Part 2

There was a splash and a smothered cry, and that was all. Days afterward an Apache hunter found a stray horse, all saddled and bridled, feeding on the bank near the spot where he had swum ashore, but nobody ever saw any more of his rider. He had too many pounds of stolen gold about him, heavier than lead, and it had carried him to the bottom instantly.

"Boys," said Captain Skinner, "I'll try the next ford myself. I was half afraid of that."

Every man of them understood just what had happened, and knew that it was of no use for them to do anything but ride along down the bank.

There was not a great deal further to go before a sharp string of exclamations ran along the line.

"See there?"

"Camp fires yonder!"

"That's the Apache village!"

"It's on the other shore."

"Hark, boys! Hear that? Off to the northward? There's a fight going on. Ride now. We're away in behind it."

Captain Skinner was right again. By pushing on along the bank of the river he was soon in full view of the village. At the same time, just because he was so near it, he ran almost no risk at all of meeting any strong force of Apaches. The sound of far-away fighting had somehow ceased, but the Captain did not care to know any more about it.

"Silence, boys. Forward. Our chance has come."

He never dreamed of looking for a ford there by the village, and there were no squaws to find it for him and point it out. More than a mile below he came to the broad rippling shallow the Apache warriors had reported to their chief, and into this he led his men without a moment's hesitation.

"Steady, boys; pick your tracks. Where the ripples show, the bottom isn't far down, but it may be a little rough."

A large part of it was rough enough, but Captain Skinner seemed to be able to steer clear of anything really dangerous, and in a few minutes more he was leading them out on the southerly shore.

"Now, boys," he said, "do you see what we've done?"

"We've got across the river," said Bill, "without any more of us gettin' drownded."

"That's so, but we've done a heap more than that. We've put the Apache village between us and the Lipans, and all we've got to do is to strike for the Mexican line."

At the end of a few more hours of hard riding the foremost man sent back a loud shout of "Here's another river!"

"That's all right," said Captain Skinner. "Now I know where we are."

"Where is it, then?" said Bill.

"The first river we forded was the north fork of the Yaqui, and this is the other fork. When we're on the other bank of that, we're in Mexico. We can go in any line we please, then."

The whole band broke out into a chorus of cheers.

Whatever may have been their reason for wishing to get out of the United States, particularly that part of it, it must have been strong enough to make them anxious. They were not contented for a moment until this second "fork" was also forded.

Then a good place for a camp was selected, and the weary horses were unsaddled.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

MR. THOMPSON AND A BIRD WITH A LANTERN.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

"Pooh!" said Mr. Thompson, after examining a dark lantern I had purchased for the skating season--"pooh! there is nothing new about a dark lantern; they are very common. Why, down on Long Island, where I spent last summer, even the birds carry them."

As I was about to exclaim, he interrupted me with:

"Not all the birds, of course; but there is a kind of heron, a Qua bird--a mighty intelligent fellow he is, too. He carries a lantern when he goes fishing at night--'fire-lighting,' you know. A nice bird, and a bright talker."

"Did you talk with him?" I ventured to ask.

"Of course I did. Long talk. Funny time. I'll tell you about it," replied Mr. Thompson, good-naturedly.

I will not try to repeat the story in Mr. Thompson's own language, for his sentences are somewhat disconnected, but the gist of it is as follows:

Mr. Thompson lay on the shore of a little creek down on the east end of Long Island. He had fled from the farm-house where he was boarding, partly on account of the heat, but principally to escape the sewing circle which met at the house that evening. He had been lying on the bank for some time, and was just beginning to feel cold, when he saw two queer-looking lights bobbing along the shore, and moving toward him.

"Somebody trying to steal Farmer Brown's oysters," he murmured, and prepared to give the intruders a good scare. But the lights came so slowly that his mind wandered off, and he was only aroused from his musings when he heard a peculiar voice near the shore remark:

"It's a man, but he's asleep, and he hasn't any gun."

"Hack!" replied the other, in a guttural tone; "_he_ couldn't hit us if he had a gun."

"No," said the first. "He's a pretty good sort. I've seen him before, and he don't go shooting much."

Just at this moment the cold was too much for Mr. Thompson, and he gave way to a prolonged "Achew!"

"Hark!" screamed both voices. Then one remarked:

"He's a nice man," and he spoke then almost like one of the noble family of Ardea. "Say!" he continued, addressing Mr. Thompson, "what did you come out here for?"

Mr. Thompson was not surprised at having them speak to him, and he answered, politely,

"I came into the country to escape the heat of the city."

"Just what we came from Florida for."

Mr. Thompson looked carefully at the two speakers, and could see dimly outlined against the water the dark forms of two birds. They had long legs and necks, and long sharp bills. Mr. Thompson immediately concluded from their appearance, and the reference to the family of Ardea, that they were a species of heron.

The birds noticed Mr. Thompson's look, and one of them said, kindly,

"I suppose that you want to have a good look at us, so I'll just light my lantern, and introduce myself," saying which he threw aside the long feathers on his breast, and disclosed a ball of light, very much like that which is seen on the common fire-fly. This light he obligingly turned full upon his companion, while the other performed the same office for him. In the flood of pale phosphorescent light Mr. Thompson was able to see them perfectly.

The first speaker was about three feet high, with a black head and back, and tail and wings of ashy blue; his legs and bill were long like a crane's, and his throat and breast were cream white; on the top of his head were three long white feathers. His companion was the same, with the exception of the feathers on the head. After Mr. Thompson had looked at them for a few minutes, the one with the plumes on his head said: "Now, I suppose that you would like to know our names. In Florida and the Southern States we are called Qua birds; in Virginia they call us Lamp-lighters; when we come up here to Long Island, we are Quaks; and if we go further north, into Connecticut, they add an s, and call us Squaks. But we don't like those appellations: our proper name is Ardea Nycticorax. I am Mr. Nycticorax, and this is my wife, Mrs. N."

Mr. Thompson bowed gallantly, and introduced himself as Mr. John Thompson, of New York. Then he continued: "I don't like to be inquisitive, but your having a lantern makes me peculiarly interested in you; would you mind telling me something about yourself?"

"Certainly not," answered the bird: "I should be most happy to do so. I was born in Florida. We live there in great villages of five or six thousand families, and we generally take a trip every summer for our health. We stop along by the way, and some prefer to spend the summer in one place and some in another, so you see that by the time we get here we are pretty well scattered. When we get here we go to housekeeping. But," he added, deftly snapping up a fish in his long bill, and tossing it to Mr. Thompson, "just eat that, and I'll show you the rest."

Mr. Thompson swallowed the fish without thinking. In a moment he began to experience the most peculiar sensations. His neck began to stretch, his nose to elongate, his hands and arms became covered with feathers. Almost before he knew it he was a full-grown Quak.

"Now," remarked Mr. Nycticorax, "you look something like other people. If you will just follow me, I will introduce you to some of my friends who are keeping house over here in the woods. Come."

"Come," urged Mrs. Nycticorax, and the two flapped their wings and flew rapidly over toward the woods. Mr. Thompson followed, and soon they alighted on the top branch of a tall tree. Just beneath them was a large nest built of twigs; on it was seated a motley-looking Quak, who welcomed Mr. Thompson cordially.

She raised herself a little, and proudly showed four light green eggs. In another tree was a small family about three weeks old. They could not fly yet, but had climbed out of the nest with the aid of their strong bills and claws, and were perched comfortably on a high limb waiting for their parents to return from a fishing excursion.

After Mr. Thompson had talked for some little time, he suddenly remembered that his friends at the farm-house would be worried at his prolonged absence. As he was about to excuse himself, his friend said, "I will go back with you as far as where we first met."

Soon they were again on the shore of the creek, and Mr. Nycticorax was saying good-night, when Mr. Thompson detained him.

"One more question," said that unwearied searcher after knowledge. "What is your lantern composed of?"

"Some kind of phosphorus or other," replied the bird, and at the same time threw back his breast feathers.

Mr. Thompson stretched out his hand to feel of it.

"Ouch! you tickle!" screamed the bird, and flew away. At the same moment Mr. Thompson felt some one grasp his shoulder, and a familiar voice remarked,

"Wa'al, now, I reckon you've ketched a powerful cold, sleepin' here." It was 'Lisha, one of the farm hands.

Mr. Thompson insists that he did not go to sleep; but his fellow-boarders are rather inclined to believe 'Lisha's statement, to the effect that "Mr. Thompson was a-sneezin' and a-snorin', and a-snorin' and a-sneezin'; and ef I hadn't waked him up, he'd 'a ketched his death."

Certain it is that Mr. Thompson has suffered with a tremendous cold in the head ever since.

"THINK AND THANK."

BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.

"Granny, please tell me more about my father," pleaded a little voice in the gathering darkness.

"Ah, child, it hurts me to talk of him. The sea has been his bed, I doubt not, this many a long day."

"But you were telling me how blithe and brave he was, and what merry songs he sang. What made him go to sea?"

"All lads think they can do well on the water. They tire of the fields and the plough. But your father was no fool to think a sailor's life an easy one. He did not go until your mother died, and then he was not brave enough to bear sorrow as we poor women have to do."

The child asked no more, but knit away at the stocking her grandmother had set up for her.

Presently the old woman said, with a shiver: "It's growing cold; there's snow in the air. Put some more sticks on, Peggy."

The child arose and made a pretense of adding to the fire, for there was no more wood, and she had not the heart to say so. Then taking off a little shawl from her shoulders, she put it about those of her granny.

But the old woman had that keenness of perception which is so often a merciful compensation to the blind.

"Child," she said, "you are robbing yourself. The warmth of your own little heart is in this shawl. Is there no more wood?"

"No more, Granny."

"And the flour, does it hold yet, Peggy?"

"It is all gone, Granny; but there's oat-cake enough for the breakfast, and we've a nice sup of porridge on the fire."

"Let us eat it then, and be thankful," said the old woman, solemnly.

The child divided her portion with the cat, and then, with what seemed like careless indifference to the grandmother began to play about the room with her pet.

"Peggy, Peggy, how can you be so light-hearted when we have no food for the morrow?"

Peggy stopped playing, and began to look grave. Suddenly her face lighted up, and she clapped her hands.

"To-morrow is dole-day. Granny; don't you remember? They give out the loaves at church, and your turn began last week."

"Sure enough, yes. To think that I should have lived to be one of the oldest people of the parish, as well as one of the poorest! Ah me!--I who began life so well!"

"And you shall end it well, too. I can do something."

"You remind me much of your father, lassie. You're a brave little woman. God forgive me for despairing!" Then they went to bed as the easiest way to keep warm.

The Sunday was late in dawning. Daylight came slowly, and the weather was cold and windy and cheerless. The old woman wondered to hear her child singing hymns in a high clear voice that had no rhythm of hunger. But Peggy, like the boy who "whistled for want of thought," was singing to keep up her courage. She was hungry, and wished it was afternoon, that they might have their nice loaf of white bread from the church. Then she began to wonder what she should do when the loaf was gone. How would the old cat taste if they killed her for broth? "Oh, what an awful thought!" and then she hugged and kissed her old pussy, and whispered in her ear that she was sorry she had no breakfast for her, and she must hunt for a mouse.

But the day wore on. They went to church, and, after the second service they staid with the other old people to whom the bread was due, and received, besides, several yards of good warm flannel.

Peggy was now in haste to be home. She did not envy the nicely dressed little children in the church-yard, for she was proud to have her dear old Granny lean upon her, and tell her all about the Bruces, from whom the dole of bread had come, and how their family motto was "Think and Thank." Granny said it meant consideration for the poor, and gratitude for everything. But as they neared their cottage, Granny stopped and listened.

"What is it, Granny?"

"I hear a strange step, child."

As she spoke, a man with a big bunch of bananas over his shoulder, and a silk handkerchief in which were golden oranges, stopped at their very door-step.

"Oh, dear Granny, it is a strange man," said Peggy, giving her loaf a little tighter hug.

"We must ask him in to supper, Peggy," said Granny, firmly.

"But, Granny, we've so little," said the child, "I am ashamed."

"Never be that, Peggy, unless you have done wrong. What does the man look like?"

"A traveller; he's brown and funny-looking."

"For the sake of my son, we must be kind to all that sort; but perhaps he can tell me about Tom."

At that moment the man spoke: "Can you give me a night's lodging, madam?"

Granny stood for a moment as if she had become a statue--fixed, immovable. Then with a cry she rushed at the man, and put her trembling fingers on his head and face and hands. Then she fell sobbing on his shoulder, for Tom had come back, her dear son Tom, whom she had so long supposed to be drowned.

And then came a long tale of suffering and shipwreck and privation. Granny in her turn had to tell how she had lost her sight. And then Tom kissed Peggy, whom he had left as a baby, and promised never again to leave her.

Ah, it was a happy time--and how Peggy did enjoy the oranges!--great juicy globes of nectar.

After that there was no more hunger. The cottage looked like a little bower, with its blooming plants, its warm curtains, and its cheerful blaze on the hearth. Peggy had white bread enough and to spare. Her father brought her home a canary and a parrot; the latter she taught to say "Think and Thank," and every time she remembered her thought of making broth of old pussy, she gave her an extra bowl of milk thick with cream.

* * * * *

It may not be generally known that the custom of a weekly dole of bread is still observed in Trinity parish, New York. Sixty-seven loaves of bread are given to the poor every Saturday at St. John's Chapel. A bequest for this purpose was made thirty years ago by John Leake, Esq.

"GOOD-BY, WINTER."

BY M. D. BRINE.

Good-by, old Winter, good-by once more; At twelve to-night will your reign be o'er. We're tired of you and your sleet and snow, We're tired of hearing your chill winds blow; We long for breezes that fill the air With the scent of the Spring-time flowers fair; We long for meadows where daisies white Lift up their heads in the warm sunlight, And where the grasses are nodding all day. With the Spring-time breezes forever at play.

Good-by, old Winter. We're sorry for you, But we're glad your season is nearly through. You brought us plenty of fun, we know, For sleighing and snow-balling come with snow; But O for a breath of the Spring-time sweet, When the earth and the sky in beauty meet! And O for the trees where the birds all day Are singing the golden hours away! Good-by, old Winter; the Spring is near, And you may sleep for another year.

BARNUM'S SHOW IN WINTER-QUARTERS.

BY J. C. BEARD.

Last week, boys, I was too busy to tell you anything myself about my experiences among the birds and beasts so snugly located in the "Winter-Quarters." This time I am able to talk to you a little, as well as draw you some pictures.

Suppose we take a look at this party of cranes and pelicans and other queer birds. In spite of his long legs and clumsy bill, the pelican has more or less beauty to recommend him. The prevailing color of his feathers is a lovely rose shading off to white, while his breast wears an orange tinge. The cranes are also really handsome birds, in spite of their long thin legs. They have soft gray plumage, with snow-white crests, and two gracefully flowing plumes besides on the head.

But if you want to see a homely bird, look at the adjutant. Certainly the one that roams so confidently about the inclosure is the most hideous creature I ever saw. A great clumsy body, long legs, thick bare neck, and bare, ragged head make up a sum total of amazing ugliness. The adjutant's beak is the most remarkable feature about him, being nearly a yard long, and thick in proportion. This huge beak is strong enough to kill a man with one blow. As you see in our illustration, the keeper when feeding these birds is obliged to carry the dish of food upon his head; if held in his hands, those enormous beaks would make short work of dish, meat, and all. The adjutant acts the part of watch-dog, and cats and other stray animals that value their lives are careful to avoid this yard.

One of these birds reminded me of an expert at base-ball. Especially is he a good "catcher." The keeper stood fully fifteen feet from him, and tossed great pieces of meat toward him. Each time the bird's great beak opened exactly at the right moment, and closed with a snap upon the huge piece of raw meat. The bird seemed to enjoy the sport fully as much as the by-standers.

The adjutant in the lower sketch, whom we see apparently holding a confidential chat with his keeper, is a little fellow, quite tame, and even socially inclined. This position upon the keeper's knee, as the latter sits by the fire, is a favorite one with him.

The monkeys in Mr. Barnum's collection are well worth seeing. They are of various kinds. A blue-faced baboon named Napper is evidently the leader of monkey society at Bridgeport. He is a brilliant object to look at, for his cheeks are blue, his nose and eyebrows are bright scarlet, while his pointed beard is yellow. He is not a monkey of good character, and has actually been known to get intoxicated. Mr. Hodges, the keeper, is very fond of Napper, who seems to return affection. He will sit for hours upon his friend's knee before the fire, turning himself from side to side that he may receive the full benefit of the welcome heat. The monkeys suffer dreadfully from cold draughts, and are very apt to die of consumption.

Mr. Hodges assured me that most if not all of the cageful of monkeys would be dead before spring, and seemed much affected by the loss of his pets. Some of them seemed to be in the last stages now, coughing violently, and holding their slender hands affectedly to their chests. If the monkeys could be clothed, they would better endure the cold; but a jacket in the cage would remain whole on the back of the wearer just about five seconds.

A keeper fed the monkeys while I was there, and it was a funny sight. He put the pan of rice and sugar inside the cage, and I expected a general scramble, but instead of this I found the distribution of food to be a most orderly process. The big fellows calmly served themselves first. They ate as much as they could, then crammed their cheeks full, and grasping as much as their hands would hold, retired to a corner to finish at their leisure. The smaller monkeys now modestly proceeded to dine in the same fashion. They follow the example set them by their elders, and all is done in the most orderly manner.

Feeding the monkeys with pea-nuts is great fun. The instant they see a pea-nut they rush pell-mell to the front of the cage, eager to reach through the bars and catch the delicious morsel. The fortunate possessor retires with his prize to a corner, proceeds to crack the shell, and eats it with quite as much delight as you would, if presented with something you particularly like.

Aard-vark, or the "hog with a wart," is not a pretty name, and he is not a pretty animal. The domestic hog is quite a beauty in comparison, as this one has enormous tusks, stiff bristles, scarcely any eyes at all, and hideous lumps on his face and head; not _one_ wart, but plenty of them. But he eats the pailful of carrots with as much relish as if he were the handsomest beast in the world.

The coach-dog which is such a favorite with the elephants is named Denver, and the huge animals take the entire charge of him. A gentleman saw the keeper put a piece of meat before one of the elephants near him, and the great creature seized it in his trunk, and gave the "mother-call" for Denver. This mother-call is the sound they make in calling their young ones. Denver understood in a moment, and rushed toward them; the elephant gently laid the meat on the ground before the dog, and watched him with great interest while he devoured it.

Denver was lost once for two weeks, and the elephants would not perform until he was found. The welcome he received from his huge friends on his return was nearly the death of him. They caressed him with their trunks, rolled him over and over, "purring" all the while like distant thunder, and stuffed him with all the meat he could eat.

The Bridgeport boys are very careful about their behavior to Denver, for if a howl of pain or annoyance is heard from him on the outside of the building, the elephants inside become so enraged that there is danger of their breaking their chains and avenging their favorite.

As I left the "quarters" I found a crowd of Bridgeport boys gathered about a small Irish jaunting-car with a beautiful striped zebra harnessed before it. This zebra's name is Sheik, and is often seen in the streets of the city, with some of the ladies belonging to the circus driving him. Sheik is gentle, swift, and has as much endurance as a mule. Zebras are generally supposed to be untamable, and Sheik's keeper deserves great credit for the wonderful manner in which he has succeeded in training this wild creature. Sheik is not, however, a "true zebra," but one of the species called _asinus Burchelii_. A "true zebra" has never been brought to this country. Bridgeport boys think Sheik driven in the jaunting-car a fine show.

NINE MEN'S MORRIS.

BY JAMES OTIS.