CHAPTER XX.

As Steve walked away with Red Wolf, Many Bears at once turned his attention to Murray, and the great affairs to be decided by the chiefs and councillors.

The chiefs and warriors whose fame and rank entitled them to such a privilege soon gathered for the expected "talk."

Murray found himself regarded as an honored guest. Not only were his hosts indebted to him for past favors, but they were anxiously expecting more.

At first he merely listened as brave after brave replied to the mention of his name. He saw that only the very gray-headed men had anything to say in favor of peaceful action, and a prompt "getting away."

He was even surprised at the ardor with which many of the warriors declared their eagerness for a blow at the Lipans, and the good reasons they were able to give.

The presence of the band of Two Knives was a sort of invasion of the Apache hunting grounds.

The Lipans had no business this side of the mountains. They had come to strike the Apaches, and if they should be allowed to get away unhurt, they would surely come again.

Send Warning had already told how many there were of them. If there were no more than that, none of them ought to be allowed to get away.

Murray could but think that a party of Apaches in the Lipan country would probably be talked about and dealt with very much in the same way, but it seemed to require a special effort for him to think at all.

His head had been in a sort of whirl for some minutes before the time when Many Bears turned suddenly upon him with the question:

"What Send Warning say? His head is very white."

Murray was muttering to himself at the moment, while Dolores handed her husband a stick with a piece of corn bread on the point of it. "She is not an Apache. She is a full-blooded Mexican. Yes, I've seen that woman before."

But the chief's inquiry startled him out of that train of recollection. He could not have answered instantly to save his life, but it was according to Indian notions that he should not speak too quickly, so he had time to recover himself.

"More enemies besides Lipans," he said at length. "Apaches better not forget pale-face miners."

"Ugh!"

The exclamation went all around the circle, for that was the very thing none of them had thought of.

"Pale-faces fight Lipans," remarked Many Bears.

"Is the great chief sure of that?" asked Murray. "Suppose they come all together. Apaches need more braves then. Suppose they fight each other first, then Apaches eat up all that are left. Great chief better find out."

"Ugh!"

It was a very loud grunt indeed to come from the throat of Many Bears, and the chiefs and braves looked at one another in a way that spoke a good deal for the value they set on the advice of their white friend.

Whipping sixty Lipans was one thing, attacking them with a strong force of pale-face riflemen to help them was quite another.

"What Send Warning say do?"

"Do?" almost sharply exclaimed Murray, with his eyes upon the retreating form of Mother Dolores. "I'll tell you. Send your whole camp across the river. They can surround it here. Then send out your best braves to watch for the Lipans. They'll attack you before morning. That's what they came for. They won't fight the miners."

He was partly right and partly wrong, but Many Bears and his chiefs rose to their feet as one man.

"The words of Send Warning are wise. He is very old, and he is a chief. No use talk any more. All braves go and eat a heap. Tell squaws bring up all ponies. Get ready to cross river. No lose time."

Murray was not a "general," and he had never studied war, but he knew it would be a good thing to have deep water between that camp and any assailants, instead of behind it. Many Bears was a chief of great experience, but it had never occurred to him that it would cost him all his horses if he should be beaten in a fight with a river behind him. The blunder was to be remedied now with a rapidity which astonished even Murray, for he had not known how good a ford there was right there.

"Hope the Lipans won't find that out," he said to himself. "They'll think twice before they try to swim their horses. I've given these fellows good advice. May prevent a battle. But if one should come, how could I fight the Lipans? What am I doing in an Apache camp anyhow? Steve and I must make haste out of this." And then a puzzled, pained, anxious look came over his wrinkled face, and he seemed to be looking around him very wistfully indeed, as if he wanted to see somebody. "Not to-night, perhaps; but I'll see her again in the morning. Steve and I must get away to-morrow. It'll be easy enough to give him his directions, and I can find Two Knives and his braves in a few hours."

As the deepening gloom of the evening settled slowly down, he stood beside Many Bears on the bank of the river, and watched the young braves drive in the last squads of ponies from their pasturage, and urge them across the ford. He had no idea how much quiet fun Steve and his friend Red Wolf had already enjoyed. The squaws had insisted upon making all the boys and girls who were big enough swim instead of going over on pony-back, and the youngsters, in their turn, had revenged themselves by all the mischievous pranks they knew.

If talk could have raised the river, the chatter of nearly two hundred squaws of all ages, added to the scolding of Too Many Toes, would have made a torrent of it. And yet a number of the squaws, wives and daughters of men of character and station, attended to the business of fording the stream with the silence and gravity of the most dignified white matrons. Dolores would have scorned putting herself on a level with such a squaw as Too Many Toes even in the use of her tongue, and as for Ni-ha-be and Rita, they never forgot to whose family they belonged.

"Rita," said Ni-ha-be, as they rode down to the river, "your blanket is loose. Red Wolf and Knotted Cord are watching us."

"Send Warning is not there."

"No, of course not. He is with the chiefs. Don't let them see we are looking at them."

Ni-ha-be had better have been attending to the feet of her own pretty mustang. The ford was not very wide just there, and the two girls were compelled to get a little out of the way of two mules loaded with lodge poles. Alas for the vanity of the chief's self-confident daughter! Her horse's fore-feet went over the ledge, and in an instant more she was floundering in the river, while every squaw and young Indian who could see her broke out into merry laughter. It was well, perhaps, that she slipped from the ford on the up-stream side; but she did not need a bit of help from anybody. No Apache girl of her age ever needed to be taught to swim. In a moment she had caught her mustang by the head, turned it to the ledge, and found her own footing on the rock, from which position she encouraged the unlucky quadruped to follow.

Thus, although the water was at her shoulders, she managed, all dripping as she was, to clamber into the saddle again. It was so dreadfully provoking, though, and she had certainly heard Red Wolf laugh.

It had been the chief's order that the lodges should be set up on the safe side of the ford, and so there was work enough before the squaws. Even some of the younger braves were called upon to lend a hand, and in less than an hour's time there was a very respectable Indian village. Lodges, ponies, fires, dogs, everything belonging to an Apache hunting camp was there, and between them and any probable danger the river was rolling now, and the Lipans did not know where to look for the ford.

"Ni-ha-be," exclaimed Dolores, sharply, a little later, "go into lodge. Too late for young squaw. What will the great chief say?"

"It is early yet."

"Go in. Lipans come and carry you off. Old pale-face see you, and say foolish young squaw. Not know enough to keep dry. Fall off pony. Ugh!"

That was a sharp hit, and Ni-ha-be obeyed Dolores rather than stay for another reminder of her ducking, but Rita followed her very slowly. "If I could see him again," she murmured, "I feel sure he would speak to me. I don't care what they say. Dolores may scold as much as she pleases. I will ask Send Warning about those words, and all about those pictures."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

PETIT JEAN.

AT THE BATTLE OF THE PYRAMIDS, JULY 21, 1798.

BY MARY A. BARR.

Up rose the sun o'er Egypt's tents, O'er Egypt's pyramids and sands, O'er fierce and fiery Mamelukes, And o'er Napoleon's veteran bands; The palms stood still in the hot air, The sad and silent Sphinx looked on, While over all the Afric sun In burning, blinding splendor shone.

The Mamelukes fretted on their steeds, Their cimeters all bright and bare; The French stood grimly watching them, Napoleon in the centre square. He pointed to the Pyramids: "Comrades, from those grand heights, I say, The brave of forty centuries Will watch you draw your swords to-day!"

They answered him with ringing shouts, And ere the echoes died away The van, like a tornado, charged, Led by the brave and bold Desaix. Then while the trusty "Forty-third" Stood waiting for the word to charge, They saw their little drummer-boy Come from the column of Dufarge.

With tottering steps and bleeding breast, But bravely beating still his drum, He said, with sad and tearful face, "Oh, Forty-third, to you I've come; I've come to you, my Regiment, For nothing but a child am I; I've come to you, my comrades brave, That you may teach me how to die!

"I'll never shame you, Forty-third; I want to be as brave and true; I want to die as brave men die; So tell a poor child what to do." Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard, And Joubert turned his head away: The lad had been the pet of all, And now they knew not what to say,

Till Regnier kissed the boy, and spoke: "Our Petit Jean, I see 'tis plain Your place is with the Forty-third; So beat us now the 'charge' again, Then follow, and we'll show you how Death comes unto the soldier brave. Comrades, salute the nine-year-old Who'll bravely fill a soldier's grave!"

The men's hearts glowed like living coals, And Regnier cried, "Why do we stay?" And to the roll of the little drum They rode upon their vengeful way; But each one as he passed the child His sword with earnest purpose drew, And cried in brave or tender tones, "Mon Petit Jean, adieu! adieu!"

"I come, my Regiment, I come!" But never Petit Jean again His drum beat for the Forty-third: They found him lying with the slain. They put the medal on his breast, Together clasped his childish hands, And dug, with many a bitter tear, A grave for him in Egypt's sands.

'Tis near a century ago, But still his memory is green; The Regiment has not a name So dear as that of Petit Jean; And many a weary soldier has To brave and noble deeds been stirred By the tale of the little nine-year-old Who died among the Forty-third.

THE MILKMAIDS OF DORT.

Girls often declare that boys have all the fun. Well, they certainly do seem to get the larger share of it in a good many ways. Then, when they grow up, they are very apt, too, to carry off all the honors, the literary fame, the military glory, the professional success, while the girls are left at home to do worsted-work.

Now and then, however, the girls come to the front in art, in literature, in science, and even in war. You all know how Joan of Arc led the armies of France to victory, and how Moll Pitcher stood at the mouth of her cannon, pouring confusion into the British ranks.

Not so great as these women of martial fame were the "Milkmaids of Dort," but still they have their place in history. If any of you ever go to Holland, the land of wooden dikes and windmills, it is quite possible that you may find yourselves some day in the ancient town of Dort, or Dordrecht. It is a grand old city. Here among these antiquated buildings, with their queer gables and great iron cranes, many an interesting historical event has taken place.

In the centre of the great market-place of Dort stands a fountain, and if you will look close you will see upon the tall pyramid a _relievo_ representing a cow, and underneath, in sitting posture, a milkmaid. They are there to commemorate the following historical fact:

When the provinces of the United Netherlands were struggling for their liberty, two beautiful daughters of a rich farmer, on their way to the town with milk, observed not far from their path several Spanish soldiers concealed behind some hedges. The patriotic maidens pretended not to have seen anything, pursued their journey, and as soon as they arrived in the city, insisted upon an admission to the burgomaster, who had not yet left his bed. They were admitted, and related what they had discovered. The news was spread about. Not a moment was lost. The Council was assembled; measures were immediately taken; the sluices were opened, and a number of the enemy lost their lives in the water. Thus the inhabitants were saved from an awful doom.

The magistrates in a body honored the farmer with a visit, where they thanked his daughters for the act of patriotism which saved the town. They afterward indemnified him fully for the loss he sustained from the inundation, and the most distinguished young citizens vied with each other who should be honored with the hands of the milkmaids. Then, as the years went by, the fountain was erected, and the story commemorated in stone.

MAX RANDER'S YOUNG NOBLEMEN.

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.

It was only a day or so after my bicycle ride that I received a letter from father, telling me that he and mother were detained in London, and asking if Thad and I could do without them for a week longer.

So in view of our "to-be-continued" lonely condition, the landlady kindly offered to introduce us to "three young gentlemen" who were attending school in the town, and who boarded with her sister.

They all came of noble families, she informed me, adding that it would be a great honor for me to know them.

Thus my expectations were raised to the highest pitch, and the morning of the day they were to call I spent in polishing my watch chain to its brightest, and deciding whether a blue or a red bow would be most appropriate to wear.

I know now that I must have seen scores of little dukes and lords walking about the streets of London just like other boys, but I didn't know it then, and always had an idea that they all wore red velvet cloaks and cream-colored tights, carried swords dangling at their sides, and never went out except in a gilded chariot, preceded by two men on horseback blowing brass horns to clear the way.

Therefore I was considerably astonished when I saw three boys of about my own age turn in at the gate, all dressed in short black coats and tall black hats, exactly like any common English school-boy.

"Now, Thad," I said, as I turned away from the window, "be sure and make a low bow when you are introduced, because--" But the Landlady's knock was on the door, and in she came, followed in close order by Malcolm Heppingham, the son of a Duke, Douglas Galton, whose father was an Earl, and Ralph Maisley, who was an "Honorable."

I was presented to these high and mighty individuals with great ceremony, and then the landlady went out and left us to ourselves.

For a moment there was dead silence, while Thad stood staring at our visitors as if afraid to sit down in their presence. The three English chaps stared at us too, and then all at once began to ask questions about America.

And such questions! Why, they made me think of it as some island away off in the Arctic Ocean, which people never heard from except every two or three years, when a ship managed to break its way through the ice, and carried back the news that a new barn had been built or half the inhabitants killed off by the natives.

Nevertheless, I was deeply impressed by the grand airs the young noblemen gave themselves, and the queer way they had of pronouncing their words.

Their call was a very formal one, for they only staid about ten minutes, and then filed out in solemn procession, after making me promise to come and see them the very next afternoon. Nothing was said about Thad, so I concluded they thought him too young for company.

Well, of course I felt very much honored by the pressing invitation to visit them so soon, and promptly at the hour named presented myself at their boarding-house, where I was immediately pounced upon by all three of my titled friends, who in a very lively manner, and all talking at once, informed me that I had arrived just in the nick of time to see the "jolliest sight"--no less than the ascent of the dining-room chimney by a boy sweep.

Then they took me into the long dining-hall, with its great fire-place, which, though big enough to hold two boys, was anything but a pleasant spot to poke one's head into.

The sweep quickly and quietly made his preparations, and with our four pair of eyes riveted upon his sooty form, speedily clambered out of sight.

"I say," cried Duke Malcolm, when there was nothing more to be seen, "while he's up there, come on out and take a look at my dog-kennel."

"And my rabbit-burrows," put in the Earl.

"And you must see my pony too, you know," added the Honorable Ralph.

This last inducement was not to be resisted, so I hurried out into the back yard after my hosts, wondering why the chaps with the biggest titles should have only dogs and rabbits to show, while the fellow who was merely an Honorable rejoiced in the possession of a pony.

The kennel and burrows were duly inspected and admired, and we were crossing the yard to visit the stables, when the Earl suddenly stopped, struck one hand against his forehead, and with the other pointed to the chimney over the dining-room, _out of which smoke was ascending_.

"The sweep!" cried the Duke, staggering back against the barn door, which banged to with a crash.

"He'll be roasted alive! Quick!" exclaimed the Honorable, and then they all three started on a run for the house.

I followed as fast as I could, but not knowing the ins and outs of the yard as well, I completely lost sight of them before I reached the back door. However, I remembered where the dining-room was, and dashing in, found nobody there but the maid, who was blowing the already fiercely crackling fire into a brighter blaze.

Not stopping to wonder why the others were not there, I rushed up to her, and snatched the bellows out of her hands so suddenly that she immediately set up a cry of "Murder!" while I began to shout "Fire!" at the top of my voice, expecting every instant to see the charred body of the sweep come tumbling out of the chimney at my feet.

Before I could explain to the girl the awfulness of the deed she had done, the landlady, the butler, the rest of the servants, and all the lady boarders had crowded into the room, and as the maid was too frightened to say anything except that one word, they all began to stare at me as if I were a burglar.

But all my thoughts were with that poor sweep roasting alive in the chimney, and rushing up to the landlady, I entreated her to have the fire put out, and-- But at that moment I saw looking in at the window the faces of my three noble friends, all distorted with suppressed laughter, while directly behind them stood the sweep himself, grinning from ear to ear.

"I say, Rander," called out the Duke, "why don't you cable to New York for one of your American fire-engines?"

"Perhaps we can induce the Queen to present you with a leather medal in honor of your mighty efforts at life-saving," added the Earl.

Then all three vaulted into the room to explain how they had caught a glimpse of the sweep walking off just as they reached the house, and forgetting me entirely, had run after him to see if he was scorched.

However, I consoled myself with the reflection that not one of those chaps with handles to their names can ever be King of England, while I have the chance of becoming President of the United States.

THE GAME OF TCHUNGKEE.

This is the favorite game of the Indian tribes of the Upper Missouri, with the exception of the Sioux. It is played by sides, each choosing a champion, and they in turn selecting their players alternately, according to their merits. The ground on which they play in summer is near the village; and is a clay-covered space which from constant use has become hard like pavement.

The scene of the accompanying sketch is laid in winter, when the game is played on the ice or frozen snow. It is begun by two of the players, one from each side, running abreast of one another, and rolling in advance a ring, which is cut out of stone, and is from two to four inches in diameter. The players follow it up with their tchungkees, spears or sticks about six feet long, with little projections of leather an inch and a half in length placed at intervals on the sides. These implements they throw before them as they run, sliding them along the ground beside the ring, and endeavoring to place the stick in such a position that the ring will fall upon it when it stops rolling, receiving one of the leather projections through it. They count for game one, two, or three, etc., from the point, according to the number on which it has fallen. The winner rolls in the next run, and the loser is counted out, while another from his side takes his place.

Thus the game proceeds until the sides have had their innings, the largest count being the game. They sometimes become so excited that they bet away everything they possess, and have even been known to sell themselves into slavery for a given period.

The game of tchungkee originated with the Mandans, a race now almost extinct. Prince Maximilian, in his travels among the North American Indians, called them the "gentlemen of the plains," from their courteous manners and gallantry to strangers.

MR. BARNUM'S GREAT SHOW IN WINTER-QUARTERS.

Two-thirds of all the boys who read this article have without doubt been to the circus. But who has seen a show in winter-quarters? Not more than half a dozen of you, I fancy. And if you were to apply to the great gate of the mysterious inclosure at Bridgeport, you would not be let in, for there are very strict regulations, and the public are "not admitted." Somehow or other our artist found an "open, sesame," and he has given us a page of sketches showing some of the characteristic features of a great show _not_ on exhibition.

To any one entering at the gate of the grounds two secretaries will usually present themselves. One of these is Mr. Barnum's private secretary, the other a pet bird of like appellation, to which is permitted a dignified freedom. There are also several pelicans strolling about, and a coach-dog, a great favorite with the elephants. On the right is the building in which the painting, carpentering, harness-making, and general tinkering for the show are going on. Here are a score of chariots in different stages of construction, orchest-melochors with the exasperating tune part taken out, broken cages and wagons. There are forges in different parts of the building. On the left is the car shed, a building over three hundred and fifty feet long, and four or five tracks wide, in which the cars for transporting the show are kept. It is full to overflowing, a number of flat cars being outside.

Under the wide eaves of the car shed are ranged the gorgeous and luxurious show wagons in which the animals are exhibited. The three large buildings form three sides of a quadrangle. Behind them is the ten-acre lot where the Bridgeport show is held at the beginning of every season.

How many elephants do you suppose Mr. Barnum has now? Can you fancy it?--there are twenty-two, big and little, young and old. Just think of the noise they can make! At a signal from the keeper they will begin to trumpet at once, and then the noise is like several thunder-storms with the rain and lightning left out.

As a matter of course you have all heard of the baby elephant recently born in the show. It came on the 2d of February. The mother is the elephant Queen. The father is named Chief. He is the largest in Mr. Barnum's herd of twenty-two. Those who have seen the elephant pyramid act will recollect him posed with uplifted trunk at the top of the heap. He is of wayward disposition, and has of late exhibited some savage traits of character. When the little one was born she weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds; her trunk was seven inches long, and she was about as big as a full-grown Newfoundland dog. Mr. Barnum has named the new-comer Bridgeport. He is going to exhibit her with Chief and Queen, as "The Elephant Family," and of course we are all going to see them.

One of the most interesting things about these elephants is the intelligence they show, and the attachment they form for their keepers, and even for the other animals about them. An amusing incident was daily witnessed last season in the greenroom of the show. Donald Melville, a little child two and a half years old, son of a trainer, formed a strange attachment for Gypsy, one of the largest elephants in the herd. Gypsy was equally fond of the child, and would follow it anywhere.

Donald could scarcely talk, but he would pull and tug at Gypsy's trunk until the intelligent animal would comprehend what was wanted, and carefully lay its huge carcass upon the ground, when the child would climb upon its back. To play hide-and-seek between Gypsy's legs was a favorite pastime with Donald.

There is a mammoth sloth bear in the menagerie which attracts a great deal of attention from such visitors as are admitted. He weighs upward of four hundred pounds, and when standing erect is nearly six feet tall. At the word of command the bear stands upright upon his hind-feet, closes both eyes, opens his mouth, and makes a guttural sound that the men call preaching. His calm, dignified attitude is ridiculous in the extreme, and has earned for him his clerical nick-name of "the Preacher."

Among the leopards there is a full-grown animal called Pet. It is so tame that the keeper will enter its cage, take it in his arms, and handle it as familiarly as if it were a house cat. Yet this is dangerous business. The men whose profession is the training of wild animals had sad stories to tell of their own and others' experience. One of Mr. Barnum's tamers carries a great scar on his forehead. He was in the cage with some lions one day when one of them took advantage of his looking away, and sprang at him. Its paw struck him in the face, and a claw made the dent in his skull. He did not lose his presence of mind, but seeing that the lion was temporarily frightened at having hit him, he got out of the cage as fast as possible. The claw just failed to reach the brain. Another time he tried to tame some hyenas, and one of his fingers was bitten short off. "The hyenas," he remarked to our artist, "are among the most cowardly and treacherous of wild beasts."

A rhinoceros is not supposed to be a playful animal, but there is one in the show that has a decided taste for playing with a ball. He will roll it up and down the wall of the cage with his absurdly shaped nose, and apparently finds great enjoyment in the sport. He expresses his delight in what may be called deep grunts of satisfaction.

The circus business demands a small army of performers and attendants. Mr. Barnum in the coming season will have over six hundred persons in his pay. The "master of the sails" will have a force of one hundred and twenty-five tent-setters; the head groom, sixty grooms: the loading-master, one hundred "razor-backs"; the menagerie, sixty attendants; and the advertising department, seventy men always ahead of the show. There will be performers of all sorts, caterers, side-show men, etc., at least two hundred more in number. The master of the sails said that in eighteen minutes his force of one hundred and twenty-five men had taken down and packed in the wagons fifteen tents containing two hundred and sixty thousand yards of canvas, to say nothing of the ropes, poles, and other appointments.

A novel feature of the show the next time it starts out in a procession is to be "Mother Hubbard's Shoe." A shoe of gigantic size, mounted on wheels, and filled by the convenient children of the company, will take its place among the chariots and cars. This new attraction will unquestionably be a source of delight to all small people.

TONY'S BIRTHDAY, AND GEORGE WASHINGTON'S.

BY AGNES REPPLIER.

It was the great misfortune of Tony Butler's life to have been born on the Twenty-second of February.

There was no comfort in reflecting that there were doubtless plenty of other boys in the country who labored under the same disadvantage. The other boys might perhaps be better fitted for the honor, but for poor Tony the distinction was a crushing one.

In the first place, he had an older brother, and that older brother's name was George. Now it is generally conceded that one of a name is enough for any family; but when Tony was born on the Twenty-second of February, how was poor Mrs. Butler to act?

Not to have called him after the Father of his Country would have been, in that good woman's opinion, a positive slight to the illustrious dead. As long as her boy was fortunate enough to have the same birthday as our great President, it became her plain duty to give him one other point of resemblance, and then trust to time to complete the likeness.

It was a pity that they had a George already, but that difficulty could be done away with by calling her second son Washington. Washington Butler sounded well, and seemed all that was desirable; only there was just a little too much of it for every-day use. Sometimes the boy was called Washie, and sometimes Wash, and sometimes Wall, and sometimes Tony, until, as he grew older, and able to talk, he evinced a decided preference for the last title, and would answer to no other.

But although this lessened his troubles, it by no means ended them; for when a child has so many nicknames to choose from, everybody is apt to select a different one; and to confess the truth, he was not at all the right sort of a boy to be called George Washington.

There was nothing of the soldier, nothing of the patriot, nothing at all remarkable, about poor Tony in any way. He was a shy, homely little boy, who would have passed well enough as plain Sam, which, being his father's name, would also have been his had it not been for his unfortunate birthday. But as a George Washington, even his doting mother was forced to realize he was not a complete success.

The first day he went to school the master sonorously read out his name as Antony Butler, whereat his brother giggled, and Tony, blushing fiery red, stammered out that he was not an Antony at all.

"Not Antony?" said the teacher, in natural surprise. "Why, then, are you called Tony?"

"Because my name is George Washington, and we had a George already," was the embarrassed answer.

After this the boys with one accord dubbed him Washing Tony, as if he were a Chinese laundryman, and Washing Tony he continued to be called.

Under these circumstances, perhaps he was excusable in wishing he had been born on some less illustrious day, and when the Twenty-second came duly around, it required all the delights of a new pair of skates and a fur cap to reconcile him entirely to his fate.

It being a general holiday, all the boys proposed spending it on the ice, and Tony could skate a great deal better than he could write or cipher; although even here he was never what boys consider brave, and what their parents are apt to more accurately define as fool-hardy.

The truth is, there was not in the child a spice of that boyish daring which seems so attractive in its possessor, and which is in reality so wanton and useless.

Tony never wanted to climb high trees, or jump from steep places, or pat a restive horse, or throw an apple at a cross old farmer. All these things, which were clear to the hearts of his companions, were totally unattractive to him. He could never be dared to any deed that had a touch of danger in it, and the contrast between his prudent conduct and his illustrious title was, in the eyes of all the other boys, the crowning absurdity of the case.

On this particular birthday the weather, though clear, was mild for the season, and some apprehension had been felt as to the complete soundness of the ice. A careful investigation, however, showed it to be all firm and solid except in one corner, where the lake was deepest, and where the ice, though unbroken, looked thin and semi-transparent, with the restless water underneath. Around this uncertain quarter a line was drawn, and soon some thirty or forty boys were skimming rapidly over the frozen surface.

Fred Hazlit and Eddy Barrows were the champion skaters of the district, and their evolutions were regarded with wonder and delight by a host of smaller boys, who vainly tried to rival their achievements.

Not so Tony. Although perfectly at home on the ice, he seemed to have no more desire to excel here than elsewhere, but skated gravely up and down, enjoying himself in his sober fashion, his cap drawn over his eyes, his little red hands thrust in his overcoat pockets.

George, who did not think this at all amusing, was off with the older boys, trying to write his name on the ice, and going over and over it with a patient persistency that, practiced at school, would have made him the first writer in his class.

Gradually the forbidden ground began to be encroached on, some of the older boys skimming lightly over it, and finding it quite hard enough to bear their weight. Soon the line was obliterated by a dozen pairs of skates, and the children, never heeding it, spread themselves over every inch of ice on the lake.

All but Tony. With characteristic prudence he had marked the dangerous corner well, and never once ventured upon it. As he stopped to tighten his skates, four of the younger boys, hand in hand, came bearing down upon him.

"Catch hold," shouted Willie Marston, "and we'll make a line. Hurrah! Here goes!" and Tony with the rest shot across the smooth sheet of ice until they came to the inclosed quarter. The others were keeping right on, but Tony stopped short.

"It is not safe," he said, "and I am not going on it."

"Nonsense!" cried Dick Treves. "What a coward you are, Tony! We have been over it a dozen time already this morning, and it is just as safe as the rest."

"Of course it is," said Willie. "Come ahead."

But Tony did not go ahead. Neither did he discuss the matter, for argument of any kind was not at all in his way. He merely stopped and let go of Willie's hand. "It isn't safe," he persisted. "You can do as you like, but I am not going on it."

"Well, stay there," said Ned Marston, giving him a little shove--"stay where you are, General Washington, and cross the Delaware on dry land if you can."

"Three cheers for General Washington!" shouted Dick, derisively. "Hurrah for the bravest of the brave!" and then the three boys skated on, leaving Tony standing there upon the ice.

His face flushed crimson with shame, but he never stirred. He hated to be laughed at and called a coward, but he was afraid to venture, and no amount of ridicule could urge him on.

Slowly he turned to go, when at that instant an ominous sound struck his ear. The treacherous ice was cracking in all directions, a dozen jagged seams spreading like magic over the smooth surface. There was a sharp snap, a cry of terror, a splash, and _three_ boys, white with fright, started back from the yawning hole, barely in time to save themselves from falling.

In the excitement and fear of that moment no one of them thought of his companion; but Tony, who stood beside, had seen poor Willie's despairing blue eyes fixed on him with a mute appeal for help as he staggered and fell into the dark water.

Somehow all his habitual caution, which was so falsely termed cowardice, had disappeared; he never even thought of being afraid, with that pitiful glance still before his eyes, but, urged on by some great impulse, cleared the space between them in an instant, and plunged down after his drowning friend.

Another minute and both boys re-appeared, Willie clutching fiercely at his preserver, and Tony holding him off as well as he could with one arm while he struck out bravely with the other.

It was but the work of a moment before help reached them, but that moment had saved poor Willie's life, and changed forever the opinions of the school.

They had learned what true courage was. Tony Butler might be timid and insignificant, but he had proved himself beyond a doubt worthy of his illustrious name, and a fit hero for the Twenty-second.

THE SAD FATE OF SEVENTEEN CUPIDS.

PUZZLED EDITOR.

How did we come by this marvellous flower? Say, can you tell us what is it? Did it spring from the earth in some wonderful hour, Dainty, and rare, and exquisite?

BRIGHT YOUNG CONTRIBUTOR.

Why, seventeen Cupids went wild with despair When Valentine's Day left each solus, So they picked off the flowers and hung themselves there, On the stalk of a tall gladiolus.

FUN AND FACTS FOR LITTLE FOLKS.

"How does a hardware dealer differ from a bootmaker?" asked a bright boy of one of his playmates. The latter, somewhat puzzled, gave it up. "Why," said the other, "because the one sold the nails, and the other nailed the soles."

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Little Lucy fell and hurt her knee badly, which her mother, when she went to bed in the dark, tried to bandage. Soon the little one was heard calling. "Mamma," she said, "this bandage is not in the right place. I fell down higher up."

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A grandfather, coming to read his paper, found that he had mislaid his spectacles, and thereupon declared, "I have lost my glasses somewhere, and can't read the paper." A little three-and-a-half-year-old girl, desiring to assist him, answered; "G'an'pa, you go outside and look froo ze window, and I'll hold ze paper up so you can read it."

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A "Menagerie Race" was recently the source of great amusement to a party of army officers in India. Each competitor had an animal to enter, which he drove as straight as he could. There was a frog, a goose, a young pig, a cock, a cat, a dog, a turkey, a kid, a duck, a young monkey, and a pelican. The latter got away from his string and flew up into a high tree just as the race was going to begin. The animals had ribbons round their necks. The goose won the race, as he was the only one who went straight; the dog made for the pig, and a battle-royal ensued; the monkey and the cat laid down and would not move a step. It was a very amusing scene, so say the spectators, and the curious antics of the astonished animals caused a vast amount of laughter.

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We had a parrot once which knew how to talk so well that it seemed as if he must certainly be able to think and reason as well as any of us. Two instances may be given to show what Polly could do in the way of conversation: One fine summer's morning, a young woman bringing a message to the house was asked into the kitchen, and while, as she supposed, quite alone there, a rather gruff voice remarked that it was "a very hot day," which it certainly was. As she did not know the parrot was there, she was considerably startled, and would scarcely believe it was the bird which had spoken to her. Another day Polly's cage was hung up on a tree near the poultry-yard, where a fight for supremacy was going on between two cocks, and the gardener, who was at work hard by, distinctly heard Polly say, "You idiots! Bran" (calling to the big dog which lay asleep in his kennel)--"Bran, bite them! bite them!"

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Who could have believed that even among the famous riders of Hungaria would be found one who could perform the following feat? While a noble stag of ten was being hotly chased by the Kàposzátsmegyerer hounds--a subscription pack--one Karl Pörös, a discharged hussar, managed to bring the terrified animal to a stand-still in some close cover through which it was forcing its way, and, by an almost superhuman effort of strength and agility, to vault upon its back. After several desperate but unsuccessful attempts to dislodge its rider from his seat, the stag, stimulated anew to flight by the cry of the fast-approaching hounds, resumed its course, but it soon broke down under the weight of its unaccustomed burden, and died from sheer exhaustion and terror. Pörös--at least so the story goes--was found by the huntsmen sitting on the unwounded carcass of the stag, which he had literally ridden to death and resolutely claimed as the just reward of an achievement, unprecedented in the annals of the chase.

A NOVEL CHAIR-SLEIGH.

Here is a design of a chair-sleigh, which can easily be constructed, and which will enable some of the ladies who do not skate to have a very pleasant time on the ice. The runners (see Fig. 1) are thirty-nine inches long, and are shod with iron for their whole length. They are about thirteen inches apart, and are braced in three places, namely, at the back, at the front, and in the middle (directly under the front legs of the seat). The foot-boards are two inches wide by five-eighths of an inch thick. The seat is about fifteen inches square, and strengthened underneath before and behind. The legs of the seat are fifteen inches high, and are fastened to the runners and the seat by hinges, which allow the seat to fall forward over the foot-board, as shown in Fig. 2. In like manner the long arms, instead of being firmly fixed, work on a round iron rod, about a quarter of an inch in diameter, connecting the runners in front. The arms are fifty inches long, and are mortised into the back piece, which is twenty-five inches long by two inches and seven-eighths wide, thus leaving a few inches at each end for handles. The arms are connected by a cross-piece in such a position that when the seat is perpendicular, the cross-piece shall rest upon little brackets placed on the front legs. This cross-piece has a screw-hole in it, by which it is screwed to the front brace of the seat, thus firmly securing the whole.

To fold the chair for carrying to and from the pond, draw the screw and raise the arms, and the seat will fall forward between the arms and under the cross-piece, as shown in Fig. 2. The advantages of this chair-sleigh over an ordinary chair on runners are that it is perfectly safe, does not interfere with the action of the skater who is pushing it, and can be easily carried in the hand or in a carriage.

PINKETY WINK.

Miss Pinkety Wink she had eyes that would blink, And small feet that turned out at the toes; She had neat little hands, hair braided in bands, And her cheeks they were red as a rose, And she always was dressed in fine clothes.

Miss Pinkety Wink, I am sure you will think, Was a very nice Dolly indeed; She was pretty and still, and she never got ill, For the doctor there never was need; To her mistress she always gave heed.

But Pinkety Wink (I'm afraid you will sink When I tell you how sad was her fate), For an airing gone out, and while riding about In her fine little carriage in state, It turned over, oh, sad to relate!

Poor Pinkety Wink, with her eyes that would blink, From her shoulders had dropped off her head! Little Carrie, she cried, while vainly she tried Her dear Dolly to mend; then she said, "_I'm afraid my sweet Pinkey is dead!_"

Now what do you think? Well, Pinkety Wink She carried right straight to mamma, Who melted some glue, and made her quite new; And now Carrie is laughing, "Ha! ha! Was there ever so nice a mamma?"

Last week we had Valentine's Day, and this week brings us a holiday of a different kind. Americans celebrate Washington's Birthday because that great and good man was our leader in the war for our separate existence as a nation. Many of you study the history of your country at school, and so you have learned that George Washington was born February 22, 1732. His father died when he was only eleven, but he had a good mother, and he early learned to honor her in all things. We have not room to tell you much about Washington's boyhood, but one thing we will say, because you little folks who are going to school may imitate George in this particular: his copy-books were always as neat and clean as possible, and are models of beautiful writing. You see, he was conscientious in little things. Now if you want to refresh your memories about the French and Indian War, the Revolution, and the early days of our Independence, you can not do better than to begin reading those portions of our history in the week that brings Washington's Birthday.

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BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.

I have three pet cats, but Mr. Tibbs is the wisest. One morning it was so cold there was ice on the window so that you could not see out, and Tibbie is very fond of looking out of the window; so, as he could not see, he took his tongue and licked a place big enough for him to look out. It was so cunning. He is a very high jumper. Every meal-time all the cats come around Mr. Tibbs, and then he cries for all of them. He is very large, and weighs sixteen pounds.

I go to school, and learn music, and I am very fond of it. When I grow older, I am going to take singing lessons and lessons on the organ. I also have my dolls. I have a large French doll, which has everything like a little girl. Then my baby is very sweet, with big brown eyes and golden curls. My French doll has blue eyes, and dark brown hair, like myself; I also have brown eyes. I have been a constant reader of your paper ever since it was published. I have a dear little turtle which is as large as a quarter of a dollar, but he sleeps all the time now.

NETTIE M. T.

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WASHINGTON, D. C.

I am a little girl just nine years old, and I am the only girl my papa and mamma have got, and the only grand-girl my two grandpapas and one grandmamma has, too, but I tell you he has lots of grand-boys, though.

I have four little brothers, all younger than I am, and once we had some cows, and Harvie--that's one of my brothers, who is eight--came running into the house, and told our nurse, Buty, he was "afraid to go out into the yard where the married cow was"--he meant the one that had the calf. Everybody laughed so much when mamma told them, and I have read some things not any funnier than that, so I thought it would be a nice thing to put in my letter to you. Harvie says I must put how old he was then, because you all might think he did it when he was eight. He was nearly four when he was frightened so badly. My aunts in Virginia take HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for us, and Harvie, Lewis, and I like it ever so much. Lewis is just five, and wears pants, too. Maurice sits up and looks as though he knew what mamma was reading; but he don't, though. Isn't this a long one? I did not write it all the same day. If you can, I wish you would please copy this in the paper you send Harvie, Lewis, and me. I don't see many letters from Washington. Harvie says he just bets you won't.

SERENA HELEN S.

Oh, Harvie boy, you shouldn't bet, especially when you bet so foolishly. Rena's letter is "copied" right here by the types, and now we shall be expecting, one of these days, another letter from Rena's brother.

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KEOKUK, IOWA.

I am a little girl almost six years and a half old. I think YOUNG PEOPLE is the nicest paper published. Papa and auntie have read every number to me since the first. My dear mamma is in heaven, and I live at grandpa's with my auntie. Papa comes to see me three times a day, and every Friday he stays all night with me. YOUNG PEOPLE comes that night, and papa reads it to me. I think Jimmy Brown's stories are so funny. I liked "Lady Rags" so much! Then I thought I would try and help the poor, too. The Christmas number was very nice! After I read my paper I send it out to my grandma in the country; they have no little children there, but they like it ever so much. I have the nicest play-house; it is built out in the yard, is furnished like a big house, and will hold six or eight grown people. I have so many dolls that I can not tell you all about them. Yesterday I felt so badly! I took my newest doll out to walk; it was a gentleman, and I called it Frank, after my papa. I let it fall, and broke its head all to pieces. But papa got me another right away, just like the first. I have a kitty named after Toby Tyler. I do not go to school, but I study at home. I can spell very well, and print, but can not write yet, so my auntie is writing this for me. We read all the letters in YOUNG PEOPLE, and like them very much. I sometimes see the names of those who send money for the Young People's Cot; if I knew how to send it, I would send some also. I am getting a collection of picture cards. I have over four hundred now. Will you please publish this, for I have never seen a letter from Keokuk.

LULU W.

We are glad you have a kind auntie and a dear loving father and grandma, since God has taken your mamma to live in the home above. About sending money to Young People's Cot, it is very simple. You need merely write a little letter, inclose your money, and address it to Miss E. Augusta Fanshawe, 43 New Street, New York city. This lady is Treasurer of the Cot Fund, and she will duly acknowledge all the money received by her, whether the amount be large or small.

How nice it was that your papa was able to buy a new head for his namesake so soon! Now if we should fall and break our heads, we could not get new ones so easily.

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CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA.

I have a black-and-tan dog; his name is Bismarck--for short, Bis. I think he is beautiful--short, stubby, bandy-legged, and very fat, and wobbles when he runs. Papa got him for a pure-blooded rat terrier, but I do not think him very pure. Will B. and Willie S. caught a mouse and put it in a dry-goods box, and put Bis in with the mouse. The mouse ran all over Bis, and Bis would not touch it. So one held Bis's mouth open, and the other caught the mouse with the tongs and put it into Bis's mouth. Bis caught the mouse in his teeth, but was careful not to hurt it. It is dinner-time now, and I will close my letter.

NED L.

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CUSTER CITY, PENNSYLVANIA.

I am a little boy seven years old. Papa reads the stories to us. We want the man to write about Toby Tyler some more; and Jimmy Brown is the "boss" boy.

There are lots of wells here, with deep holes and high derricks. They get oil out of the holes, and send it to the 'finery, and they make it into 'finery oil for the stores, and they sell it to the people to burn in lamps. They get thick par'fine out of the wells too, and the men come with pails and kegs, and sell it to the factory, and they make candy and chewing-gum out of it for stores to sell to boys and girls. I am tired. That's all.

JOE A. V.

P.S.--I can't spell good, 'cause I've been sick 'bout four weeks.

JOE.

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NEW YORK CITY.

Papa has given my brother and me HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, both years, bound, but this year we are taking it by the week, because we thought we would have more time to read it, and we could make out the Wiggles. I have four brothers, all older than myself. We have a very large black Newfoundland dog called Carlo, and a white setter called Bob. We have a gray cat, and a cunning little black kitten, which papa called Janauschek, after the actress. This is the first