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Two Utti* foot. ao owl) tknl boik BMjr ucatt*
Ib an* rwroMiac k**4;
Two tender faat aye* tha untried kardar
Of lifa'a myaterient land.
Dimpled and aofi and pink aa paark tree k!«<-
aoma
In April * fracraat daw,
B"W can thay walk *aio*t tka briar/ tangle#
Edging tha world * roogk ways t
Theta rot/-while feat, along tha doubtful fot-
<bat bear a mother's lead;
AIm! tfnre woman haa tha heavier burden,
And walk* tha harder road.
Lora, for awhila. will znaka tha path before
♦ hem
All daiaty, amooth and fair;
Will .
cut away tha bramhiae, latUag only
Tli* roan bloaaoa than.
But when tke aaothar't watchful a/aa art
•brooded
Away from the tight at man.
And the** dear feat ar* Ml without her gnid-
ing.
Who shell direct than than t
Bow will they b* allured, betrayed, delated.
Poor little untaught, faat f
law what draary anaa«a will they waader,
What danger* will they f
Will they g» atumblhiK Wiudlf la thedarknan
Of sorrow'* tearful ahadaal
Or And the upland alapat at paaca and boauty,
Whose sunlight narar fad** f
Will they go tailing up Aabtttan'a muomlt,
Tha common world abar* ?
Or In *ome namelea* rain, aaouraly ahuled.
Walk aide by sida with Larat
Some feet, there be which walk lifa’a track na-
woundad,
Which And but plaaaant waya;
Some hearts there be te which this lift It tnly
A round of happr days.
liut these are few. Far mors there art who
wander
■Without a hop* or friend.
Who Aud t- air journey full of pain* and losses,
And laug to ranch tha and.
Ho shall ba witb her, tb* tender atranger.
Fair faced aud lander ayad.
Hafor* who** unaUluad faat tha world'! wide
highway
Stretches «« fair and wide!
Ah! who may read the future f For ear darl-
. 0 *
W* crave ell bleating* sweet,
And pray that lie whe feeds tba crying rarens
Will guide the baby's feat.
-Wnverly Magazine.
JIM’S VAGRANT.
The burnished mountings and metal sur¬
faces of “No. 20’* glistened and sparkled
»» the sun'a rare crept lazily down in¬
to the engine house and fall in a golden
shower upon the beautiful monster. But
iu spile of this the keen and practiced
«ye of Big Jim detected a blur on one of
the bran* levers, amt, fetching hie chamois
•kin, he set to work with a will to re¬
move tiiis disgraceful blemish; for not a
speck would he allow upon his beloved
engine.
“No. 20" was conceded to be the finest
machine of its kind in tba city; and Big
Jim, as he was universally known, was
acknowledged to be the tallest man and
the bent driver in the whole lire depart¬
ment. Many times b« had beta oolnpH-
meuted by the district engineers; and on
oue occasion he and his engine rendered
such signal service that the mayor of the
town sent him a personal note of thanks.
•That note Jim curried constantly with
him, and would not have parted with it
for any consideration.
Strange to say, there was no envy of
Jim or his engine. All who knew him
loved and respected him; and Big Jim
was the pride, and “No. 20" the pet of
the entire department.
Kor the last hour Jira had noticed a
little negro standing on the opposite side
of the street and gaaing into tike engine
house with evident interest. While the
fireman plied his chamois, the lad grew
bolder, aud, crossing the street, stood
timidly in the doorway. The day wae
far from sultry; and as Jim gaced at tha
hoy’s bare feet and thin, ragged clothing,
» feeling of profound pity stois into his
heart.
“ You should not be eut without your
shoes, my lad, ° he said kindly, in his
deep, gruff voice.
“ Hain’t got no shoes, boas."
Jim gazed askance at the black urchin.
“Where are your parents?”
“ Dunno. Neber had none. ”
“But surely you have some relatives or
friends. ”
“Dunno what yer means by relatives,
boas; but I hain’t got no friends. Any¬
how,” he added pathetically, as though
ths fact had been impressed upon him
until be had become thoroughly oon-
viueod of its truth, “I’s no 'count, no¬
how, 1 is, so it do’n’ make no difPence. ”
Jim’s uplifted hand passed in mid air
as he heard this remarkable statement.
“ What’s your name?" he inquired.
“Black Pete," answered the boy sim-
I'lv-
“ But what’s your last name?”
“ Hain’t got no mo'ah names, boss. ”
“ How old are vou ?"
“Dunno!”
Jim gazed in blank astonishment at his
Slew acquaintance, the like of whom he
had never before met
“Say, boss,” said Pete, and his voice
dropped to a whisper, and hia eyes glia-
trued as he gazed in undisguised admira¬
tion at the engine, “is yon the drivah ob
dis ycre ingine?"
Jim nodded.
Pete gazed with such evident awe and
reverence upon “No. 20" that Jim’s big
heart was completely won.
“ Well, Pete. ” he said, a few ininntae
later. “1 guess I’ll have to leave you- It’s
time I was attending to my supper. By
the wav,” he added, “if you have no
friends, where do you get your meals?"
“Oh, I K*t’« ’em best way I kin. boas;
and when I can’t git nuffia, I does with¬
out,” was the philosophic reply.
"What are you going to do to-niglit?”
“Can’t have nulfin to-night. “Hain’t
got ne money, and don’ know where
to go. ”
”Is)ok here," said Jini, and the gruff
voice grew a little softer, “you wait here
a minute. ” and he disappeared.
S<xin he returned with a package
which he handed to Pet*.
“There,” he said. “I’ve divided my
supper with you. Pete. Now tell me
where you’re going to stay to-night. *
“Dunno, boss. Had a good place up
an alley, but de copper dun fin’ me l*st
pigjit, “I’ll and chaae me off. ”
tell you what, * said Jim thought
fully, “it's agsiast the rules, but \ GU
coma around her* after dark and I’ll
■muggleyou into my bunk. If you keep
right quiet no one will know, and to¬
morrow I'll see what I can do for yen."
Pete's eye* sparkled as he rawed hi*
black face to Jim.
“I'll do as y*r tole me, boss. Say”—
and the boy’a voice grew intensely low
and confidential, “does yer think they’d
have a cultud drivah on an ingine?”
The look of anxiety on Pete’s face as
he waited for the answer was painful to
see.
“I'm afraid not, Pete,”replied Jim,
Pete's black face assumed a look of un¬
utterable woe. He turned sadly away,
and mad* off with Jim's gift hugged
cloeelr to his breast.
*
Pete h*d been safely smuggled in, and
all In the engine house were wrapi»*d in
profound slumber, when suddenly the
whir of the alarm sounded loud arjd
shrill throughout the building, and in aa
instant the firemen were tumbling into
boots and coats.
With the first sound Jim was on his
feet. A moment later he was equipped
•nd harnessing the horses.
Big Jim was a born fireman. There
was nothing so delightful to his ear as
the clang of the alarm. The moment ho
heard it his spirits rose, the blood
coursed more rapidly through his veins,
and all else was forgotten.
So it happened that, strapped to his
seat on ths engine, the big driver dashed
down the street without a single thought
of the small piece of black humanity he
had bundled up so carefully a few horn*
before.
“No. 20” was the first engine to reach
the A large manufacturing build¬
ing was blazing furiously and threaten¬ !
ing to consume everything in the block.
Crowds of people were flocking from ail
directions.
Jim had juat reined in the foaming,
quivering horses besids a water plug, and
was hastily dismounting from his perch,
when a little, barefooted figure cants
panting up.
“I’s got awful Mowed, hoes; but I dun
beep behind the ingine's well as 1 could. ”
And not till then did Jim recollect the
admiring little friend he had left in the
engine house.
Before he could say any tiling there was
a great shout from tke multitude, and '
looking up, Jim beheld three men stand¬
ing at one of the upper windows, sur¬
rounded by the raging flames and cut off
from all means of escape. An exclama¬
tion of horror fell from his lips as he re¬
alized the peril of ths unfortunate men.
“They are lost!" he muttered involun¬
tarily. “The ladders have not yet ar¬
rived, and nothing on earth can save them
now.”
With mouth and eyes wide open, and
horror expressed in every feature. Pete
gazed in consternation at tire appalling
situation of the poor wretches. Then an
inspiration seemed suddenly to seize him,
and, quick as thought, lie snatched a
small axe from a truck near by, and
darted off through the crowd.
For several minutes Jim continued te
gaze pityingly upon the imperilled men.
At lust he turned sadly away, and then
be beheld Pete scrambling nimbly but
laboriously up a high telegraph pole on
the oppppsite side’of thestreet. Even at
t hat distance the heat was intense, and
IMe lmd all he could do to retain his des-
poi nte clutch and work himself up.
lie reached the cross pieces, and, perch¬
ing himself securely, raised his axe in
both hands and struck a furious blow,
which we* followed immediately by a
scraping buzz, as the wire he had M-X
“it'd slid over the beams and fell to tin
ground.
Then it was that Jim recognized the
shrewdness and utility of Pete’s act. for
the other nnd of the wire was fastened to
the roof the burning building directly
above the window at which tbe imper-
illed men stood, and as goon as it was
severed it fell within their reach.
A great cry of joy went up from the
vast throng below as the men grasped
their improvised fire escape aud descended
in turn; but above it rose a shrill wail of
mortal agony.
“Help, boss! Help! I’s dun goin’ to
fall!”
The flames had buret through one of
the windows, and weredarting far across
the street and beating upon poor Pete in
his defenseless position. He could not
move nor attempt to descend. It was ail
he was able to do to keep his hold upon
the hot beams. Realizing that his nerve¬
less fingers would soon be powerless to
sustain him, he cried alond in his an-
guish to the only being in that great
crowd upon w hom he could call.
As that desperate, appealing cry
reached his ears. Big Jim deserted big
beloved “No. 20” and sprang toward
Pete’s lofty perch. Right and left the
big fireman elbowed his way through tlie
crowd, knocking gaping men hither and
thither like so many tenpins.
But he was too late! Poor Pete hung
on as long as he could, and then, with a
•light quiver of the body, the scorched
aud blistered fingers relaxed their hold,
and the little hero fell to the pavement.
Jim raised the limp form tenderly in
bis strong arms,
“I’etet Pete, my brave little fireman!”
he murmured chokingly, as he pressed
bis lips to the black face.
At the word “fireman,” coupled with
bis own name by the gruff but tender
voice whoee owner had given Black Pete
the only friendship he had ever known,
tbe boy’s eyes opened dreamily and
rested for a moment on bis big friend. A
smile of recognition flashed over bis
features.
“So dey won’t take no cullud drivahs,
boss,” he muttered absently. “ Weil, i s
done de best I could, anyhow.” And
with a sigh of satisfaction at this though.,
mixed with regret though it was, his eves
closed once more to open again where
even Black Pete would be of some
“account," and where “No. 20” would
not be the realization of his highest ad¬
miration.
“Who can tell,” thought the big fire¬
man, as he laid his little friend in the
ambulance, “what high aspiration or
noble ambition was hidden beneath that
insignificant little black exterior?”
Ay! Who can tell?—Gilbert Austin.
TO DORIS.
Jf. my Doris, I skoal* And.
That you seem the least inclined
To explore the depths of Mind.
Or of Art.—
Should such fancies ever wake. »«
Understand, without mistake.
Though our hearts (perhaps) might break,
W# must part.
I’d a« soon yonr little head
Hhould be lumbered up with lead,
A* with learning, live or dead.
And with brains;
I have really doted lesa
On its outline, I confess.
Than the charming nothingness
It contains.
Now, suppose by hook or crook
People try to make you look
At some tiresome crabbed book.
Mind you don't!
If they hint yon ought to know
Nopboclee or Cice,
bacon, Goethe, or Roniseau,
fc*y “I won’t!’
Do yon think the rammer rose
Ever cares or ever know*
By what law ahe Laris and blow*
On tha stem ?
J f the peaches on the wail
Must by gravitation-fall.
Do you fancy it at ail
Troubles them f
Then, as sun or rain is sent,
And the Roldea hours are spent.
Be unaakingly content
As a star:
Yes, be ever of tbe few i
NVitlierVritical nor blue.
But be just tbe perfect Yon
That you are!
—Stray Verses, 1SS9-80—Lord Houghton.
TAKEN AT HER WORD.
Young Chadwick went away from his
call upon Mias Goss feeling decidedly
melancholy. They had had a tiff, and it
seemed aa if they were totally unfitted
for each other. Perhaps they were.
To an outsider it sometimes seems
as if the attraction two people
have for each other is in direct
proportion to their uncongeniality.
Chadwick had usually tried to bear phil¬
osophically the suspicion that occasion¬
ally intruded upon his mind that he rosily
cared nothing for Miss Goss. She amused
him; then one wants something upon
which to expend affection—a bird or a
girl. They were tacitly engaged. With
Americans of a certain order no formal
statement of purpose is necessary. A
young man goes with a girl, as the say¬
ing is, and if nothing interferes marriage
result*. Chadwick expected to marry
Miss Bertha—when she was ready.
He had somehow the impression that
she had chosen him,and not he her. He
had come to tke city, obtained a position
In Armour's office among five or six hun¬
dred other clerks, and had worked up to
a position that paid him $15 a week. He
was a good penman, correct at figure*,
and industrious. It had taken him five
years to reach hia present place, and he
expected hut slight increase of salary or
less labor in the future. That was the
worst of it; to come to the office at 8
to scratch, scratch all day with his pen as
hard as he could till 5 in the afternoon,
barring a brief “nooning,"and this every
day except Saturday, when he left at 1,
and Sundays, and to look forward to no
change in the future; this sometimes op¬
pressed him. No wonder he lost much
of his high spirits, and at 24 was rather
more staid than it is well for a person at
that age to be.
Miss Goss had doubtless felt that a
steady young man in a good position was
worth trying to attract, and when she
found that Chadwick waa willing to be
attracted, doubtless she was pleased, and
really believed she found much in the
young man to admire—that is, something
individual and special. But after a time
she began to suspect that he did not And
in her special attributes to awaken ad¬
miration. She was pretty, but so wore
a hundred other girls he might have been
acquainted with. She had taste in dress,
she was reasonably intelligent, but not
exceptionally so. She had to eos-fedi
often that Chadwick did not talk about
what she cared for, and suspected that
he was often indifferent to her conversa¬
tional efforts. They went to the theater
occasionally, but he did not catch up the
current phrases as others did, or seem to
relish her repetition of them. He cared
nothing about people nr the gossip about
them, iu short, as Bertha complained
one day to her sister, “I don't know a
single tiling he cares about except ama¬
teur photography, and that he will never
talk about, and I hate it. ”
The quarrel lmd been about this hobby
of Eugene’s.
"I bone it will be fair on Sunday,” he
had said.
‘‘ Why so?” asked Bertha.
“ I want to go down to Downer's Grove
and get a few views."
“How far is it?”
“ About 20 miles. ”
" 1 hat will cost something, ” said the
young lady coldly.
"Oil, it is a free excursionhf some real
estate men who have lots to show. ”
“They won't like your going for no
benefit to them," she persisted.
“It’s their chance. They have to take
some like others. ”
Bertha was annoyed at his imperturb¬
able good nature. It vexed her to see
him happy in any plan that did not in¬
clude her.
“What good does all this scouring over
the country do?” she abruptly asked.
Y ou never expect to make any money
out of photography, and after you get a
lot of views they are of no use. It seems
to me just a foolish expense.
Chadwick looked at the pretty, pout¬
ing face with some surprise.
‘It doesn t seem so to me. I am shut
up all the week,” he answered, “and the
chance to get out of doors for one day is
not to be neglected. Come, you’d better
go with me, he added in a conciliatory
tone.
Not I! If you want to go running all
over the world on Suuday you can do so,
of course, but I shall not. ”
Constant desk word tends to make a
man irritable and nervous. Chadwick
showed this by rising hastily aud saying:
I should like to know one thing I do
'hut, is interesting to you. I am tempted
to give up my position and enjoy a rest. ”
“How are you to live?"
” I might find wavs."
“\ ou had better think twice before de¬
ciding upon such a foolish step. ”
”1 have thought twice, and the idea
seems to have things in it* favor. *
“What things? You couldn’t expect
to marry without a sure income, ” sug¬
gested this practical young lady.
“Iam not so sure that marriage would
bring much happiness," rejoined Chad¬
wick.
“If that is your thought, you’d better go
off by yourself to the woods and live a
hermit’s life. I want to live while I do
t live. It tired of working, give
you are
it up; but ycu also give me up—under¬
stand that."
Then Chadwick lost his temper.
“And what do I lose in resigning you?
We have not a taste in common. I care
nothing for the sort of home you have
Iwen brought up to believe essential to
happiness—go many rooms tastefully
furnished, a certain number of visiting
acquaintances. For my part I could be
content in on« room with a woman 1
loved and who appreciated me. ”
“Then go and find that woman and
that room,” said Bertha, with a toss of
her head.
And so they parted. No wondS- the
young man was Bad. But gradually ha
Iiecame reconciled. Twenty minutes
does not seem a long period, but it must
be considered that sometimes it does not
require much time to complete a matter,
lie strolled along Wabash avenue, and
enjoyed the luxury of the warm evening,
the lighted windows, oud the sympa¬
thetic thrill of companionship which a
large city arouse*. Presently he found
himself near the block where the ama¬
teur and called photographers held their meetings,
t« mind that this was their
evening. It was not late, only a littla
after 9, and he ascended the stairs.
A gentleman was showing some views,
nnd discoursing upon the film he had
udopted. The pictures were excellent.
“1 believe I must have some of those
films, ” Chadwick said to a lady sitting
near. “ I have the finest lot of unregea-
erate photographs on hand of any mum.
her of the society, and I am afraid they
will turn me out if they find I don’t da
any better. ”
“ What camera do you use ? ” she asked,
smiling pleasantly.
Then they talked “shop” for about 15
minutes, at the end of which time
Chadwick spoke of his intended trip to
Downer’s Grove the next Sunday.
“Downer’s Grovel” said the young
lady. “Why, I live there."
"Do you? XI:en perhaps you could
show me some points of interest—though,
being Sunday-”
“Oh, there is nothing very interesting
there. Come and see the place, however,
aud call on me. This is my address. If
we take a few views together I may be
able tt> point out where your failing lies,
for I am qnit* lucky.”
She did not mention that she had taken
a couple of prizes for her work. Possi¬
bly she thought Chadwick knew. But
he was one of the young men who never
know anything about anybody.
His acquaintance with Miss Durvno
continued by their photographic associa¬
tion at Downer’s Grover, ripened into an
intimacy that put the parting with Miss
Goss entirely out of mind. He thought
her the nicest girl he ever met. Whether
the lady exerted herself to be entertain¬
ing, or whether Chadwick felt sympa¬
thetically attracted without special urg¬
ing, is one of thoke things no fellow can
find out. To the outsiders it always
seems as if the lady were “setting her
cap’’ or that the gentleman had inter¬
ested motives; but contradictory opin¬
ions nullify each other.
Miss Durvan’g father was pretty well
off, but this Chadwick did not discover.
The lady was continually confessing to
small economiee, both in the line of pho¬
tographic appliances and in matters of
dress and household affairs. The regular
fare to Downer’s Grove waa high. She
insisted that Chadwick should use her
rebate card whenever he came out. He
at last decided to make his home there,
and Miss Durvan found a lady who would
give him a nice room and breakfast and
supper at a moderate price. Of course ho
took it.
One day Chadwick, sitting in the cable
car lost in thought, became aware that a
lady had seated herself beside him.
Thinking the car crowded he moved a
little, not looking up.
“How do you do?” was said in a
sprightly voice.
• Why, he* do you?" said Chadwick,
in surprise, f»r the lady was Miss Goss;
from whom he had parted in anger three
months before.
“Have you been away all this long
time?" she asked with a coquettish look.
"Why, no; I live at Downer’s Grove
now.”
* Yes, I heard about your attentions to
a certain rich young lady there, ” and she
shook her head playfully, “but I won’*
huve aqg more of that I think oui
quarrel has lasted quite long enough,
What an obstinate person you are! J
didn’t believe you would hold out so long.
As you are too proud to make the first
advance. I suppose I shall have to. ”
“But," stammered Chadwick, “you
said that all was over between us. ”
“You niusn’t mind what a girl says >a
a pet. I had an awful headache th it
evening. Is it possible you believed 1
was in earnest ?”
“Why. yes.”
“Oh, oh!” And she laughed sweetly,
“You seemed to fear poverty. ”
“And I do, but you have not given up
your position?"
“ Not yet—but I expect to do so. ”
“For a better paying one?”
“Yes, and for one less irksome. I aul
going to attend to Mr. Durvan’s real es¬
tate business. ”
“Well, you are lucky! I suppose you
know he is a very rich man?” .
“I hadn't heard. ”
“You never hear anything ; ( but there—
I won’t scold. We are friends, I hope?”
“Oh, yes. I hope so."
“And you will come and see me—aa
before?”
“Well, no, I can’t,” blurted out poos
Chadwick. “I was married to Miss Dur¬
van on Monday. I thought yo l meant
what you said. ”
“And the poor fori," remarked Miss
Goss to some friends, “didn’t even know
that he had married aa heiress! A
pretty sort of a business man he will
make; and how it will turn out you am
guess.”
UNCLE BRAD’S ADVENTURE
“Tell us one of yonr hunting stories,
Uncle Brad. ”
“Yes, a bear story. Did you ever shoot
a bean?”
“Yee, tell us about the first one you
ever shot at?”
“Did you kill him?"
“ Well, he didn’t kill me, which was
the most astonishing point of my first
bear shooting. ”
“That’s the story we want to hear, Un-
cle Brad. Go on, please. ”
Two or three lively boys settled them-
selves to listen with eager interest.
“My father," began Uncle Brad, “was
an enthusiastic hunter, and made up bis
mind that his boys should early learn to
handle guns. He used to take us out on
long camping expeditions when we were
quite small boys. One summer he could
nc ; go, so he engaged an old hunter,
w-ioee name was Dan, to go and take
charge of us.
We took a ride by rail to a small town
on the border of one of the small Can¬
ada lakes. Here we secured our canoes
and supplies, and after paddling around
its smooth shore came to a small river.
This was pur jumping off place, for a
half breed’s hut at its mouth was the last
vestige of civilization. We spent the
night there, and the next morning were
making preparations to paddle far up the
stream iu search of game and fishin g,
when the first hitch came.
“I’vegot to go back to town,” said
Dan.
“What for?” arose in a chorus of three
dismayed voices.
“The box of canned meats wasn’t put
in.
“What a lot of stupids!”
* Let’s go on without it. *
“That wouldn’t do,” said Dan. “I’ll
be back here with it to-morrow."
“Well,” I said, “then we’ll go on up
the stream and find a good camping
place and be all fixed when you come. ”
“No,” said Dan, “that wasn’t accord¬
in’ to the ’greement with your fathof.
You can stay here till to-morrow. ■
Jack, Phil, and I grumbled in great
discontent, but there was nothing else to
be done. Dan got into his canoe and
swiftly paddled out of sight.
“I say, Phil," I said, “whycouldn’t we
go up the river by ourselves now instead
of waiting until to-morrow. ”
“I don’t believe father’d like it ” said
Phil.
“Nonsense! Are we never going to bo
big enough to take care of ourselves?
What harm could it be? We can just
puddle up till we find a good spot and
pitch our tent. Dan couldn’t ua to¬
morrow, "
I’hii still objected a little, but the end
of it was that within an hour we left the
message fdr Dan with our last night’s
host and started up the stream.
It was rather hard work, but the crisp,
Invigorating air seemed to put a new
spring into our limbs, and we found de¬
light in every touch of the wind and
every glance of the sun frotn sky or
water. YVe paddled with a will until we
had put a long distance between our*
selves and all other human beings.
At length we came to a place which
•eomed the spot of all others the best fit¬
ted for a camp, and with one consent be-
qan settling ourselves.
How we did work I Our enthusiasm
was at a fever heat when, as the tent
gleamed white among the green sur-
goundings, we unpacked our supplies and
ky a roaring camp fire, which felt pleas-
•t in the chill of approaching night,
tfiade a supper suitable to such appetites.
Then work was over and we began to
»a!iza how tired we were, The sun
sknk low as we lingered aijpund our fire
and the tall trees above us seemed to
grow taller and darker every moment.
A hush in which was something awful
and oppressive settled down with the
twilight, broken only , by a mournful
sighing of the wind through the treetops,
or the half wailing note of some night
bird.
( Our animated chatter soon died away.
“I wish we were back—don’t you?”
asked Jack after a silence, speaking as if
he wore half afraid of bemg laughed at
or scolded. But lie received neither re¬
buke nor ridicule, for itsuddenlv|dawned
upon me that I w as in my secret heart
wishing the same thing with all my
might. I began to wonder how I had
dared to take the responsibility of bring¬
ing my two young brothers into this soli¬
tude.
“No, I don’t wish I was back,” said
Phil bravely. “It’s lots of fun to be off
here all alone—of course it is. But I
wouldn’t mind if Dan was here. ”
“He’ll be here all right to-morrow,” I
said. “Wouldn’t it be something to tell
of if we should shoot a deer or something
before he got here?”
“Ora bear, ” said PhiL
■“I guess we’ll have to go farther than
this before we find any bears, ” said I.
Phil skinned a squirrel which he had
shot, and we proudly calculated that our
first breakfast would be off our own
game. Then we went to bed. The other
boys soon fell asleep, but it waa a long
time before I followed their example.
I don’t know how long I had slept be¬
fore I was suddenly awakened. I knew
it must have been by some noise, for
with my first conscious moment I was
sitting bolt upright
For a few seconds all was still. Then
I heard a crackling of branches and pres¬
ently the sound of a boulder rolling down
the bank. Its splash into the water
awakened the others.
“What is it?" whispered Jack, creep¬
ing close to my side.
“Sh—I don’t know,” I said. “A deer,
I suppose, coming to water. ”
“Let’s get our guns ready," 'said Phil.
“Don’t make a bit of noise,” I cau-
tioned.
There was more crackling and scram-
bling among the stones. With trembling
hands I raised the tent cloth far enough
to peep out.
There was no moon, and the starlight
which struggled down through the trees
was dim and misty, so that I could ob¬
tain but an indistinct view of what was
going on outside. I could only make out
* moTm « ob > ct tire bushes, work-
j*? ‘ oward the rock on whi <*
Phil had left his squirrel . and its skin.
At length reaching It, it seemed to
arise on its hind legs, but I could discern
nothing more than a huge black object
with clumsy and unwieldly movements,
even to my inexperienced eyes far dif-
ferent from the graceful form of the deer
I had hoped to see.
What was it? Could it have been
drawn here by the smell of the squirrel,
If so, it would be surely turning its atten-
tion further before long.
“What shall we do?” said Phil in a
breathless whisper at my side.
Then came over me the full extent of
my willfulness and foolhardiness in hav-
ing led these boys of 12 and 13,1 but a
year or two older, out from the care
placed over us by our father. What
were we to do, indeed ? I had often
dreamed of the time when I should stand
bravely up and shoot large game, but it
had been by daylight, not in this fearful
darkness in which a dozen more wild
animals, for all I knew, might be prowl¬
ing around us!
Something must be done. Jack held
on to me as I approached the opening of
the tent, imploring me not to go out,
but I ordered him to keep down and,
with Phil, to see that their rifles were
ready for use. Then I stood in the door¬
way and fired in a hit or miss fashion, for
I could not distinguish the black object
from the thick bushes.
A snorting, snarling growl came in
answer, striking new terror to my heart.
An enraged wounded animal might rush
at the tent. In desperate haste I fired
again and still again as the boys with
trembling hands passed me their rifles.
It seemed an age to me, but could have
been but a few seconds when our foe
seemed to roll over, tearing at busbes and
stones, then to scramble to his feet and
with angry grunts hurry away. I could
hear his uncouth sounds and heavy move¬
ments far away in the still night.
I made the boys lie down and sat in
the tent door the remainder of the night.
We had no other alarm, and in the ear¬
liest beams of the morning I awoke them
and set them to work getting breakfast.
Neither of them expressed any surprise
as they saw me beginning to take down
the tent, but gave active help in again
packing our stuff into the canoes.
“Say," said Phil, as several hours la¬
ter we came in sight of the half breed's
hut, “there’s no need of saying anything
about our caper to anybody. That old
half Indian never says three words at a
time, aud Dan needn't know we’ve been
away. ”
We all agreed to his suggestion. Dan
came rather late in the day, and favored
our proposition to remain where we were
until the next morning. Then, to our
great relief, he did not go up the stream,
but selected a spot for our camp on the
border of the lake a few miles from the
half breed’s dwelling.
One day very soon afterward Dan led
me a long tramp through the thick
woods, coming out at length at the very
spot where we had camped that night.
Even with the July sun beaming upon it
my head swam a little as I recalled the
terrors of that night, while my heart
swelled with thankfulness that my two
young brothers had escaped the threaten¬
ing danger. Not a word did I say to Dan
as I trod over the familiar ground.
He began carefully following a track
made evidently by clumsy, heavy feet.
Broken bushes, torn herbage, and spots
of dried blood marked it, and as I fol¬
lowed the hunter around a rock ho
stopped with an exclamation of satisfac¬
tion.
“Humph! I thought we’d find him.”
There lay an enormous black bear.
Very composedly Dan addressed himself
to the skinning of it. As he rolled the
skin into a bundle and strapped it upon
his back he turned to me with a quizzi¬
cal smile, saying;
“You did that pretty well. ” i
“Did what?” I asked.
“Shot that fellow. ”
Then, to my amazement, he gave me
an exact account of all that had taken
place that night, but it was a long time
before I could persuade him to tell me
how he had learned it.
The half breed, on whose taciturnity
we had relied, had been left by our faith¬
ful old caretaker with strict injunctions
not to lose sight of us young madcaps.
He had followed us at a distance in his
canoe, and at night, wrapped in his
blanket, had slept in it not 20 yards from
our tent.
Observing Dan’s orders not to inter¬
fere unless it became positively neces¬
sary, be had, with trigger cocked, ob¬
served all that went on, and with our
first motion toward breaking camp in the
morning had silently paddled down the
stream.
Well, that’s all, boys. For a long time
I preferred to hear very little of my night
adventure, but as I gradually learned
that Dan looked upon me as having
done my best I grew to feel a little proud
of my first bear. But there is no getting
around the fact, you see, that it was
more bear hunting me than me hunting
bear.—Sydney Dayre.
Became an Author at Sixty.
Mrs. Craven, who died not very long
ago in Paris, was a remarkable woman,
not only for the fact that she produced
many of tbe strongest and sweetest nov¬
els in English literature, but that not
until three score years of life were
rounded out did she take up her pen for
professional purposes. By the loss of her
husband’s fortune she was forced to write
for the sake of monetary remuneration ;
yet in the remaining 15 years of her life
she earned a name and fame that usually
fall only to the lot of men and women
who begin their life’s profession in all
the strength and ardor of hopeful youth.
—Illustrated American.
The average size or families in Europe:
France, 3.03 members; Denmark, 3.61;
Hungary, 3.70; Switzerland, 3.94; Aus¬
tria and Belgium, 4.05; England. 4.08;
Germany, 4.10; Sweden, 4.13; Holland,
4.22; Scotland. 4.46; Italy, 4.56; Spain,
4.65; Russia, 4.83; Ireland, 5.20.
Search thy friend for his virtues; thy-
self for thy'faults.—C. H. Spurgeon.