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LtTTtm V.KBT. 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.