CHAPTER XII.

During one part of the journey Steve Harrison and Murray had found the ledge along the mountain-side pretty rough travelling, but after a while they succeeded in getting out on to the comparatively smooth slope of the pine forest.

"Our only risk now is that we may meet some of their hunters up here after game. We'll push right on."

"I'll fight if it can't be helped, Murray, but I'd a good deal rather not meet anybody."

"We must find a hiding-place for the horses, and creep down into the valley on foot. I'll show you some new tricks to-day."

After searching some time, they tethered their horses between two rocks, where the thickly woven vines overhead made almost a dark stable for them.

"Now, Steve, a good look up and down, and we're off."

Between them, and what could be called "the road" were many yards of tangled growth, and before they had gotten through it, Steve felt his arm gripped hard.

"Listen! Horses coming. Lie still."

A minute more and they were both willing to lie as still as mice, for they had nearly walked into the very cover chosen by Bill and his two comrades in which to wait for their intended prisoners.

They and their horses were hardly twenty feet from Steve and Murray.

Suddenly Murray whispered: "Two young squaws. The foolish things are coming right into the trap."

"Can't we help 'em?"

"They're Apache squaws, Steve."

"I don't care. I'm white."

"So am I. Tell you what, Steve-- Ha! I declare!"

"What's the matter, Murray."

"One of 'em's white. Sure's you live. They sha'n't touch a hair of their heads."

The expression of Murray's face astonished Steve. It was ghastly white under all its tan and sunburn, and the wrinkles seemed twice as deep as usual, while the fire in his sunken eyes was fairly blazing.

"There's an Indian coming."

"Apache. After the squaws. Don't you hear his whoop? I suppose they'll shoot him first thing, but they won't send a bullet at the girls. They're a bad crowd. Worse than Apache Indians."

"I don't consider them white men."

"Not inside, they ain't. I'd rather be a Lipan."

The two merry, laughing girls rode by in happy ignorance of the danger that was lurking in the thicket, and Red Wolf galloped swiftly on to join them. Then the three miners, with Bill at their head, sprang out of their cover.

"Look out, boys. Don't use your rifles. Thar must be plenty more within hearin'."

"We'll have to kill the brave."

"Of course. Git close to him, though. No noise. I'd like not to give him a chance to so much as whoop."

They never dreamed of looking behind.

"They've start enough now," growled Murray. "Come on, Steve. Step like a cat. We must take them unawares. Have your tie-up ready."

The buckskin thongs which hang from the belt, or shoulder, or knee of an Indian warrior are not all put there for ornament. They are for use in tying things, and they are terribly strong.

The two men saw Red Wolf join his sisters; they heard the startled cries of Rita and Ni-ha-be, the demand for their surrender, and Red Wolf's reply.

"Now, Steve, quick! Do just as I tell you."

Twang! went Ni-ha-be's bow at that instant, and the man next to Bill was raising his rifle to fire, when his arms were suddenly seized by a grasp of iron, and jerked behind him.

"Right at the elbows, Steve. Draw the loop hard. Quick!"

As the second miner turned in his tracks, he was astonished by a blow between the eyes that laid him flat.

"Give it up, boys. Don't one of ye lift a hand."

Bill could not lift his, with the arrow in his arm. The man Steve had tied could not move his elbows. The man on the ground was ruefully looking into the barrel of Murray's rifle. Besides, here was Red Wolf springing forward, with his lance in one hand and his revolver in the other. Rita held his horse, while Ni-ha-be sat upon her own, with her second arrow on the string.

"We give it up," said Bill; "but what are you fellows up to? I see. You're the two miners, and you're down on us because we jumped your claim to that thar gold ledge."

Red Wolf lowered his lance, and stuck his pistol in his belt. "Your prisoners; not mine," he said to Murray. "Glad to meet friend. Come in good time."

Murray answered, short and sharp: "Young brave, take friend's advice. Jump on horse. Take young squaws back to camp. Tell chief to ride hard. Kill pony. Get away fast."

"Who shall I tell him you are?"

"Say you don't know. Tell him I'm an enemy. Killed you. Killed young squaws. Going to kill him."

There was a sort of grim humor in Murray's face as he said that. Not only Red Wolf, but the two girls, understood it.

Steve had not said a word, but he was narrowly watching the three miners for any signs of an effort to get loose.

"It's that other one, Steve. He's watching his chance. That's it. Draw it hard. Now he won't be cutting any capers."

The expression of the miner's eyes promised the unfriendliest kind of "capers" if he should ever get an opportunity to cut them.

"It's no use, boys," said Bill. "Mister, will you jest cut this arrer close to my arm, so's I can pull it out?"

"I will in a minute. It's as good as a tie of deer-skin jest now. Watch 'em, Steve!"

He walked forward, and looked long and hard into the face of Rita.

"Too bad! too bad! They'd better have killed her, like they did mine. It's awful to think of a white girl growing up to be a squaw. Ride for your camp, young man. I'll take care of these three."

"I will send out warriors to help you. You shall see them all burned and cut to pieces."

"Oh, Rita," whispered Ni-ha-be, "they ought to be burned!"

Rita was gazing at the face of old Murray, and did not say a word in reply.

"Come," said Red Wolf; "the great chief is waiting for us."

And then he added, to Murray and Steve:

"The lodges of the Apaches are open to their friends. You will come?"

"Steve, you had better say yes. It may be a lift for you."

"I will come some day," said Steve, quickly. "I don't know when."

"The white head must come too. He has the heart of an Apache, and his hand is strong for his friends. We must go now."

He looked at the three miners for a moment, as if he disliked leaving them behind, and then he bounded upon his pony, and the two girls followed him.

"Was he not handsome, Rita?"

Ni-ha-be was thinking of Steve Harrison, but Rita replied:

"Oh, very handsome! His hair is white, and his face is wrinkled, but he is so good. He is a great warrior, too. The bad pale-face went down before him like a small boy."

"His hair is not white. It is brown. His face is not wrinkled. He is a young brave. He will be a chief."

"Oh, that other one. I hardly looked at him. I hope they will come. I want to see them again."

Red Wolf rode fast, and did not pause until he reached the very presence of Many Bears and his counsellors.

There were already signs, in all directions, that the camp was beginning to break up, as well as tokens of impatience on the face of the chief.

"Where go?" he said, angrily. "Why do young squaws ride away when they are wanted?"

Ni-ha-be was about to answer, but Red Wolf had his own story to tell first. It was eagerly listened to.

Pale-face enemies so near? Who could they be? White friends too, ready to fight for them, and send them warning of danger? That was more remarkable yet.

A trusty chief and a dozen braves were instantly ordered to dash into the pass, bring back the prisoners, and learn all they could of the friendly pale-faces.

Perhaps Steve Harrison would hardly have felt proud of the name which was given him on the instant.

The only feat the Apaches knew of his performing was the thorough manner in which he had tied up the two miners. So, for lack of any other name, they spoke of him as the "Knotted Cord." Murray was named "Send Warning." He had actually earned a "good name" among his old enemies.

Rita and Ni-ha-be were saved any further scolding. The chief was too anxious to ask questions of the "talking leaves," now he was sure of the neighborhood of danger.

"Ask about the bad pale-faces. Who are they?"

Rita took her magazines from the folds of her antelope-skin tunic with trembling hands, for she was beginning to understand that they could not tell her of things which were to be. It seemed to her in that moment that she could not remember a single word of English.

The one she opened first was not that which contained the pictures of the cavalry; but Rita's face instantly brightened. There were five or six pages, each of which contained a picture of men engaged in mining for gold.

The chief gravely turned the leaves till he came to a sketch that drew from him a sharp and sullen "Ugh!"

There were the sturdy miners, with rifles instead of picks, making a gallant charge upon a party of Indians.

"No need of talk. Great chief see for himself. No lie. I remember. Kill some of them. Rest got away. Now they come to strike the Apaches. Ugh!"

It was only a "fancy sketch"; but it must have been true to life when an Apache chief could say he had been one of the very crowd of Indians who were being shot at in the picture.

"That do. Talk more by-and-by. Big fight come."

Many Bears rapidly transformed his buffalo-hunters into "warriors." All that was needed was a chance to put on their war-paint, and a double allowance of cartridges.

When that was done, they made a formidable-looking array, and the last chance of the Lipans or any other enemies for "surprising" them was gone. Then they rode slowly on after their women and children, and the braves came back from the pass to report to Many Bears that "Send Warning, Knotted Cord, and their three prisoners had gone, no one could guess whither."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

PEOPLE WE HEAR ABOUT.

JOHN BRIGHT.

Seventy years ago a boy was born in Rochdale, England, who was destined to fill a great place in the world. His parents were Jacob and Martha Bright--people of good old Quaker stock--and they called their eldest boy simply John.

Jacob Bright was a cotton manufacturer, and both he and his wife were beloved for their charitable deeds. One Sunday Mrs. Bright and little John were walking out, and the boy wore his pair of long trousers for the first time. Of course he felt proud of them. But soon they met a poor woman with her little boy, and _he_ was clothed in rags. Mrs. Bright stopped them, and the result of a few minutes' conversation was that the poor woman and her ragged son returned home with them, and Master John had to strip off his new suit and let the other boy put it on in place of his rags. Mrs. Bright's charity was very thorough.

At school young John was quick and industrious, but his father thought business more important than book-learning; so at fifteen the boy was placed in his father's cotton mill. Fortunately for himself and the world he did not give up learning from books when he left school, or he would not have been the great man he is.

As a boy and a young man he was a good cricketer, and all his life he has been very fond of fishing, having caught minnows and other small fish in the river that ran by his home, and salmon of forty pounds weight in Scotland and in Norway. At twenty-two years of age he began training himself in public speaking in a literary society of which he was one of the founders, and doubtless it is to this early training that he owes the honor of being the greatest of living English orators.

Mr. Bright was first elected a member of Parliament in 1843, and fourteen years later he was chosen to represent the great manufacturing town of Birmingham, which seat he still occupies.

Mr. Bright's public life has been a busy and a useful one. No man has done more for the benefit of the working classes than he, and he has never hesitated in the pursuit of the course which he felt to be the right one.

In this country the name of John Bright is justly honored, for he was the only English statesman who supported the Union without wavering during the late war between the North and the South. Six weeks ago (November 16), Mr. Bright celebrated his seventieth birthday.

CHATS ABOUT PHILATELY.

BY J. J. CASEY.

VII.

The illustration, which accompanies this article is a fac-simile, so far as the drawing is concerned, of the postage stamps at present in use in one of the Dutch possessions off the coast of South America, namely, the island of Curaçoa. It represents the uniform type of the whole series, and was introduced in 1873. The head on the stamp represents King William III. of Holland.

The series consists of the following values and colors.

2-1/2c., bright green. 3c., stone. 5c., rose. 10c., bright blue. 25c., light brown. 50c., mauve.

The currency is in cents, one hundred of which go to the guilder, or florin. A guilder is equal to nearly forty-one cents of our money.

Curaçoa, or, as printed on the stamps, Curaçao--the "c" being sounded like "s"--is an island in the Caribbean Sea, lying off the north coast of Venezuela. It is forty miles in length from northwest to southeast, and ten miles in average breadth; the area is two hundred and twelve square miles. The island is hilly, and deficient in water, being wholly dependent upon the rains, yet, owing to the industry of the Dutch planters, considerable quantities of sugar, cotton, tobacco, and maize are raised. A peculiar variety of orange grows abundantly, and supplies an important part in the liqueur which takes its name from the island. The principal export is salt. The shores are bold, in some places deeply indented, and present several harbors, the chief one being Santa Anna, on the southwest side of the island. The narrow entrance to this harbor is protected by Fort Amsterdam and other batteries; but the harbor itself is large and secure, and is the port of the chief town, Curaçoa, or Willemstad. The population in 1875 amounted to nearly twenty-four thousand, about one-third being emancipated negroes. All belonged to the Roman Catholic Church, except about two thousand Protestants and one thousand Jews.

The island was settled by the Spaniards about 1527, was captured by the Dutch in 1634, was taken by the English in 1798, and again in 1806, but was restored to the Dutch in 1814, in whose possession it has since remained. It is seldom that the name of this island is found in ordinary geographies, although stamp-collectors think it ought to be given a place.

CHRISTMAS PIE.

(BEING SUE'S LETTER TO COUSIN ANNIE.)

Oh, that marvellous Christmas pie! Fred, and Fanny, and Carl, and I Sat up one night till the clock struck one To plan the party; and oh, the fun Of having a secret among us four! (The "Queer Quadrangle" admits no more Within its circle--or, no--its square, I should have written, perhaps, just there.) I can not tell you the things we said (It's against the rules), but I'll tell instead About the party, the pie, and all.

'Twas not, you know, like a grown-up ball, But just a rally of all the clan, And quite the thing for our little plan. Thirty cousins from far and near, With aunts and uncles were gathered here. But I must hasten. The hour drew nigh When Fred announced with a flourish: "Pie!

"Down the staircase, and through the hall. This side of the supper, and free to all! 'Put in your thumb, and pull out a plum,' But mind, the word of the hour is 'mum,' Forward, march!"

And the march began, Headed, of course, by Fred and Fan, And close behind them were Carl and I-- We four were guards of the precious pie, And sat in glory behind it, while The others passed it in solemn file. 'Twas heaped and frosted as white as snow In grandpa's punch-bowl--the one, you know, He calls his "Kaga," so deep and round, With painted dragons and golden ground. The ice was broken by Lottie's hand (The pie, you know, was of white sea-sand And packed with presents), and Lottie drew The sweetest locket of gold and blue, And Maud a letter, and Ruth a ring, And Will's was a fan--such a funny thing! But my sheet is full. I will surely call, When I get to the city, and tell you all, And how we missed you, and how a plum Was saved for the cousin that couldn't come. A Merry Christmas to all of you, With love unfailing, from (Q. Q.)

COUSIN SUE.

THE TALE OF A VERY BAD BOY.

Oh! this is the tale of a very bad boy; He had done all he could other folks to annoy; Then what do you think there was found to employ The very bad wits of this very bad boy?

On the night before Christmas, St. Nick to decoy, Two stockings were hung by the very bad boy, Who said to himself, "Of the sweet Christmas joy To double my share, a trick I'll employ; I'll watch for St. Nick--and the fun I'll enjoy-- I'll give him these stockings his time to employ; And while he's at work," said the very bad boy, "I'll hook from his pack just the handsomest toy."

But somehow the fun had a bit of alloy; St. Nick got a peep at the very bad boy; He whipped up his steeds, and he cried out, "Ahoy! You'll get, my young lad, neither candy nor toy."

Then away went St. Nick, and he chuckled with joy, And he left not a thing for the very bad boy.

SAM JENKINS'S DREAM.

A New-Year's Story.

BY ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH.

"I just wish there wasn't any New-Year."

It was a boy--Sam Jenkins--who spoke, the time New-Year's Eve, the place Madison Avenue and Sixty-ninth Street. And what a night it was! and what a day it had been! Snow and slush all day long, and now the wind was blowing a gale across the Harlem flats, and the slush was freezing on the sidewalk, and there was not a star to be seen in all the sky.

Sam was a District Messenger boy, and had been on duty all day and all the evening, and this final call at nine o'clock, when his legs were tired, was the last ounce that broke the camel's back.

Since the noon hour he had been in a bad humor. Now he was not only tired, but cold and down-hearted, and as his foot slipped, and he just managed to save the fragile parcel he was carrying, he cried out with a spiteful voice, "I just wish there wasn't any New-Years."

Somehow Sam's ill-humor had made him very uncomfortable all the afternoon. He had had a scuffle near the office with Dick Rainey, and all about nothing, for Dick, noticing his peculiar gait, simply asked him what made his legs so heavy. He had quarrelled with the old apple woman in the little shop round the corner because she wouldn't give him two apples for three cents, when the price was two cents apiece; he had thrown a lump of ice at a poor cat shivering behind a barrel on the Third Avenue, and kicked at a wretched little dog that had sniffed up to him with his tail between his legs. Altogether Sam was in a very bad way. He didn't care for anybody or anything. Down town the gay shop windows had failed to catch his eye; the bright lights in the houses on the avenue were nothing to him. He was out with himself, and so he was out with everybody else.

I am sorry to say that when Sam had delivered his parcel he snapped up the servant for having kept him waiting so long for his ticket, although the poor girl had nothing to do with that, and that he kicked the sidewalk very hard when he again put his foot upon it. And yet he had now only to report himself at the office, and then go home.

Sam lived on one of the side streets, where the great tenement-houses loom up in long rows. It was past ten o'clock when he entered the dark hallway, and began his climb to the fourth floor. On the third floor he passed the room in which Jenny Wilson, the little lame girl, lived, and just then some one opened the door for a moment, and he heard Jenny say,

"Oh, I wonder if I will ever be well!" and "I am so tired!"

Then Sam, still cross, said to himself, "Why don't you go to sleep, then?" but in a moment he was ashamed of himself for having said it.

Bang! went the door behind him as he entered his mother's room. Without saying a word, he pitched his heavy coat into a corner, and shied his cap across the room.

"What's the matter, Sam?" asked his mother, with a kindly voice.

"Matter enough," answered Sam. "I'm tired to death. It's nothing but run, run, run all day and all night. I just wish there wasn't any New-Year's. Nobody cares for a boy. It's Sam here, and Sam there, and Sam all the time. That's because I'm a boy. I wish I was a girl--yes, I do."

His mother soothed him while he ate his supper; but the frown did not lift from his face, for there was no sunshine in his heart.

Then he went to bed--went, too, without saying his prayers. It was not long before he fell asleep, and then he dreamed.

He dreamed that he was still in New York, that he was a messenger boy, and that it was the day before New-Year's. All day long he was busy carrying messages and delivering parcels, and everybody was kind, and everybody happy. It seemed to him that it was a great thing to be a messenger boy at such a time, when every one was doing something for some one else, and he had a hand in so much of it. As he thought of this (he was going up Madison Avenue again), some one seemed to say: "Sam, you're a little fellow, but you can have a big heart if you want to. All day it's been growing bigger and bigger; now all you have to do is to keep it open, and see how much it will hold."

Then Sam laughed. He didn't know why, but he couldn't help it, he felt so good all over.

Pretty soon he came across a blind man. A dog was leading the man, but Sam helped the man over the crossing, and motioned to a butcher's cart to hold up. Then he saw a cat, half sick, lying in the gutter, and picked her up, saying, "Poor pussy!" and laid her inside the railing of a house, and asked the cook, who stood in the basement doorway, if she wouldn't give her a sop of milk. After a little he saw an old colored woman struggling along with a heavy basket of clothes, and said, "Aunty, I'm going up a few streets, and I'll take hold of the basket on this side." And so he went on up the avenue and down, and the sun was so bright and the air so pleasant, while it seemed as if he was just helping everybody. He didn't quite understand how, but kept on taking them into his heart, all the time feeling and saying, "Come in; there is still plenty of room." Soon all the poor people down in the side streets, and all the rich people up on the avenue, all the sick people in the hospital where he was yesterday, and the dreadful people he had seen down by the Tombs--why, he just thought of them all, and before he knew it they came crowding up and upon him, and he took all of them into his heart, and they didn't seem crowded a bit, for the more that came, the more room was there left. He could not understand it, but he was sure that the increase in the number only made him the happier; and as he went on thinking it over, he stretched out his arms just as wide as he could, and cried out: "Come in, all the world; come into my heart. I've plenty of room for all, for my heart grows just as fast as my love, and I just love everybody in this big, blessed world."

As Sam stretched out his arms, his mother woke him, saying, "I wish you a happy New-Year, Sam, and it's time to get up."

And Sam got up. You could tell by his face that he had had a pleasant dream, for his voice was gentle and his manner very kind, as he said, "Well, mother, I guess I was pretty cross last night, but I'm going to try and be good-natured to-day."

Then his mother said, "You were tired last night, Sam." That's the way our mothers always try and overlook our faults when we are sorry.

Sam had to go to the office for half a day, and he had a little money which he intended to spend on his presents. Before he started for home, however, he made up with Dick Rainey by dancing a jig to show that his legs were light to-day. On his way home he called in at the old apple woman's to wish her a very happy New-Year, and to take two apples at her price. He hoped to get a sight of the poor old cat and the wretched little dog, that he might show them how sorry he was, but they were gone. On the Third Avenue he bought two or three little things for his mother, and an orange, some candy, and a bright picture paper for his little sister. And as Sam thought of these friends and all his other friends, and all the poor people in the houses and on the streets, oh! how he wished he could buy something for them all, but he couldn't. But then he could love them all the same.

There is not room to tell you all that he said to his mother, and sister, and Jenny, and what a bright, happy day it was to them and to Sam. He tried hard to make it all out, but he couldn't exactly understand it. "It was a nice, queer dream," he said, "and I found out one thing by it, and that is that you can make room in your heart for just as many folks as you please, and that you can't make other folks pleasant when you are cross yourself; and I just wish that New-Year would come twenty times in a year."

TOM FAIRWEATHER'S HOLIDAY IN MADEIRA.

BY LIEUTENANT E. W. STURDY.

Tom Fairweather sighed as he stood on the quarter-deck. "Holiday-time, indeed!" said he. "What are the holidays without snow, I'd like to know? I'd give a good deal for a real old-fashioned coasting lark to-day, but I don't believe these people ever heard of such a thing."

It was a balmy day off the island of Madeira, where Tom's ship, or rather his father's, lay. Here spring and summer reign the year round.

"Old-time coasting is what you would like, eh, Tom?" said Lieutenant Jollytarre, with a twinkle in his eye. "Ask your father to let you go ashore with me, and I'll give you a frolic that you'll not be apt to forget."

Captain Fairweather gave his consent, and they hurried off.

A ten minutes' pull took them close to the island; but this Madeira shore is so steep that it makes an uncomfortable landing for a man-of-war's boat. Another boat, one belonging to the shore men, lay off waiting for passengers. Into this Tom and the lieutenant stepped, and were rowed close to the beach by two Madeira men.

As soon as the boat's bow touched the beach, two other men standing there made fast to it one end of a rope of which the other was attached to two strong oxen. At the word these oxen started, and up glided the boat over the round smooth pebbles, so easily that Tom was astonished to find himself at the top of the bank. With a laugh he jumped out. "That was a coast up hill, sure enough," he said. "Was that what you meant?"

The lieutenant looked mysterious. "No, it wasn't. Wait a while."

"What queer narrow streets!" said Tom, as he surveyed critically Funchal, the capital of Madeira. "And what a lingo--Portuguese--only it sounds even more like gibberish than it did in Lisbon. And what a lot of peddlers! They swarm like gnats."

Mr. Jollytarre was busy buying an inlaid box of one of the peddlers referred to, and did not answer.

Meanwhile Tom's attention was attracted by a very odd carriage. This vehicle was drawn by oxen, and like a sleigh was set on runners, which offered less resistance than wheels would have done to the smooth round little stones of the pavement. These cobble-stones are very like the stones of the beach. The body of the carriage reminded Tom of a Sedan-chair; it seated comfortably two persons facing each other, had a top, and was draped on the sides by curtains drawn apart. Tom began to laugh, so much was he entertained by this strange equipage, whereat the lieutenant turned to see what had caught his eye.

"We might take a drive," said he, meditatively. "I want to take you to the Church of Nossa Senhora do Monte, on the top of that hill over there. What do you say, Tom?"

"I'd sooner walk," said our young friend. "I should think it would be slow work riding in an ox-cart, for that's all that amounts to, unless you choose to call it a sleigh."

At this moment two men came slowly down the street bearing between them a pole on which was slung a curtained hammock, wherein reclined a pale sweet-faced lady.

As she passed Tom his bright face took her fancy, and she glanced at him with a smile.

"Wasn't that a beautiful lady?" he cried to Mr. Jollytarre.

"Indeed she was. But what do you think of her method of travelling? Slow as the ox-cart, eh?" Then suddenly, "Tom, I have it; we'll go on horseback." And almost in the same breath, cried, "Caballos."

The lieutenant's knowledge of Portuguese was limited, and he was obliged to make a little of it, mixed with Spanish, go a long way.

But the people about him were quick-witted, and it seemed to Tom that two horses with their two owners appeared on the scene as if by magic.

"Now, Tom," said Lieutenant Jollytarre, "you may walk if you please--I shall ride. The coasting I told you of is up there at that church. Will you take a horse?"

Tom replied by leaping into the saddle, and starting off at a slow canter.

As they rode away, the owners of the horses followed them, keeping up to the increasing pace by each clinging to his horse's tail.

This was all very well as long as they remained in the narrow streets, where a little steering was necessary; but as they left them, Tom grew impatient for a run.

"See here, now, this won't do," he called to his man. "I ain't a baby. I know how to ride. Leave go."

He slackened his pace to say this. The man slackened his pace, but did not drop the horse's tail. He grinned upon Tom, showing his even white teeth.

Tom waxed wroth. "Come now, let go," and he gave his horse a cut which started him into a gallop. The guide kept up, tugging away at the horse's tail.

"Come now, be off," cried Tom. "You keep my horse back. I say, Mr. Jollytarre, do put this into Portuguese for me. Tell this beggar I'll give him a cut if he don't let go."

"Cut away," said Mr. Jollytarre. "It won't make any difference. He understands you, but he wouldn't let go if you were to shout to him from now until doomsday. I know all about it. I've been here before."

"What does he hold it for?"

"Tom, I have often wondered. I suppose he knows. I don't. Wants to keep his horse in sight, perhaps; wants a run; likes our society. You see my fellow is doing the same thing. However, we are not going any slower in consequence. The horses are used to it. They don't mind in the least."

At this point the guides stopped both horses. They were in front of a little wine-shop half way up the hill.

The guides pulled off their caps, and urged the lieutenant to treat. This was another custom of the country, to which the lieutenant also submitted gracefully.

The waiters poured out a glassful all around.

"Take care, Tom; this is strong Madeira wine, although these people drink it almost like water. Better not do more than taste it."

"Never fear," replied Tom. "I wouldn't poison myself with the stuff. No, thank you" (to the waiter). "Drink it yourself, if you've a mind to."

"Temperance, are you?" said the lieutenant. "Well, that's a very good thing."

"I should say it was," said Tom, stoutly. "Anyway for a boy."

The rest of the road was very steep. But it was fun. Tom was sorry to reach the top, where, at the door of the church, they dismounted, and sat down to rest. The horses were led off.

When Mr. Jollytarre rose to his feet and announced that they must be going, Tom looked around for his horse in vain. Instead, two sleds approached, each pushed by two men toward our friends.

"Get on board, Tom," exclaimed the lieutenant; "that is, if you want to have the best coasting you ever had in your life. If your prejudices hold you back now, you'll regret it the longest day you live."

So saying, he scrambled into one of the sleds himself, and Tom followed his example, although still a little doubtful as to the success of the experiment. There were two thongs for steering tied to the front of each sled, which were held by the two men behind.

When everything was ready, the two sleds started together down the hill. It was like the wind. It was like chain-lightning. It was like a telegram. As they tore down the hill, they made a hissing sound like the cracking of whips. There were sudden turns in the road, beneath which lay dark and deep ravines. If Tom had known that sometimes in these wild rides persons had been hurled over the sides of such precipices, a still greater zest would have been imparted to his flying trip; for he was a thorough boy, and loved a spice of danger. However, he would have had hardly time to dwell upon this thought, for in less time than it has taken to write of it he was landed again in Funchal.

THE SHOP WINDOWS.

I think I can hear some little tongue ask, "Are these beautiful pictures really to be seen in the shops, or has the artist only imagined them?"

Every one of these pretty sights is taken from actual windows in New York, and for days past gay throngs of people have tiptoed and crowded close to the panes that they might assist at such dainty doll receptions.

The central scene here is a bit of Venice. There are the bridge and the stairs and the arches, and there, too, are the ladies and gentlemen coming in their gondolas to attend a reception at some grand palace.

It is almost as good as going to the circus to look at the fairy figure standing on the back of yonder spirited steed, with the rows of doll spectators in the background. I think I like it even better than the real thing, for one is sure that this little lady has never known a blow, nor an unkind word, and we are not at all easy in our minds when we are watching some poor little Queen of the Ring, and holding our breath at her wonderful leaps.

The little picture entitled "Charity" may be seen in the streets every cold day. The contrast between the child, with her golden hair and warm furs, and the barefooted boy, ragged and shivering, who sweeps the crossings, and holds out his thin hand for a penny, is true to life.

Here is Baby, as large as the one at home in the nursery, her christening dress on, to be sure, and her bottle in her hands. What comfort she is taking!

But wouldn't you rather have that sailor lad, whose jaunty air tells you that he knows every rope in the ship, and can climb the rigging like a cat?

How graceful are these musicians! and how quaint this coquettish milk-maid, who will presently give a cup of milk to the high-bred girl and boy watching her! One can take a history lesson, for just as these children are dressed were Mistress Dorothy Quincy and his Excellency John Hancock more than a hundred years ago.

Perhaps our eyes linger longest on the sea-side window, which brings back memories of the summer. There is the donkey on which Minnie used to ride; Chloe with her parasol; and the children at play on the sands, with the waves rolling in.

Well, well, we can not look all day at the shop windows, be they ever so attractive, for the holidays are full of fun and frolic, and we want to catch it all.

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

A Happy New Year to all the boys and girls who read this paper! Every mail which comes to Our Post-office Box brings us letters which we are too modest to publish, so lavish is their praise of the stories, pictures, and instructive articles which we furnish for the weekly feast of the young writers. Now, little men and women, since you like the paper so well, and enjoy it so thoroughly, let us tell you how you can give us a useful proof of your friendship. We would like you to help us extend the circulation of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE by showing it to your friends and their parents, and asking them to subscribe for it the coming year. The more subscribers the paper shall have, the more attractive and valuable the publishers will be able to make it. That you may have the prospect of a reward for your efforts, we make the following tempting offers, to which we ask your attention.

To any boy or girl sending us at one time before March 1, 1882, the names and addresses of ten new yearly subscribers, together with the money, and referring to this offer, we will mail, postage paid, any one of the volumes mentioned in the following list:

COL. KNOX'S BOOKS OF TRAVEL IN THE FAR EAST.

_The Boy Travellers in the Far East--Part I.--Adventures of two Youths in a Journey to Japan and China. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Ornamental Cloth, $3._

_The Boy Travellers in the Far East--Part II.--Adventures of two Youths in a Journey to Siam and Java. With Descriptions of Cochin China, Cambodia, Sumatra, and the Malay Archipelago. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Ornamental Cloth, $3._

_The Boy Travellers in the Far East.--Part III.--Adventures of two Youths in a Journey to Ceylon and India. With Descriptions of Borneo, the Philippine Islands, and Burmah. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Ornamental Cloth, $3._

COFFIN'S HISTORICAL READING FOR THE YOUNG.

_The Story of Liberty.--Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $3._

_Old Times in the Colonies.--Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $3._

_The Boys of '76.--A History of the Battles of the Revolution. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $3._

Here you have your choice from a beautiful little library of travel and history. Any one of these books will be a constant source of pleasure to everybody in the household.

To the boy or girl who, before March 1, 1882, shall send us the largest number of new yearly subscriptions, with the money, we further offer to present

_Harper's Household Edition of Charles Dickens's Works, in 16 Volumes, handsomely bound in Cloth, in a box. Price, $22._

No collection of books is complete which does not include the works of the great English novelist, whose characters are as vivid as real flesh-and-blood people, and whose humor and pathos never lose their charm.

We feel sure that every boy and girl among our readers will be anxious to win this handsome edition of Dickens's works, which is full of exquisite illustrations by leading English and American artists.

In order that we may keep an accurate account of the number of subscriptions we receive, it will be necessary for each one, when sending a list of new subscriptions, to notify us that he or she intends to try to secure this valuable prize. Cash must accompany each order.

HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, $1.50 a year.

* * * * *

WESTPORT, CALIFORNIA.

I have a darling doll, and it has light blue eyes and golden hair. It is a wax doll. I have no name for it. Would somebody please tell me a pretty one? I have a cunning little carriage in which I take my doll to ride. I have a little pony named Daisy, and papa bought me a saddle, so that I can ride to school. I have to go three miles through the woods, and Daisy sometimes rears up with me, but I have never yet fallen off. I received two very pretty cards at school last week. I have a pair of roller skates. When I read Augusta C.'s