of forest with hardly a settlement, over long hills and about steep ones. Now and then Mr. Dill called attention to some waymark, and occasionally, at a cross- road or fork, labelled Rix' way by a broken bough, or by blazing a sapling with his strong knife. At noon they stopped to lunch, and decided to tie up till the fierce heat should begin to abate. Hungry as Rix was, he did not unbuckle the lunch side of the saddlebags till he had put an armful of corn before dear old Selim. It was three when they restarted and six when RIX'S FIRST ERRAND. they reached Mr. Dill's. The log-house had two main rooms, connected with a square open pas- sage, while a third apartment formed a wing. Rix washed in. a noggin which stood on a bench in the passage, beside a piggin of spring-water, on whose surface floated a gourd dipper. He was put to bed between the two Mr. Dills, one of whom occupied the wing, while the other slept in the open passage on a cot. You'll not be afraid with a man on each side of you! said his Mr. Dill jocosely. Rix said he was not afraid, and he was not while the candles were burning. But when the house was dark and quiet, and he heard the croaking of frogs in the bottom" and the melancholy howling of a dog down towards the negro quarters, he felt homesick; and then he remembered to cry because, in the morning, he was to leave Selim. He was travel-worn, however, and soon fell asleep despite a heavy supper, mosquitoes and a warm room. But he had scary dreams: he was chased by a lion; he heard its panting breath and heavy growls; saw it crouched to spring upon him; but before it RIX S FIRST ERRAND. leaped and ate him up, he woke. Where was he? What were those terrible sounds? Were they indeed the growls of a lion, or of two lions ? for the sounds came from two directions. What were they? Strange they were, indescribable, like the sleepy snarlings of two wild animals. He sat up in bed, staring into the dark, and shaking as he did when he had the ague. He listened till he felt sure that he was between two horrible creatures--that they were mates answering each other. Determined to escape from the dreadful unknown, he gathered up his clothes, climbed out the open win- dow and ran through the wet grass he knew not whither- anywhere away from those dreadful sounds. Down in the corner of the yard he felt his way into his clothes. Then he stood there and quaked awhile. Next he went feeling his way along. the fence; suddenly he stopped with the thought that he ought not to leave the Dills in peril: the what- ever-it-was might devour them he ought to go back and warn them. But I can't! I can't! I don't dare he thought. Suddenly a light appeared in a negro cabin in the -RIX' FIRST ERRAND. next lot. I'll go there and tell," he decided, and directly began to climb the rail fence. Rix was afraid of strange negroes; he had been but one year at the South, and was not used to the black faces and uncouth features, as are native south- ern children. It was a great trial to go to that cabin. It seemed as if there was a run-away negro there who had come up from the thicket for something to eat. Per- haps that was his wife's cabin and perhaps she was cooking his supper. But dreadful as it was to go to the cabin, it was more dreadful to go back to the house. Trembling, he kept on towards the light. He saw a black woman moving about in the hut-at the chimney- place where light wood was burning with a high flame. At the open door Rix stood in shadow against the cabin, with just his head advanced, and saw her fumbling with cooking vessels on the^dirt hearth. What could she be doing at this hour when every- body else was asleep ? She was either cooking for some run-away whom she was harboring, he con- cluded, or she was making some conjuring mixture. He had heard about negro conjurers putting their ft, RIX' FIRST ERRAND. enemies under spell. His mother had told him that there was no such thing as conjuring or witchcraft, and in the daytime, he felt sure there was not; but at night it was hard not to be afraid there was; so he stood watching the negro's movements in fascinated terror. But as the blaze fell full upon her face, he discovered that she was the cook who had brought in the fresh egg-bread at supper. In the same moment she saw his white face and wonder-stretched eyes. They stared at each other a moment, and then she recognized him. "Mussy sakes, honey, what's de matter!" she cried. "What yo' doin' out yere dis time night ? Mus' be pass midnight, jedgin' by how my light rolls is riz. What yo' wants anyhow?" "There's something awful at the house !" "Law's-a-mussy, honey, what is it? " "It's a terrible noise. I'm afraid it will eat the folks up." How does it go ?" "Goes like a lion." "Law, did yo' eber yere a ro'in' lion ?" aunt Nervy asked in wonder and admiration. I RIX' FIRST ERRAND. "No," Rix said meekly; and then added," Come see what 'tis." Mussy I" said Nervy stoutly, "I don't wishes to be e't up by nuffin what goes like a ro'in' lion. Wait, I'll wake up my ole man," she added in a tone of relief, as if she could provide one who did wish to be "e't up." Sam's tolerbul haud to wake up: always haf tow take a gou'd 'er water to 'im; hollerin' an' shakin' don't do no good." Sam was waked, and one of the children. Then Nervy headed the rescue with a flaming pine knot to shine the creature's eyes, and the pot-hooks to kill it. Rix had the oven-lid; then came Sam with a pot of scalding water and Andy with a stool-leg. They crept along without noise, except for aunt Ner- vy's frequent orders for silence. They brought up in the rectangle between the wing and the pas- sage. There they listened, staring and peering about by the flaring pine knot. Sure enough there were loud sounds from the wing and from the passage. "Don't you hear it ?" Rix said in an eager, scared whisper. RIX' FIRST ERRAND. "Don't yere nuffin 'cep' Mossa an' Moss Jeems sno'in'. Is dem what yo' means ?" "I expect so," said Rix, feeling cheap. Sam and Andy laughed, not inaudibly, to them- selves. "Didn't yo' neffer yere no pusson sno'e buffo' ?" Sam asked. "I don't expect I did," said Rix in a tone of apology. "Oughter yere mammy sno'e," said Andy with another laugh. "Hush you' mouf, yo' degen'ate mottle," said aunt Nervy. "I don't neber sno'e. G'long tow dat dar cabin an go tow sleep. What biznez yo' got up dis time er night ?" Then she turned to Rix. "Yo' go lay down, honey : dey's jis sno'in'." But Rix could not sleep between two muttering clouds. He tossed and tossed; counted a hundred backwards; said the multiplication table backwards; declined penna backwards; put his fingers in his ears. At length, he again felt his way into his trousers, and again went into the dewy night; wan dered vaguely about the still yard; went over to the i`::.:i~iL~iii0 1Mi -PF~'~=Fz=~,=----N, OEM; NN jRSUT rggg ROW4 MEON 0 II V - RIX' FIRST ERRAND. cabin. Nervy was nodding over the oven where her light rolls were rising. Rix spoke to her: "Aunty, I can't sleep where all that snoring is." Poo' little honey! she said in a voice of com- passion. "Yo's mighty pestered, airn't yo' ? Looky yere: I'll make yo' a pallet on my floo'. Den I'll see dat no pusson doan pester wid sno'in': got tow sot up wid my light rolls anyhow;" and she started to the house for pillow and quilt. Do you sit up with the rolls all night ?" he asked as she made the pallet. Law, yes, honey: dey wouldn't wuck light ef dey wasn't sot up wif. Dey's jis like niggers: won't wuck 'cep' dey's watched. If I goes tow sleep, light rolls goes tow sleep. Now yo' pallet's ready." She settled herself on a low stool as if settled for life, and went on in a drowsy tone: "Got tow set up wid light rolls; it's mighty lonesome; heap ruther set up wid sick folks; den der's cryin' and groanin' tow muze yo'. Got to set up wid um ef 'tain't muzin'; always knows a sot-up-wid roll. Go tow sleep, honey, won't let no pusson sno'e; got tow keep 'wake. I goes tow sleep, light-rolls goes " RIX' FIRST ERRAND. The voice ceased. All in the cabin were sleep- ing but one wretched boy. It seemed to him that all the world had gone off into happy slumber and left him to wide-awake misery. What would tidy grandma in Chautauqua do if she could know of him in that stifling little negro cabin! It would keep her from sleeping. "But what is that?" cried Rix's uneasy heart, as a deep sound came from the fireplace. "What is it ?" Mercy and pity! Nervy was snoring "HONG- KONG! HONG KONG! HONG KONG HO-N-G-OK!" Oh for his cot bed in the shed-room at home! He had complained of it, away from the other sleepers; now it seemed a sweet refuge. He rose up and sat on the pallet with a hunted feeling. Then he went out-doors and roamed slowly about. He sat a while on a stump, and another while on the smoke- house sill. Then the moon came up: he discovered a gate; he swung on it, creaking, creaking, till it broke down. Then there was a return to the cabin. Nervy was zealously snoring by the oven. Gathering the quilt and pillow, he climbed the rail fence with them, and returned to the house: the snoring, /\ RIX' FIRST ERRAND. there was indescribable. He sat on the doorstep, nursing the quilt and pillow, and meditated, Wonder if I've got to sit up all night. How long is it to day- break? I believe I'll try the barn." The pillow was tucked under one arm, the other trailed the quilt through the garden to the stable. Here he recognized brown Selim, who seemed like a friend in a strange land. He petted the horse and hugged it, and said piteously, "Are you a snorer, Selim? Will you wake me if I lie here in the fodder ?" It was a warm place, and fleas found him out. With quilt and pillow he soon returned to the house. The snorers were snoring as if they never meant to stop. Helpless, bewildered, he wandered out to the front gate and coiled himself on the horse-block. But the cramped position soon proved intolerable. So he again took up his bed and tramped, tramped. He came to the kitchen, an open shed sixty feet from the house. Here there was a long smooth slab of oak on four legs, table fashion. It was of perilous height for a bed, but there the quilt was spread and the dizzy head laid, RIX' FIRST ERRAND. A hand on his shoulder waked him in the gray dawn. "Sakes, honey," aunt Nervy was saying. "What yo' doing' up yere on my biscuit-block ?" He had actually made his bed on the slab-table where, morning and night, aunt Nervy, with the roll- ing-pin, was used to beating her biscuit light. He hastened to vacate the biscuit-block. What made yo' run 'way arter I dun made yo' a fust-rate pallet on my cabin floo'?" Nervy paused for a reply. Rix hesitated to explain; but, at length, said, Somebody in the cabin snored so I couldn't sleep." "'Twas dat dar Sam: kep' me wake too. Neber slep' a solitary wink las' night." Rix did not dispute this statement, which aunt Nervy herself doubtless considered truthful. Before Rix had made a half-mile of his return trip, he began to feel lonely, for the road had entered deep woods. He had heard that there were wolves in the wilds; he knew there were Indians somewhere in the region; while run-away negroes were always about. RIX' FIRST ERRAND In less than an hour he began to fear that he was lost, and before noon he had five times retraced por- tions of his way, seeking to re-assure himself. In the middle of the afternoon his vague fear became alarm: he was sure he had not crossed such a creek as he had then come to, at least not at that point. The horse plunged in for a drink. When he lifted his nostrils and snorted his satisfaction, he was reined about: the way was retraced to the nearest fork. Here the other turn was taken. As it led through woods, it did not seem unfamiliar, so Rix went briskly forward, hoping that he was on the right road. Milhs o., as it seemed, he came to another fork. There was not a mark to influence his choice. He took the right-hand road. It did not look familiar; it did not look unfamiliar. He rode for another weary stretch, his heart heavy with misgiving. Then he came upon a rude bridge of logs over a ravine. His heart seemed to stop. He knew he was astray. Back, back, back, he went to the last fork, and took the left road. He tried to persuade himself that it looked familiar, and yet it was leading on into forest RIX' FIRST ERRAND. denser than any he had remembered to have trav- ersed with Mr. Dill. But perhaps it seemed denser because the shadows were lengthening and it was cooler. The sun was sinking, the birds were begin- ing to stir from the heat-shelters. Rix ought to be near his home, but he discerned vaguely that he was not. He whipped the horse into a trot, and tried to hope that he was not astray. But when, after another long ride, he came into a noticeable piece of rocky, down-grade road, he knew that he had lost his way, and that far back beyond the nearest fork, beyond the second, beyond the' third. He remembered now that he had not felt cer- tain of his way since passing the spot where he and Mr. Dill had lunched. He was lost, and the sun was low behind the trees. It would be dark long before he could possibly recover his way, even if he could at all in the night. He knew there was no house on the back road for a long distance where he could stay over night. He would probably sooner overtake a settlement by going ahead. He accordingly went for- ward, keeping his senses on the qui vive to any hint of human life. But there he found only a rough road RIX' FIRST ERRAND. piercing thick woods, to show that any human being had ever been on the ground before. Only this till the way began leading under a. line of cliffs. Then he heard the next thing to a human sound. With a sudden whoa! he halted the horse, listening. It came from above, frbm the top of the cliffs, and back. It was the bark of a dog. Was there a settle- ment up there ? He looked up the steep: it was wall-like. Perhaps the road might lead gradually around and up the elevation to a clearing, where he might find shelter for the night. With this hope Rix urged the horse forward. But as he rode the sound of the barking grew fainter and fainter. The road began to bear away from the cliff-line. With an instinct to keep near this probable human habitation, he turned back to the spot where he had heard the dog baying. Again he heard the bark of dogs. There must be a human habitation on the heights. How was it to be reached ? In both directions the road led from it. If he could only find a spot where he could climb up I He rode back and forth, seeking for such a spot. Then he tied RIX' FIRST ERRAND. the horse and tramped about, looking for such, and he found something. A tree which had stood some twenty-five feet from the base of the cliff had fallen against the cliff. The boughs had been trimmed off, and there was the clipped trunk at an angle of forty degrees perhaps, one end against the stump, the other against the cliff- a ready-made ladder, the crotches where the branches had been, making the stepping places. He began the climb, which was one of dan- ger; for it was now dusk, and he had to feel his way from crotch to crotch. More than once his head swam at thought of his dizzy height. He wondered if the ladder's top was securely lodged, and if it would land him clear up on the table. But all his' questions were soon answered, for in due time his head was above the crest, and he was looking eagerly over the landscape. He saw many lights pale, for it was less dark up there than at the ladder's foot. He discerned what looked like houses. He heard horses, and saw. them. He saw' people moving about. He decided that he had come upon a plantation negro quarter. He was greatly excited between hope and fear as he went toward the lights. On nearer view he perceived that what he had taken for houses were bush tents, and that the people he had seen were not negroes, neither were they whites. He had never seen an Indian, but he knew beyond all doubt that he had come upon an Indian village. The instant he realized this, he turned and ran like a deer to the ladder, wondering that he had not recognized it at the start as an Indian ladder. He had heard that it was common for these children of the forest, in crossing a broken country, to improvise such ladders instead of going around cliffs and steeps. Rix hastened down the crotches, going backward, and watching the crest, half expecting to see it sud- denly alive with a crowd of braves. Quickly climb- ing into the saddle, he gave the reins to the horse. The trusted animal started off with a firm assured step, as if to say, "Now this is sensible. I know what I am about, however befuddled you maybe, Master Rix." It was soon utterly dark. Rix, strain his eyes as he would, could not see an inch; but the horse held on with confident pace. Rix kept a lookout for any light which might indicate a settlement, RIX' FIRST ERRAND. "I'll let him go as long as I can keep awake," he decided, "and then I'll tie up and lie down in the woods till morning." On and on went the horse through the pitchy darkness, but whether toward Chautauqua Lake or Mobile Bay, whether towards the Rocky Mountains or the Alleghanies, Rix had no idea. Thus passed hours, or what seemed such to the weary, lonely boy. He thought it must be mid- night, yet he had not seen a light. Every- body is in bed and the candles out," he thought. He was beginning to nod in the saddle, being jostled back to consciousness by the occasional plunge of the horse into some unevenness. Once he found himself tilted almost out of the saddle as the horse climbed a sharp steep. The moon had come up during his nap, but it gave little light, for the sky was full of clouds. But they were floating clouds; they sometimes parted, showing a boat-shaped moon that seemed sailing :on weird waters to some port of mystery. Rix was almost decided to tie up till morning, lest he might be spilled out and hurt. Soon after, a rift in the clouds showed that the road was running alongside a fence. RIX' FIRST ERRAND. He was at some settlement! He took heart at this and tried to get wide awake. In a few moments the horse came to a stand, and uttered a long, loud whinny as if calling upon sleepers to get up and help two tired hungry creatures. He waited as if listening for a reply. Rix, too, listened, and he heard something, for the air was moist and all nature seemed silent. It was a faint sound because of the distance, but it was unmistakable- a snoring exactly like that which he had heard the previous night. He felt satisfied that he was back at Mr. Dill's. Of course he was. There was nothing more natural than for the horse, given his will, to return to his old quarters. Rix looked over to the right where aunt Nervy's cabin should be if he was at the front gate, as he conjectured. Yes, there it was, showing by a faint light as from a low fire. He swung from the saddle. The horse uttered another call as he was tied to the hitching-rack. Rix hastened over to the cabin and looked in at the open door. Sure enough it was aunt Nervy's domicile; and there, snoring beside her light rolls, was aunt Nervy herself. RIX' FIRST ERRAND. He went in and gently waked her. She was start- led, but she responded with ready sympathy when she had heard the boy's story. She waked Sam, and ordered him to g'long an' tote dat dar hause tow de bawn." "Yo' come 'long tow de house, honey; I'll make a pallet in de passage," she said to Rix. He suggested that the snorers would keep him awake. "I'll tell yo', honey : when yo' lay down, shet you eyes, den imaginee you's getherin' pussimmouses, an' doan think uv possums, an' de fuss thing yo' knows yo's fass-er sleep, shu's yo' bawn." Rix was very tired, though he could not separate persimmons from 'possoms in his thought, and though the snorers snored with zeal, he did get to sleep, and slept till breakfast. Then Mr. Dill restarted him homeward, this time with a negro guide. But before a quarter of the way had been travelled, Rix met his father, who had started before daylight to seek the missing boy. WHY THOSE BOYS DID NOT RUN AWAY. "M ATT had made up his mind to run away. It was the third afternoon that he had been kept in after school that week, and there was to be a match game of base-ball between his club, the Excel- siors, and the Plumtown club, and he did want to have his side beat. Who would take his place as first base, he wondered; and the centre-fielder also would be away. There sat the miserable centre-fielder at the other end of the bench, his book before him, and a fearful frown upon his brow. Matt returned to his definitions, and wrote fiercely: "Baker One who bakes. Artist One who arts. Spinster One who spins." WHY THOSE BOYS DID NOT RUN AWAY. "Don't care," muttered Matt. I won't look a word out. Fingers just stiff, writing so long; and 'sides, it's so mean to keep a feller in and make him lose a match game " Thump came something upon the book. A piece of paper wound up tightly, evidently thrown by the centre-fielder. Matt unrolled it promptly, and read: DEAR MATT : I think it's awful mean; and besides, this morn- ing I had to get up and kill potato-bugs. Let's run away. BOB. Oblivious of stiff fingers, Matt grasped his pen, and wrote with characteristic brevity: DEAR BOB: As soon as we get out. Yours, MATT. "Time's up," said the master, with a look at his watch, in his compassion making the delinquents a present of five minutes. Bob and Matt found a delegation of boys in the yard, waiting for them. "The Plumtown fellers have just got here," said WHY THOSE BOYS DID NOT RUN AWAY. Marcus Clark. Hurry up, and you'll be in time for the next inning." The first base and the centre-fielder looked at each other. "Let's have the game first," signalled play-loving Matt; and Bob nodded a prompt assent. Now Matt was the only son of his mother, and she a widow. The neighbors said the good woman had but a single fault, and that was a foolish indulgence of her son Matt; and yet they never suspected how far she went in pampering that boy -how she ran up-stairs and down-stairs at his beck and call, and brushed his clothes and blacked his boots; how she got up and gave him the most comfortable chair when he came into the room; how she allowed him to rule over the man-servant and the maid-servant, and even the stranger within her gates. It was a wonder that Matt was not a disagreeable despot, instead of a jolly, play-loving, good-tempered urchin, with but now and then occasional moods of imperiousness and self-will. It was only upon one point that Matt could not have his own way. That her boy should go regularly to school, his mother insisted with unflinching firm- WHY THOSE BOYS DID NOT RUN AWAY. ness. Matt's tears in this case had no effect. Even shutting himself in his room and refusing his meals was in vain, although it worked well in other cases. Every morning saw Matt, with good lessons or bad, on his way to school. He felt himself abused, and fully justified in running away from such systematic cruelty. His forehead ached with study, and his fingers were lame with holding the pen. As for Bob, his life was made up of unpleasant- nesses : of chopping wood, of weeding, and hoeing, and study. All was a sombre, dark monotony of duties; and no base-ball to speak of crept into the desolation of his days. His back ached with work, and his legs were ready to drop-at least, that was Bob's story; and he was determined to live no longer on the farm. Once in the city, he could enter some big mercantile house, like the smart boys he was so fond of reading about, and soon become junior part- ner and marry no, he wouldn't marry the old fel- low's daughter! he hated girls, anyhow, and he would leave that part out. When the boys reached the base-ball ground, they found the Excelsiors in a fair way to defeat. They WHY THOSE BOYS DID NOT RUN AWAY. had had but one inning, and already the Plumtown boys scored six to their nothing. Matt slipped into the game with the determination to win the victory or perish in the fray. Oh, how that boy worked! You would never have suspected that his head was aching and his fingers lame. To watch his stout young legs scud from base to base, who would have supposed that they had been too weary to bear him to farmer Brown's that morning for the milk? It was the last inning, and the score of both clubs was the same. Matt stood, bat in hand, watching for the ball. His eyes were bright with determination, and he was sure he would not miss it. Already it was hurled through the air; and seeing it come towards him he swung his bat- and then a faintness came over him, and the crowd around the fence seemed multiplied to thousands. The ball had struck him right above the bright blue eyes, leaving a huge white swelling in its place. Poor, fond mother! It was a mercy that she was not among the crowd that saw the boyish figure drop to the ground. Both clubs flew at once to his side. WHY THOSE BOYS DID NOT RUN: AWAY. "Bob, help me raise him," said Marcus, leaning over Matt's prostrate form. How could I have let that ball slip! It's so hard it may have killed him, for all I know " Some of the spectators had now made their way tot the frightened group. It's the widow Dunn's lad," said one. He has fainted,, boys fetch some water I wonder these base-ball players have a-whole head among 'em !" A hatful of water brought poor Matt back to consciousness. It takes a great deal of base-ball to kill a boy, and many a broken finger will the widow Duwan. yet bind up for her son.. But Matt felt very "lianp and lame just then. "Bob," he whispered, as he sat up and looked at his friend, "I guess we can't run away to-day. I want to go home. What was it about, Bobby- I've clean forgotten why we were going." -" Why, it was because we have to work so hard," replied that injured youth, feeling rather foolish, yet with a comical twist of his upper lip; "at least, that was why I was going. I got mad 'cause I had to ki1, potato-bugs this morning. I don't know why you ________ t I! "~'~'- --- -~~~"~"" -llll ---- i-- .=-- .c -Z- _______- -~ - - SI ' I/ --. . -4 -- 1: R_ NM ---- - vier "G ATHU -e ;N; R 5, ai~~--k~~uC- L&~~ia:l~~ Alt; ....... ?/ :'\\" 4 :.' AMIA ~Y~'Ap i N AZ", w~ ~-bT~--Y T AIW.:- WHY THOSE BOYS DID NOT RUN AWAY. were going, but I believe it was 'cause it makes your head ache to study, and your mother won't let you off." Matt put a hand to his throbbing temples. I tell you what, my head aches a lot more now than I ever made it ache studying. It seems sort of foolish to run away for that. I believe I won't go." "No more shall I, then!" said Bob emphatically. Father says that I should think I was killed if he .made me work half as hard as I do over base-ball; and I guess he is right." The boys had been walking towards home, and they now reached the fork in the road where their ways separated. Good-night, old fellow," said Matt, limping cheer- fully on towards the farm, where, among its other homely comforts, were soothing ointments and tender care. JAMES HENRY ON THE MASTODON. AS the teacher wanted us all to write an exer- cise about the Mastodon that was dug up in our county last week, I guess I will. The county, is Iro- quois County, Illinois. I never saw a Mastodon before. Rob Clark, and I, and a lot more boys, when we heard there was one dug up, we took my father's horse and buggy and rode out to where it was. The men had put the bones in a corn-crib, and when I stepped in, I had to pay ten cents for the show, and I jumped right straight up, for there were his jaws that looked like they could eat a whale. The men measured the jaws. They were three feet long and two and a half feet wide. The Mastodon I 1 ,,y, ~c u7 7, o.-- LK PT HG ; ...-- -.. .-2 - L_': i " 2..',, .:-" LOOIN PRETYUNRY JAMES HENRY ON THE MASTODON. was dead. He had been dead a good many thousand years. If he had been alive, I wouldn't gone into that corn-crib. I guess they never hurt folks, though. There were no folks when they were alive. The Mastodon's teeth were as big as our baby's head, and one of them weighed six pounds. They were very white, only the old fellow had got a chunk of mud in one ridge. He had two little tusks sticking out of his chin. His big tusks had scaled off. If I saw a Texas steer coming at me with horns as big as his tusks, I would get on top of the house. They were nine feet long, and curved like the new moon. He wore them when he was alive like elephants always wear their tusks. But they were not fast to his jaws. The Mastodon was a great big elephant. I found a picture of one in the Cyclopaedia. The man said this Mastodon must have been thirteen or fourteen feet high. It must have looked like a house taking a walk. I never saw but one house take a walk, and that was McCracken's. They put it on rollers, and when they went to cross the railroad track, it stuck, and the cars came along. The cars had to, stop. JAMES HENRY ON THE MASTODON. There were bushels and bushels of the Mastodon's bones, some of them so big I could hardly lift then. The vertebrae of the spinal column were about as large as my head. There were two doctors in the corn-crib, writing down the size of everything, and I had a pencil and a piece of paper, so I wrote them down too. More folks kept coming all the time. Some of the bones were dark like soaked wood, but when you scratched them with your knife you would find how hard they were. Rob Clark and me got out of the corn-crib when it was crowded so we got pushed against the sides, and we went down in the field to see the hole, for they had not taken out all his bones yet. The men who found the Mastodon, did not know there was any there. They were going to put in drain tiles to drain a slew, and they dug up most of him about three feet from the top of the ground. I got a piece of bone to show. And my cousin when he came to visit us said, "Behold, when this lump moved about with life, Adam was not yet dreamed of! Races and empires have passed away since this old fellow laid his body in the swamp, and the earth's post-glacial crust formed over JAMES HENRY ON THE MASTODON. him." He said a lot more that I can't remember. The slew they found the Mastodon in was what you call a peat slew, and it keeps things a long time. Some State Society is going to buy it, but they won't get the little chunk of bone I picked up, or the chunks I saw some other men carrying out of the field. I don't care much about it myself, but. my cousin he makes a fuss over it. When I go to col- lege, maybe I will think a good deal of bones; but just now I think more of muscle. The muscle on my arm measures half an inch more than Rob Clark's, and I can throw him down three times out of five at a good square rastle. [Yes, I can, tool I'll show you after school.] Well, I can't think of anything more about the Mastodon. They sent to the State University for a man to lecture about it. They are going to fix it so it will stand up. I went once with my father around the Lakes, and at one place I saw a ship that was not done yet. Its ribs all showed. I thought it looked hungry. And I think that Mastodon will look pretty hungry and hollow when they get its bones set up. So no more. WHAT MADE SAM SICK? I SUPPOSE the boys on the hilly farms of western Pennsylvania are not the only ones who have been for a long time, and still are, subject to occa- sional spells of mysterious sickness. To be sure, they all have their turn of the measles, and take their saffron tea "to make them come out;" the mumps, and make horrible faces when they taste anything sour; the whooping-cough also, and double themselves up in the most ridiculous shapes in their paroxysms of coughing. But in none of these diseases do they seem anxious to conceal what is wrong. It would be perfectly useless to try to conceal it, and, indeed, why should they want to? Are they not all necessary complaints which come to each of us sooner or later? But the boys on the hilly farms have actually been known to have spells of the most mysterious illness, __ l !I i 1 ." -, S ......~I... t tP ?l _k A A 1 .~ . I A F ee a -- t IRR *- .I MR I.. - )~V~'* I.-. A ..; ..~~:~~ L "- 1 v e -* .l 'I -.-**~~*-.1? *:~- ,c LONGBEFOE NON SA WA SEE DOW AT HE CEEK WHAT MADE SAM SICK? spells which baffled the medical skill of the whole family. I once knew Sam Thompson to wake up in the morning very sick, quite too sick, apparently, to go to school. It happened, strangely enough, to be on the morning of the day when the men were to wash the sheep. I don't suppose I need describe how they do this piece of work on the hilly farms. They do it the same way everywhere, so that a boy who has learned it properly in one State can easily put his knowledge into practice in any other. Well, I said Sam waked up sick. He lay in bed late, and couldn't eat any breakfast; but he begged off from taking medicine, and drooped around like a confirmed invalid till the rest of the children had gone to school. Of course, if he had been well he would have gone too, for it is just on such occasions as these that the fathers on the hilly farms seem ob- stinately bent on making scholars out of their boys. They scarcely leave a point to hang an excuse upon for staying out of school. I don't mean to say that Sam was dangerously sick. By no means. If he had been, he would not have been able to go to the creek to see the fun of the WHAT MADE SAM SICK sheep-washing. He was merely too sick to go to school. In fact, I don't know anything that requires nicer judgment than it does to contrive just how to be too sick to go to school and yet not so sick as to un- fit one for enjoying the sport of washing sheep. Sam could not be of any practical use at the sheep- washing, for his legs were too short to go into the deep water. A last year's lamb, frightened at being plunged into the stream, might have scrambled on him and drowned him. He was too small to catch sheep in the pen and hand them down to the washers. Indeed, no one without longer legs and stouter body could be very useful on that occasion; but Sam could look on as industriously and enjoy the fun as much as anybody you ever saw. But you said Sam was sick. Certainly I did; but didn't I say he was not dangerously sick? People who are dangerously sick seldom get well; and it was but a short time after the children had gone to school when he began to get better. He improved so rapidly that, long before noon, he went down to the creek--the very same creek at which he had watered Nell on a certain Sunday the winter before WHAT MADE SAM SICK? -to see how the sheep-washing came along. In a surprisingly short time he was shouting and hallooing with glee, and had entirely forgotten how ill he was in the morning. I should be safe in 'saying that he quite overdid the matter, for he got so well that when dinner was over, his father had made up his mind that it was altogether too bad for a boy who seemed so hearty to lose a whole day from school, and so sent him off for the afternoon session. I think I see him now, trudging along sorrowfully to school, looking wistfully toward the theep pens on the bank of the creek, and wondering, in 'a boyish way, why things in this world cannot be differently arranged. But Sam's mysterious spells of sickness were not all of this nature, though I recall no less than four other separate and painful attacks which he suffered. On two of these occasions his mother was heard to say that she had known boys to die who didn't seem a bit sicker than Sam was; and yet he was able to be up again in a remarkably short time. One of these spells came upon him in this way: It was in the spring of the year. For several WHAT MADE SAM SICK ? reasons I think I may be quite positive about that. Yet I feel sure it was not the "spring fever that ailed him, because boys seldom in fact never get really sick with that disease, and, what is wonderful about it, they may take it or it may take them rather- at any season of the year, though most fre- quently when the sun is hot, and, so far as I know, never in the midst of their slumbers at night. These are some of my reasons for saying that I know it was not spring fever." Sam had an uncle Henry and aunt Jane Welton who lived away over on Slippery Elm bottom, where they had a famous sugar-camp. One spring, after they had finished sugar-making, they loaded up the wagon with great buckets filled with sugar--they didn't make it into cakes and drove up through. the hilly country to sell it. They stopped over night at Mr. Thompson's, where aunt Jane remained to visit a few days. But when uncle Henry started the next morning he left a bucket well filled with sugar, and it was set in the pantry. This was a nice thing to do, and I have not the slightest fault to find with anybody except that the WHAT MADE SAM SICK ? Thompsons were not so generous with their sugar as they might have been. Nobody offered Sam a taste of it. This made him feel that he was treated with very little consideration. He bore it as best he could, and late in the evening his mother called to him from the sitting-room. Sam, my son," said she, "what are you doing?" "Oh, nothing' much," said Sam from the pantry. "But it's time to go and feed the calves," said his mother. "Well, can't I get a string to make a whip-cracker ?" said Sam. "Certainly you can," said his mother; "but you'd better hurry, or you'll not get the wood in till after dark." Sam was usually quick about his work; but this evening he spent an unreasonable length of time feed- ing the calves, and it was quite late before he had finished carrying in the wood for the night. Before twelve o'clock that night the whole house was aroused. Sam was sick, very sick. Aunt Jane was a perfect library of medical prescriptions. She could prescribe when she didn't know what the WHAT MADE SAM SICK ? trouble was, almost as successfully as when she did Dear, industrious soul! With her the chief secret of healing the sick was to be constantly making them swallow something. Under her directions Sam was dosed heroically, and in an hour, or a little more, he was so much improved that they all went to bed and slept the rest of the night soundly. In the morning they wouldn't let Sam get up to breakfast, but fed him in bed on water-toast and thyme tea. When he had eaten, his mother said, "Now, Sam, lie down ,again and take a nap; and when you wake up, if you feel well enough you can dress and come down-stairs." He felt well enough to get up then, but he didn't want to be in too great a hurry. He knew the re- sults of getting well too soon. But he did want to examine his pantaloons. At last he crawled quietly out of bed, and holding them up in his left hand, he thrust his right into one of the pockets and drew out a piece of paper. He undid it and found it con- tained a little maple sugar. "Hello !" said he. "I didn't think I had left so much. But ain't I glad they didn't look in there !" WHAT MADE SAM SICK But a much worse spell overtook Sam on a Sunday evening once in the latter part of June. On Sunday mornings in the summer, when Sam was a boy, the people on the hilly farms in western Pennsylvania hitched up their teams, took in the whole family and drove off two or three miles to church. There they listened to a long sermon, which was followed by a recess, and that by another sermon, and then they / drove home, arriving there about three o'clock, almost famished--for something to eat of course. Nobody was left at home except for a special reason, as, for example, to watch the bees if they were threatening to swarm; and it was for this reason ex- actly that Sam was left at home on the Sunday now referred to. He acted that day under special orders from his mother. They were delivered from the top of the "uppin'-block when she was on the point of step- ping into the wagon to start; for you must know that people on the hilly farms often went to church in the farm wagon. "Now, Sam," she said, "you must attend to your business, and don't forget it's the Sabbath day. Take WHAT MADE SAM SICK ? your question book, and sit out under the shade- tree where you can see the bees. I should think a boy of your age ought to know the catechism. Goin' on twelve, and only just through the commandments! If they swarm -meaning the bees, not the cate- chism; Sam wouldn't have cared to live to a great age if he had thought the catechism was about to begin throwing off swarms-- "if they swarm," said she, "you must watch them till they settle, and then run over to Mr. Campbell's-- he's watching their bees to-day- and stay there in his place while he comes over and hives ours. Don't neglect your busi- ness now, and get some milk out of the crock next the spring when you want a luncheon." With the delivery of these orders the whole load moved away toward the church. They had scarcely got out of sight down the hill when Sam began to feel hungry. Any other boy would have done the same. Boys always do get hungry when left alone in charge of the house. He knew it was wicked to get hungry so soon on Sunday, and he fixed his attention on the catechism for fully two minutes and a half. This long period of quiet seemed to him to magnify I WHAT MADE SAM SICK ? the silence, and made him think the bees were creat- Sing an unusual noise, and then he turned his atten- tion to them; but they were about their ordinary occupation. All this he repeated several times, and heroically endured the pangs of hunger for half an hour- possibly it was more. It was a long time, at any rate -long enough to make it pretty certain that the folks were not likely to turn round on the way and come back home before he had finished his luncheon. Then he went to the pantry and got a piece of bread, covered it slightly-as a boy will--with butter, and, with a spoon and a tin cup in his hand, went down into the cellar to see "the crock next the spring." But the milk in it looked thin and blue. He used but a little of that, and then tried another. This was better. He used a little of it, and then tried a third. That was much better. It was rich cream. By this time the slice of bread was nearly done; and, looking about intelligently, his eyes fell on a jar on a shelf. He hadn't noticed such a thing there be- fore, and it was perfectly natural, therefore, that he should want to examine it. It contained peach pre- I WHAT MADE SAM SICK ? serves. He took off the cover, looked in, then stopped a moment--probably listening to hear how the bees were behaving-and then he thrust in his spoon (being very creamy he licked it first) and took a good mouthful. Then he experienced one of the most delightful sensations of his life. Why had he never before got both preserves and cream into his mouth at once ? He had often tasted them separately, but never together before. He was perfectly grati- fied with the result of the mixture. His whole atten- tion was occupied with the experiment, and so he cast the catechism and the bees out of his mind and filled the cup nearly half full of preserves. Then he dipped up the thick cream with the spoon till the cup was nearly full, and stirred it all up together. It looked too good to eat; but he thought he would risk it, and he did. The day wore away, and the bees didn't swarm. Finally the family returned, and, dinner being soon prepared, they all ate heartily except Sam. He kept up the appearance of eating, though, and actually devoted a little time to the catechism afterward. WHAT MADE SAM SICK? But he felt heavy and dull and in no mood for study. He experienced an uncomfortable feeling not unlike sadness, as if he had lost a friend or met with a disappointment. But he didn't think he had. He surely enjoyed his luncheon. He never had eaten one that disappointed him less. Perhaps it was be- cause the bees hadn't swarmed! He had often ex- pected them to swarm and they didn't, but it gave him no such feelings as these. Could it be because he hadn't got on well with the catechism? That was the most probable thing, for he had a notion that no boy could reasonably expect to be comfortable, at any stage of existence, who didn't know his "ques- tions." He thought therefore he might be suffering the pangs of conscience, and he fixed his attention on the book to see if that would relieve him. For the hundredth time he read over the answer to the ques- tion he was trying to learn, and then he looked off the book to see if he could repeat it. Yes, he looked off the book, placed one hand on his stomach while the other held the book, and gazed thoughtfully into the distance; and as he did so, he found he was sick. He knew that one of the first WHAT MADE SAM SICK questions usually asked a sick boy is, "What have you been eating? But he knew he hadn't eaten any- thing that tasted as if it would harm him. Still, as he reflected about it, his mind persisted in coming round in a sort of circle to preserves and cream, and he was almost startled to find he hadn't the slightest appetite for them that is, for them stirred up to- gether with a spoon. He could hardly bear the thought of eating them. As his mind dwelt upon them, the situation grew worse rapidly, till finally, as the safest and best thing to do, he slipped off up- stairs and went to bed. When he had got snugly in bed it was beginning to grow dark. About an hour later his mother heard him tossing and moaning. She came immediately to his assistance and found him sick indeed. She called Mr. Thompson, and soon the whole family was alarmed. Should they send for the doctor? It was three miles to town, and he was too sick to wait so long. Consequently they were obliged to take the case in hand themselves; and when they took a case in hand on the hilly farms, when Sam was a boy, it meant something. It meant that either the disease WHAT MADE SAM SICK ? or the patient was bound to yield; and it would be in- teresting to know in just what proportion of such cases it was the patient who yielded. But they had undertaken the case. They began the course of treatment with camphor and water, and a warm foot-bath, and followed these with catnip tea, mustard poultices and Indian liniment. Still Sam tossed and moaned, and the whole list was gone over again. Then his mother, who was almost as fertile in med- ical resources as aunt Jane Welton, thought of "Number Six." The thought had hardly more than struck her when she called down-stairs: Phoebe, look on the upper shelf in the pantry and bring up the hot-drops, and be quick now." Phoebe obeyed the command instantly, and ran up the stairs in such haste as to stumble and spill a cup- ful of water which she carried in one hand. The hot-drops was hastily prepared, but Sam shrank. He had tasted some of it before, and it was terribly hot stuff. "Take it at once, Sam," said his mother in the most encouraging tones she could command; "and WHAT MADE SAM SICK ? here's a spoonful of peach preserves for you, to take the taste out of. your mouth." With a heroic struggle he swallowed the draught, and then, snatching up a handful of the bed-clothes to cover his mouth, he said, "Oh, no, no; I don't want any preserves." He soon afterward began to get better, and again he improved rapidly. If he was liable to sudden at- tacks, we are bound to say for him that usually he was not long sick, and therefore convalesced quickly. In fact the whole Thompson family, even after having suffered a serious fright, was able to retire in good order at ii o'clock that night. Sam slept soundly till morning and waked in good health. But he had to take a mild breakfast in bed and stay there till the middle of the forenoon. When he got up and dressed he looked so sound and hearty that his mother exclaimed, "Well, Sam, hot-drops is a wonderful medicine! I've heard your aunt Jane say it was good for anything from a bunion to the cholera." All that is to be said further about it is, that Sam never told just what ailed him; and the reason is, that WHAT MADE SAM SICK ? they never asked him. If they had, he was quite too good a piece of stuff to make a bad matter worse by telling a crooked story; and so the cause of that mysterious but brief spell of sickness was never more fully explained than it is here. But after he was grown to manhood he sometimes smiled at his moth- er's faith in hot-drops; in fact, he often thinks with tearful eyes of her earnest solicitude for his health and comfort when he was a thoughtless boy and unable to provide for either; and to this day he doesn't believe there ever was a woman who could beat her making peach preserves. THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. ONCE upon a time all on a summer's day "- a small white bundle might have been seen half lying on a grassy bank, in a certain garden in the northern part of Germany. We all know that "appearances is deceitful ;" but this small white bun- dle certainly looked nothing more nor less than a baby's pillow a good deal trimmed with lace and em- broidery, on which was tied with two or three straps of scarlet ribbon, German fashion, something that looked very like a baby. It looked very like a baby, and it cried very like a baby. I suppose you would have called it a baby. It was a pretty little thing, whatever you would have called it. The small pink face shone forth from a daintily embroidered cap. It had two great eyes as blue as pimpernels, a pair of the sweetest dimples THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. in the world, and a perfect little rosebud of a mouth, that could open into a full-blown rose at the shortest notice, as you will see before this story is done. It was all alone in the garden. I do not know whether the baby knew she was all alone in the gar- den or not, but she seemed very happy and contented. She sat perfectly still, much engaged, apparently, in watching some long willow-branches that went sway- ing back and forth in the lazy breeze. Caw caw! caw I" screamed a hoarse black crow overhead. There was a "whir-r-r" in the air, and down swooped the crow, lighting -now where do you think? Right on top of that baby. I shall always maintain that she behaved very well under the circumstances. She did not so much as open her lips till the bold creature began pecking at the scarlet ribbons. You can hardly blame her for giving such a scream then that the unwelcome visi- tor flew off in a hurry. A stork that happened to be passing heard the com- motion, and felt obliged to stop and see what was the matter. So she flew down to the garden, and it was THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. not long before she too spied the little white bundle sitting there under the trees. The baby had stopped crying by this time, and, all being quiet, Mrs. Stork stepped cautiously forward, every minute stepping nearer and nearer, till at last she could look straight down into the pair of blue eyes. Gravely the stork surveyed the baby, and gravely the baby surveyed the stork. Neither seemed to know quite what to make of the situation, although soon it began to dawn upon Madame Longlegs that maybe she had the best of it, and giving her head a toss, her wings a gentle flap, and opening wide her bill, she said softly to herself- "Hurray! this is a lucky day for you, Mother Stork 1" Casting another glance at the baby, who still did not offer to resent all this familiarity on the part of a stranger, Mrs. Stork, like Master Crow, next con- cluded to try a taste of those gay red ribbons. The pimpernels shut up in a twinkling. The rose- bud kept opening wider and wider. And alas! the harder the baby cried this time, the more delighted the visitor seemed to grow. 0.!! :._ (- THE STORK FELT OBLIGED TO STOP AND SEE WH-AT WAS THE MATTER. THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. "Ahem; it's a real baby and no mistake," whis- pered the stork, dancing on one leg in high glee and making noise enough with her wings to have been a dozen of her sisters and brothers; Hurray! hurray !" The sound of voices could now be heard in the dis- tance. If the children only needn't have dawdled for once If the butterflies hadn't led them such a chase through the flower-beds If if if But then there would have been no story to tell. And as usual the children did dawdle. They ran from one rosebush to another in pursuit of a yellow butterfly; they held buttercups under their chins to see whether they liked butter or not; they stopped for a peep of their silly little faces in the clear waters of the fountain, and meanwhile Mrs. Stork had been making up her mind to great things. She had snatched up the little white bundle, and serenely sailed off through the bright summer sky. "My baby! my baby! why, that wicked, wicked creature's got my baby !" was the agonized cry that rose from the garden. If Mother Stork heard, she did not heed. On she THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. flew with her burden, never resting once till she came to her own home-nest on top of a high barn in a vil- lage ever so many miles away. As for the three young storks, they were very much fluttered indeed at the sight of such an unexpected guest. The first thing they did was to hop out of the nest as fast as they could; and having arranged themselves gracefully on one leg in a semi-circle, they gazed solemnly down at their mamma's big prize, while that delighted lady, wishing to show off all its beauties and accomplishments, began pecking again at the scarlet ribbons. For the third time that day the baby cried. She cried with such a will that the village-sextoin forgot to play his usual hymn a thing he had not done in the course of sixty years. Now you must know that they were all very good pious people who lived in that village. And ever since the church had been built, as regularly as two o'clock came round, come rain, come shine, the sexton had climbed the tower-stairs, and there on the little balustrade had played a hymn in God's praise. And on this particular afternoon the sexton was just THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. in the act of raising the old brass trumpet to his lips when for the third time that day the baby cried. The sexton was old, and he was rather deaf, but he heard her; he was old, and he was rather blind, but he saw her the little white bundle, crying away among the storks. His precious trumpet dropped from his fingers. He seized the rope of the alarm bell behind him, and pulled with all his might. The baby told the sexton. And the sexton tolled the bell. Well, the people came running out of their houses in terror. The cry of fire was spreading up and down the quiet street. Men hurried out of the barns with ladders and pails of water. Some of the women appeared armed with brooms, though what they were going to do with them I'm sure I don't know. Not seeing any fire, they looked bewildered. Where's the fire, sexton ? they shouted wildly. It's worse than a fire," was the answer from the top of the tower. "The storks have got a child in the nest over yonder. Quick, quick, or they'll be be off with it again !" Ladders were hastily bound together to make them THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. longer. Two or three men were softly creeping up to the barn-roof, when Mrs. Stork, getting a hint of what was going on, picked up the baby, and away she went over all their heads. The fire-engine had arrived on the scene. Some men seized the hose and sent a heavy. stream of water full against the ex- tended wings of the mischievous bird. But what was a little sprinkling, more or less, to Madame Stork ? On she sailed, rather slowly at first, enjoying the fun of bringing the peasants out into the fields and woods in pursuit, then faster till she looked a small black speck in the sky to the excited people watching below, and at last she was out of sight. By and by she began to near a city. There were a great many houses and spires and chimneys. Out- side of the town, in an open meadow, a large number of people were collected together. In their midst was a big colored mass of something the stork didn't know what, and the baby didn't know what; but I will mention to you that it was a balloon. Presently the balloon was loosed from its moorings, and with a bound ascended grandly into the air. A thousand pairs of eyes were watching it, and a thou- THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. sand mouths were praising its graceful motion, when the thousand pairs of eyes fell upon the stork and the balloon was forgotten. The people were wild with excitement. Cries of horror and lamenting were heard on every side. A huntsman fired a few shots, though without much effect. "Keep close to the balloon, Mother Stork. Keep close to the balloon and you'll be all safe," whispered the wise bird to herself. Attached to the balloon there was a boat, in which were seated a man and a woman. "A child! a child!" exclaimed the woman, dis- cerning the baby as the stork drew near. Oh, you dear little thing !" she cried, talking first to the baby, and then to her husband. "Oh, do let us try to save it!" The wind was driving the balloon along at a rapid rate; so rapid that the stork had hard work to keep up, for she had travelled many a mile already, and was growing short of breath. Still there was the sound of those disagreeable leaden balls haunting "her ears, and she pressed on as long as she could. Baby grew somewhat uneasy, however. The pin- THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. cers that had been pinching her up so tightly, cer- tainly were loosening their hold. Baby felt herself going going - "Ah!" said the woman in the balloon, giving a deep sigh of relief; "I thought we should have to lose her after all. I call myself a pretty lucky woman now, to find a baby in the clouds! " "Wife," said the man, passing his fingers over the little white bundle; "the fog is so thick I can't see very well, but by the feeling of so much fine lace and ribbon I should say it was the child of rich parents. If so, our fortune is made. We have only to advertise it in the paper." "Right was the answer. "They'll pay any sum for the sake of getting it back. I shouldn't wonder if we got enough to build a new house and live in ease all the rest of our days. That is, if it's -" she stopped in dismay as a new thought struck her -" living. It don't move. It's so still I'm afraid it's dead. They'll never give us anything for a dead baby. Do you suppose the poor thing can have died of fright ?" "Oh. toss it a little! suggested the man. THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. So the baby was tossed and rocked back and forth in the woman's arms, and being hugged very hard, it gave a faint cry. "It's crying! it's crying!" was the joyful exclama- tion; and the happy pair, feeling sure now that their fortune was made, were ready to get back to the earth as soon as might be. The gas was allowed to escape. The air became gradually purer. Little by little, tiny black points began to be visible through the thick clouds, and little by little, these tiny black points turned into substantial mountains and churches and trees and houses. There was a river, too, unpleasantly near. Is it a law of nature that all balloons shall come down in the middle of a river? It would seem so almost, and this one was no exception to the general rule. There was a tremendous "splash!" and the man and woman, in such gay spirits only ten minutes before, were floundering about in the water, clinging to the overturned boat. But the baby was very comfortable, floating down stream on her pillow, as if it had been an Indian canoe. It was very amusing. There were various THE BABY'S ESCAPADE. pleasant sights at hand: some lambkins as white as snow playing together; an old gray-bearded goat teas- ing a frisky young one; long patches of forget-me- nots along the bank, and a whole troop of silver- backed fishes constantly darting up out of the water. On she floated serenely among the pleasant sights, until, suddenly, a strong arm drew the little white bundle very carefully out of the river. "Bless my stars /" said a great coarse man's voice, slowly: "bless my stars/ It's no more a baby than I am / It's only some little girl's big crying-doll " JOHNNY PIG. L ITTLE Johnny Eataway's playmates called him Johnny Pig;" and I don't wonder that they did, for he was one of the greediest boys that ever lived. Almost every day when dinner was over, and he had-eaten so much he could not eat any more, he would beg his mamma with a dreadful whine not to give what was left of the pudding or pie which wasn't much, I can assure you- to any one else, but to put it away in the closet so that he might "eat it by and by." And often he would stand for an hour at a time before the windows of the bakery or candy-store, with the tears running down his cheeks, in the deep- est grief because he could not eat everything he saw there. JOHNNY PIG. And he would follow men who were selling fruit from street to street, just as other boys follow the "... ,,-- i----------- ,, ] -_- 7;, --.1 -- i, ,, JOHNNY PIG IS DISGUSTED. soldiers, or a monkey on a hand-organ, in hopes that at last, to get rid of him, they would give him an apple, or an orange, or a banana. JOHNNY PIG. Well, late one very cloudy afternoon, Johnny Pig was coming from the .druggist's vith a small bottle of paregoric for the baby, who had a pain (paregoric was the only thing that could be swallowed that he could be trusted with), when he saw a man in front of him carrying a basket half-full of pretty, pink paper packages. Johnny got as near as he could to this man and sniffed at the basket. It smelled delicious! Just like his mamma's kitchen on cake-baking days. The man ran up every stoop, and rang every door- bell, and gave one of the packages to whoever came to the door. At last, Johnny Pig, who was by this time a mile from home and it was fast getting dark, asked the man what they were. Cakes," said the man. "Gimme one," begged Johnny. "No," said the man, "I don't give them to boys. But Johnny kept following and teasing and teasing until the man-- it was quite dark now -said, "Well, as I have only a few left and I want to go to my sup- per, you may have one." JOHNNY PIG. Johnny snatched it without, even a thank-you (greedy boys are never polite), sat down on the near- est door-step, laid the bottle of paregoric by his side, tore off the pretty pink paper, and took a bite -a big bite. And then he jumped up, knocking over the bottle and breaking it into flinders, and stamped, and choked, and sputtered, and wiped his mouth again and again on the sleeve of his new jacket. It was a cake of soab **4 A BRAVE BOY. HIS name was Frank Thompson; he was fifteen years old, and he lived in a large city in the State of Ohio, where he was a pupil in one of the public schools. He was a slender lad with quiet gray eyes, gentle ways, and with nothing of the "brag" about him. Some of the boys called him a coward because he never would fight; and when- ever a rough fellow would shake his fists in Frank's face with "You don't dare to fight," Frank would quietly say, "I dare not to fight; which was a much braver thing to do. But there came a day after which no one doubted Frank's bravery. It was in mid-winter, and the fires in the school-building were fed with bushels of coal in order that the rooms might be kept warm for the hundreds of boys and girls in the school-rooms in that very cold winter weather. A BRAVE BOY. Suddenly the teacher in the division where Frank Thompson studied discovered from a cloud of smoke that burst into the room that the school-building was on fire, and there were five hundred children in it; and in less than one moment half the children in her room knew, as did she, of the danger, and were pre- paring to rush out of doors. The teacher, Miss Olney, said not a word, but springing to the door, she lifted her hand and with a commanding gesture mo- tioned the pupils back into their seats, and they dared not disobey. She then hurried from the room to warn the other teachers of the danger and to give the alarm of fire. Quick as a flash, a slender boy with flashing eyes had taken the teacher's place at the door, for every pupil in the room had risen to his feet to escape as quickly as possible. The boy at the door was Frank Thompson. "Stand back I he cried; not one of you can pass through this door/ Disobey orders, and you will be crushed on the stairs " And do you think a boy moved? Not one. The pale-faced, flashing-eyed lad at the door with uplifted A BRAVE BOY, hand was equal to an army with banners. Every one felt that the boy who dared not to fight, dared to hold his post, and guard it too. And so he stood until the teacher returned, when he slipped into a passage-way, and fairly flew to one of the lower rooms, where he knew there was a tiny little fellow, weak and lame, who might be overlooked and lost in the danger. Hunting him out of the crowd of little ones, Frank lifted him in his arms and never lost hold of his burden until he had put him safely down at his mother's door, two or three squares away. Then he returned to the school-building from which the chil- dren had all safely escaped by leaving it in quiet order, and the fire engines were rapidly putting out the fire. You may be sure there were no boys to call Frank Thompson a coward after that. The story of his bravery, his quick, determined action, got into the newspapers, and several gentlemen had a gold medal made, and on it were these words: TO FRANK THOMPSON, FROM THE CITIZENS OF C IN HONOR OF A BRAVE DEED, DEC. 21, i880. A BRAVE BOY. Which was the date of the fire. And the medal was hung about Frank's neck in the presence of all his school-fellows, while one of the gentlemen made a little speech, in which he told the pupils that it was always a brave lad who dared to do right, and always a coward who dared to do wrong. And now that the story is told, let us give three cheers for brave Frank Thompson and all the other boys like him. LITTLE BLUE FROCKS. T WO babes went out to walk. Paul was five years old. He was old enough to mind his pap and mam, and so he didn't al- ways. Lots of little children think they know best; and Paul had this disease harder than he ever did the measles. The other baby was three years old. He hadn't any real name, such as mothers write down in the big family Bibles. He was very small, a sort of cricket on the hearth; and even smaller when Paul first saw him. That was when Paul was making much of a great home-made doll, conjured up by his big sister; and his first observation over his infant brother was, "Mamma dot a dolly too." And that name got out of the crib with the child, and followed LITTLE BLUE FROCKS. him long at play, as well as through croups, coughs and castor-oils. As I said, Paul and Dolly went out to walk. It was a bright morning in May; but all the night be- fore, the heaviest kind of a spring rain had been tumbling down to please growing things, including small boys and girls; and it left puddles on the prairie lawn about the home of these babies. At once Paul and Dolly felt the instinct to wade in puddles strong upon them. Standing on the door- steps, with his eye on the nearest grass-bottomed little pond, Paul called to somebody above him: " Mamma, can't we take off shoes an' stocks ? Dolly wants to, real bad." "No, my boys; keep on your shoes and stockings and your rubbers. Keep out of the water, too; it's over your rubbers." "How does mamma know ?" wondered the disap- pointed Paul; "she hasn't tried it. I can wade in the edge, anyhow, with rubbers on." The small boy delights in the Scripture command, "Prove all things Off Paul ran, and planted his toes in the edge of the pond, looking down to see the LITTLE BLUE FROCKS. water come up as he pressed on an inch at a time. He would just see how far he could go and not get in over the tops of his rubbers. Pat, at, behind him came a pair of wee rubbers. Everywhere that Paul went Doll was sure to go; and when once a start was made, he was always ambitious to be ahead. So, while Mr. Policy Paul was slowly getting to sea in a rubber shoe, Mr. Dashing Doll went plashing by him to the centre of the puddle. He kee-keed as he ran, made the water fly, and put his two little chubby knees to soak. Paul, who felt himself the guardian of his baby brother, was shocked, and hastened in to bring back the boy who didn't mind his mother. They reached the further shore together two pairs of thoroughly wet legs. Paul, the guardian, called out his mother to see what a naughty boy Dolly had been, and explained that Dolly had run right into the middle of the pud- dle, and he, poor fellow! had had to go in to get him out. Then there was a drying time: dry stockings on babies confined to carpeted rooms, and little shoes LITTLE BLUE FROCKS. and overshoes put to slow bake about the kitchen stove. After dinner the soaked shoes were pronounced "done through," were put on and buttoned up, and that blessed pair of babies in blue frocks went out again with perfect purity of motive and the promise to be mamma's real good boys, and keep out of the dirt." During the week before the great rain, their father had devoted some spare hours to spading and plant- ing a portion of the prairie garden-patch. The sur- face was flat, the soil deep and black, and water stood in every sag the hoe had left. In fact, it was a vast mud puddle, with corn, potatoes and tomatoes sprouting at the bottom. Hence the pet travellers, out for an after-dinner walk, were specially charged not to go into the gar- den, or they wouldn't ever get out again. "No; we won't go there, mamma," answered Paul, as he resumed guard over his little brother and helped him to roll down the steps. He picked Dolly up and kissed him, and in a mo- ment the twain were out of sight and "all right." LITTLE BLUE FROCKS. Their mother sat down with a feeling of security for an hour's sewing. Barely five minutes later, a chorus of great cries, plainly from small boys, came into the house from the garden. It was pitiful indeed. It touched the mother's heart. She knew it couldn't come from her boys who had just gone out clean and pledged to pretty ways. But she would go and see whose boys had gone into the garden. How that mother's patience was tried on getting a full view of the floating garden! For, afloat with the other plants, were her own cherished house-plants! They were thirty feet from shore, too. They had worked through the unspaded portion, and concluded that the garden was safer than mamma had supposed it was. But, reaching the mellow portion, they melted. They disappeared fast; they sunk above their knees in the black mush. Their mother couldn't rescue them, but she called for help. The father of the babies thrust his head from his side study window above. As he looked through the tree-tops he thought he saw sailing in the mud, just LITTLE BLUE FROCKS. above the collar-bands of two blue-check frocks, two familiar straw hats with two familiar heads in them. He heard an articulate wail also, "Can't get out!" "COME, PAPA DEAR I" Down the kitchen stairs he hastened; and as he stood on the back steps and took in the scene, he laughed, though his pets dolefully cried, Come, papa dear." He wished he were an artist; he'd put that garden view on canvas as a comic caution to all small boys who don't mind their mammas.. LITTLE BLUE FROCKS. He called for a pair of old boots. He thought his babies wouldn't sink out of sight for a few moments, though Dolly was shaking furiously- at least all there was of him above ground and going deeper at every shake. Then that father set out for those two garden vege- tables with straw hats. He gave them a new bring- ing-up. And when he had transplanted them from mushy mud to green grass, he took a chip and scraped away till he found their feet and legs. The shoes went under the hydrant, then were dried and oiled again. Other soiled garments found a wash- tub. The boys were dried, and they dried their tears and spent the rest of the day in-doors with some as serious talking to as they could understand. But when the older children returned from school and the pother of the "muss was over, the laugh went round, and the light-hearted babies laughed too, as they promised never to do so again. And up to date of writing-two days after the. "flood "- they have not again lost their legs in the garden. QUEER COMPANY HOME. WE Brownlee children were delighted to find the days drawing in, and the leisure of the long autumn evenings which came each year with a sense of novelty, once more upon us. Instead of going to bed at nine with the sun just fairly out of sight, as in summer, now when work and supper were over, and the moon rising over the hill, there was a whole long evening before us. We felt as if we must celebrate this luxurious leisure, and fixed on going to our next neighbor over the south hill, nearly a quarter of a mile away. The quiet of a late October night was around us, with clear skies and the full moon shining splendid above the autumn haze, and the frost-mist glimmer- ing in the air. The sweetest scents of ripening grasses and resinous plants which hangs long in the QUEER COMPANY HOME. air, were blended with a breath of red leaves and ripening frost-grapes in the ravine at Pine Hollow two miles away. It was the complete charm of a northwestern evening, a night for children to go wild with joy in the very splendor and temper of the air. People were always ready and glad to see each other in those early days when neighbors counted for something. It made no matter that Mr. Forrest was tricing King Philip corn for seed, or that Kate and Ruth were slicing pumpkin for next day's pies. Work was our life in those hardy Wisconsin days, and we had not learned to pity ourselves for it. Work was turned off with quips and jokes, and we had more fun over a busy day than girls nowa- days find when they lounge about with pockets full of caramels, and give their minds to doing nothing. I can see Ruth cutting up one of those great Wis- consin pumpkins, in her neat brown print dress, fresh as paint, a glossy orange pumpkin held be- tween arm and breast, with the sharp knife turning off thin crescents to be paired and cut up by the others. A good knife goes through a firm, fine- fleshed pumpkin with something of the same feeling |