Part 2

It turned out that Murray was nearly right in his calculation of the time they would reach the valley. It was just as the light of the rising sun grew strong and bright that he and Steve stood on the slope at the lower edge of the forest, and looking through the spy-glass saw the white tilts of the two wagons of the miners.

"They've roused up early," said Murray.

"Looks as if they were setting out on a hunt or a scout."

"So it does. There they go. Steve, we must ride after those fellows."

"What for?"

"To stop 'em. They'll only run their heads against the Apaches, and leave their camp to be plundered by the Lipans."

"They're in a trap, Murray."

"Come on, Steve!"

But the distance was not less than a couple of miles, and the miners had prepared beforehand for that "early start." It was all against the will of Captain Skinner, and the bad temper he was in only made him start more promptly and ride faster.

"Tell ye what, boys," he said to the rest, as they galloped on behind him, "I'll give ye all the scouting you want this morning."

At that moment Murray was saying, "We must catch those fellows and send them back. What are they going so fast for? Why, it'll be a regular race."

It was very much like one after a little. Steve and Murray rode rapidly, but it takes a great deal of swift running to catch up with men who have more than two miles the start.

"We'll catch 'em, Murray."

"If we don't, it'll be a bad race for them. I kind o' feel as if the lives of those men were the prize we're riding for."

Mile after mile went by, and the excitement of it grew to be something terrible.

"The Apaches can't be far ahead of 'em now, Murray."

"Hark! Hear that?"

"A rifle-shot! A whoop!"

"They are pulling up."

"They'd better. I'm afraid we're too late, Murray."

"On--on, Steve! Maybe there's time yet."

Captain Skinner had already seen and heard enough to make him halt, and he was gathering his men rapidly into close order, when a long, ringing shout behind him drew his anxious eyes from the dangerous-looking "signs" now gathering in his front.

Signs?

Yes, danger signs. Wild, dark, painted horsemen, riding hither and thither and nearer and nearer, growing more and more numerous every moment.

These were the signs that Many Bears and his warriors meant to stand between any approaching enemy and the camp of their squaws and children.

The shout was from Murray.

"Don't shoot!"

In a few seconds more the old man was reining in his panting mustang among the startled and gloomy-faced miners.

"Where did you drop from?" was the cool, steady question of Skinner.

"Never you mind. Is Bill here?"

"He and his two mates are on guard at the camp. I know ye now. You're them two mining fellers. You met Bill and--"

"Yes, I met Bill, but there's no time for talk now. You take your men straight back to camp. It's the only show you've got left."

"Reckon we can beat off a few beggarly Apaches."

"Don't talk. Ride for your camp. If you get there before the Lipans do, take your wagons into the pass, and stay there till they get by. Don't strike a blow at them. They'd be too much for ye."

"Lipans? Going for our camp? Boys, 'bout face! Ride for your lives!"

For so small a man he had a great deal of voice, and his command was instantly obeyed, but he paused long enough to ask of Steve and Murray,

"What about you two?"

"Us? We'll stay and keep the Apaches from chasing you."

"Won't they scalp you?"

"Not a bit. But there's one thing you may do. If by any chance you have a talk with the Lipans, you tell them where you saw us last. Tell the chief from me that No Tongue and Yellow Head are all right, only their horses are tired following your trail and the Apaches."

"Hope I won't meet him. You're the queerest pair I ever saw; but I wish the boys had let me follow out the word you sent in by Bill."

"Too late now. Ride out of this the best gait your horse knows."

This was good advice, and Captain Skinner took it.

Meanwhile the old man sat quietly in his saddle, with Steve Harrison at his side, as if they two were quite enough to stem the torrent of fierce whooping Apaches, sweeping down upon them across the plain.

"Our lives are worth about as much as our title to that mine," said Steve; and it was no shame to him that he felt his young heart beat pretty rapidly.

"Sling your rifle behind you on the saddle. Fold your arms. Sit still. I'll do the talking."

The storm of dark horsemen was headed by Many Bears in person, and it was barely two minutes more before he was reining in his pony in front of the two "pale-face Lipans."

"How!" said Murray, quite heartily, holding out his right hand, with the open palm up, while he put his left upon his breast.

"How!" replied the chief, with a little hesitation, but a dozen voices around him were shouting,

"Send Warning!"

"Knotted Cord!"

"Pale-face friends of Apaches!"

It was plain that the description given of them by Red Wolf and the girls had been quite accurate enough for their instant recognition.

"Other pale-faces run away. Why you stay?"

"Don't know them. Strangers. Run away from Apache chief. Chief must not follow."

"Why not follow?"

"Run against Lipans. Have big fight. Lose many warriors. All for nothing. Better go back."

"Send Warning is a good friend. Do what he say. You come?"

"Yes. We come. Trust friend."

Steve listened in silent wonder. He had never heard Murray speak a word about the Apaches that was not full of distrust of their good faith as well as hate of their ferocity. Yet here he was treating them with absolute confidence. Steve felt quite sure he would have hesitated, for his own part, to meet a band of Lipans in that way.

He did not understand Indian character as well as Murray, in spite of his three years among them. A man who came to them conferring benefits, and betraying no doubt of their good faith, was as safe among them as if he had been one of their own people.

It also occurred to Steve that this was hardly what Murray had been sent out for by To-la-go-to-de, but his devotion to the interests of that chief was not strong enough to make him care much.

Whatever might be Murray's intentions, Steve had firmly decided that as far as he himself was concerned there would be no going back to give any report of the "scouting."

The Apaches wheeled toward the west, and Send Warning and Knotted Cord rode on at the side of Many Bears.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

MR. THOMPSON AND THE BULL-FROG.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

Mr. Thompson was lying in the shade on the bank of a small pond. He had come out to read, he said, but no sooner had he thrown himself on the soft turf than an irresistible desire to sleep came upon him; so, pillowing his head on his book, he closed his eyes.

"Cut-a-ka-chunk, cut-a-ka-chunk," croaked a big green frog down in the pond.

"I wish you'd keep still," growled Mr. Thompson.

"He's-goin'-to-sleep, he's-goin'-to-sleep," answered the frog, in a deep bass voice.

"Just-hear-him-snore, just-hear-him-snore," piped a little green fellow, sitting on a lily pad.

Mr. Thompson was getting angry. "I'm not asleep," he shouted.

"Don't-you-get-mad, don't-you-get-mad," urged the old frog.

This was too much. Mr. Thompson sat up and looked around. Directly in front of him, in the edge of the pond, sat a great bull-frog, dressed in a green coat, a canary-colored vest, and dark brown knee-breeches. He winked at Mr. Thompson sociably, and remarked, "How-do-you-do? how-do-you-do? how-do-you-do?"

"Pretty well," answered Mr. Thompson; "but I'm very sleepy."

"Come-take-a-swim," advised the frog, laconically.

"I would," said Mr. Thompson, hesitating, "only I'm afraid I'd get wet, and spoil my clothes."

"Never-hurts-mine, never-hurts-mine," answered the frog, jumping into the pond and taking a few strokes.

"But you see my clothes are not like yours," explained Mr. Thompson.

"Look-just-the-same, look-just-the-same," answered the frog.

Mr. Thompson looked down at his vest; the white had changed to lemon-color; his sober black pantaloons were metamorphosed into natty snuff-colored knee-breeches; and worst of all, his alpaca duster had become a tight green cut-away coat.

"If Angelina should see me in this rig, what would she say?" murmured Mr. Thompson, in despairing tones.

"Better-come-in, better-come-in," croaked the frog, with something like a smile on his broad mouth.

"I guess I will," thought Mr. Thompson, and plunging head first he dived into the pond. He soon came up with his mouth full of mud. That, of course, annoyed him, but he was more interested in how the mud got into his mouth, for, diving as he did, he should have struck the top of his head. He put his hand up to feel. Horror! instead of touching the top of his head, he thrust his hand into his mouth. He felt again; _his mouth was on the top of his head_. He climbed up on a lily pad, and looked at his reflection in the water. He could hardly believe his eyes; there was no Mr. Thompson; only a great green and yellow frog. The other frog was sitting not far off, watching him with an air of amusement.

"There are some boys on the bridge, and they are going to throw stones at us," whispered the old frog. Mr. Thompson forgot his sudden change of appearance, and assuming his most pompous manner, he shouted, "You-mustn't-do-that, you-mustn't-do-that."

"You old fool," bellowed the old frog, as he plunged into the water.

Mr. Thompson thought discretion to be the better part of valor, and followed.

"He's gone under," remarked one of the boys, regretfully. "Wouldn't he have made a splendid fry?"

Mr. Thompson rose with his nose under a lily pad and shuddered. His friend came up beside him. "What did you want to speak for when those boys were there? You only let them know where we were," he said, rather crossly. "That is the reason we wear green coats, so that we can sit among the lily pads and not be seen."

Mr. Thompson replied that he had forgot himself, and spoke without thinking. "So that's the reason for wearing green coats?" he added.

"Yes," replied the old frog. "Now you see my son here wears brown long clothes," he added, pointing to a pollywog that wiggled up to him. "That is because he stays on the bottom, and if he sees a boy, he keeps still, and his enemies think that he is a lump of mud or a stone."

"Ah," said Mr. Thompson, "and green coats have been in fashion for a long time?"

"Ever since the days of Homer. Don't you remember in Homer's poem, 'The Battle of the Frogs and Mice,' he says, 'Green was the suit his arming heroes chose'?"

"Oh yes," answered Mr. Thompson.

"My great-grandfather was in that battle, and my uncle was the original frog who would a-wooing go," continued the old frog; "but you know he got eaten up. He was a French frog, I think; at least I never saw an American frog with an opera hat."

How much more the old frog would have said Mr. Thompson never knew, for there on the bank he saw his beloved Angelina, sitting beside his deserted book, weeping as if her heart would break.

"I am here, dear one," he shouted. At the same moment he felt a sensation of dampness, and found himself lying half in the pond. He rose and accompanied Miss Angelina home; then, after putting on dry clothes, he related his adventures to a company of his friends. All were interested except one skeptical young man.

"But if my story is not true, how did I come in the pond?" argued Mr. Thompson.

"You got asleep, and rolled in; then when you felt wet, you dreamed that you were a frog," said the skeptical young man.

"That's not at all likely," sniffed Mr. Thompson, indignantly.

"Likely or not, it's undoubtedly true."

"Listen," said Mr. Thompson. Then far down in the marsh was heard the faint sound of the frog's chorus:

"Thompson-got-wet, Thompson-got-wet-- Ha, ha, ha, ha; Guess-he-is-yet, guess-he-is-yet-- Ha, ha. Had-to-go-home, had-to-go-home-- Ha, ha, ha, ha; He'd-better-not-come, he'd-better-not-come-- Ha, ha."

"What do you say to that?" cried Mr. Thompson, shaking his head triumphantly, as he walked off to bed.

A SCHOOL RESTAURANT.

For most young people, going to school is the great business of life. Whatever ups and downs may occur in the family, they keep steadily on, learning lessons, reciting them, getting merits and demerits, and growing through it all as fast as they can toward the time when they shall be men and women.

The ancients--who are so called because when they lived this old world was young--had a wise saying about a sound mind in a sound body, which fathers and mothers in these days seem to have quite forgotten, if they ever heard it. Else how does it happen that Alice and Fanny, who never have the least appetite in the morning, are permitted to go to school, after a very slender breakfast, with a few cents in their pockets to buy lunch; and that Walter and Howard, with their heads full of other declensions, decline to take even so much as a sandwich, on the plea that they have no time to eat at noon?

Growing boys and girls need to eat if they are to be rosy, plump, and strong. Yet we can not blame children for disliking the usual school luncheon, which is seldom dainty-looking or inviting to the taste; sandwiches roughly and thickly cut, the bread clumsily buttered, and the meat in chunks instead of slices, cake crumbling and soggy, pickles, and pie that has been wedged into a dinner box for hours, are none of them the proper food for exhausted brains.

Of course, where it is possible, a run home between the morning and afternoon sessions of school, and a nice luncheon at the prettily set home table, with mamma smiling at the head, are the very best things to keep children well. Many reasons combine to make this arrangement very inconvenient, however, for most schools. The necessary prompt re-assembling after the noon recess would be out of the question where pupils live, as they frequently do, several miles distant from the school building.

How would you like the idea of a school restaurant of your own, little folks? On the bill of fare we would have every day nice hot soup, good home-made bread, both white and brown, baked potatoes, apple sauce, rice pudding, crisp celery, cold ham, and ripe fruit, served at the order of the pupil-diner, at a daily cost of a few cents. We think there are clever women who could manage such an enterprise so that it would pay them very fair profits, and we are sure that if mammas and papas were consulted, they would consider it an economy to have their children well fed every day. It would save an immense amount in doctors' bills to some households.

That wonderful machine, the human body, is not unlike a stove, in which the fire will not keep on burning cheerily unless it is replenished from time to time with fuel. Now the very worst fuel in the world for the human stove is composed of pickles on the one hand, and creams and confections on the other. If the brain is to perform its high offices as it ought, the stomach must receive due attention.

After a comfortable luncheon at the school restaurant, we should advise the boys and girls to petition for a half-hour of merry play out-of-doors in pleasant weather. Snow-balling, coasting, and skating would not be amiss, for after the rapid exercise the mind would return to study not jaded and tired, but fresh and vigorous. In stormy weather a dance or a half-hour of calisthenics would set the blood to merry motion in the veins, and we would not see children coming home from school at four irritable and cross, or so often hear the family doctor say, "You must take that child from school."

We would just remind fathers and mothers that at present the only children who are sure of a good dinner at noon are the little waifs who go to the industrial schools, and for whom charity provides at least one hearty meal a day.

BOY'S HEAD BY GREUZE.

[See front-page illustration.]

This charming head is from a beautiful oil-painting by the great French painter Greuze, who a century ago was famous for depicting little folks with his brush and pencil.

Jean Baptiste Greuze was born in 1725 at Tournus, a little manufacturing town in the Department of SaƓne-et-Loire, in the south of France. From his early boyhood he developed the inclination and taste for art which later made him one of the first of French painters. His first studies were made in Lyons, a great manufacturing centre, not very far from his native town. From Lyons he went to Paris, and was so successful that he was enabled to fulfill his ambition of visiting Rome, where he pursued his studies for a considerable period.

Greuze had the deepest love and affection for children, and was never so happy as when painting them. For this reason we find that his pictures are not stiff little photographs of sedate and unnaturally wise young people, but that they have the frank unconsciousness and joyous serenity of youth. They are real children, and truth is as essential to greatness in the world of art as it is to greatness in the human character.

In his mode of life Greuze was eccentric and unhappy. He had the great fault of thriftlessness, and carelessness of his personal affairs, and when he died in 1805, in his eightieth year, he was reduced to a condition of miserable poverty. It is sad to contemplate so wretched an end to the life of one whose artistic creations will be admired and respected as long as art endures.

THE SCULLION WHO BECAME A SCULPTOR.

BY GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON.

In the little Italian village of Possagno there lived a jolly stone-cutter named Pisano. He was poor, of course, or he would not have been a stone-cutter, but he was full of good-humor, and everybody liked him.

There was one little boy especially who loved old Pisano, and whom old Pisano loved more than anybody else in the world. This was Antonio Canova, Pisano's grandson, who had come to live with him, because his father was dead, and his mother had married a harsh man, who treated the little Antonio roughly.

Antonio was a frail little fellow, and his grandfather liked to have him near him during his working hours.

While Pisano worked at stone-cutting, little Canova played at it, and at other things, such as modelling in clay, drawing, etc. The old grandfather, plain, uneducated man as he was, soon discovered that the pale-faced little fellow at his side had something more than an ordinary child's dexterity at such things.

The boy knew nothing of art or of its laws, but he fashioned his lumps of clay into forms of real beauty. His wise grandfather, seeing what this indicated, hired a teacher to give him some simple lessons in drawing, so that he might improve himself if he really had the artistic ability which the old man suspected. Pisano was much too poor, as he knew, ever to give the boy an art-education and make an artist of him, but he thought that Antonio might at least learn to be a better stone-cutter than common.

As the boy grew older, he began to help in the shop during the day, while in the evening his grandmother told him stories or sang or recited poetry to him. All these things were educating him, though without his knowing it, for they were awakening his taste and stimulating his imagination, which found expression in the clay models that he loved to make in his leisure hours.

It so happened that Signor Faliero, the head of a noble Venetian family, and a man of rare understanding in art, had a palace near Pisano's house, and at certain seasons the nobleman entertained many distinguished guests there. When the palace was very full of visitors, old Pisano was sometimes hired to help the servants with their tasks, and the boy Canova, when he was twelve years old, sometimes did scullion's work there also for a day when some great feast was given.

On one of these occasions, when the Signor Faliero was to entertain a very large company at dinner, young Canova was at work over the pots and pans in the kitchen. The head servant made his appearance, just before the dinner hour, in great distress.

The man who had been engaged to furnish the great central ornament for the table had, at the last moment, sent word that he had spoiled the piece. It was now too late to secure another, and there was nothing to take its place. The great vacant space in the centre of the table spoiled the effect of all that had been done to make the feast artistic in appearance, and it was certain that Signor Faliero would be sorely displeased.

But what was to be done? The poor fellow whose business it was to arrange the table was at his wits' end.

While every one stood dismayed and wondering, the begrimed scullion boy timidly approached the distressed head servant, and said,

"If you will let me try, I think I can make something that will do."

"You!" exclaimed the servant; "and who are you?"

"I am Antonio Canova, Pisano's grandson," answered the pale-faced little fellow.

"And what can you do, pray?" asked the man, in astonishment at the conceit of the lad.

"I can make you something that will do for the middle of the table," said the boy, "if you'll let me try."

The servant had little faith in the boy's ability, but not knowing what else to do, he at last consented that Canova should try.

Calling for a large quantity of butter, little Antonio quickly modelled a great crouching lion, which everybody in the kitchen pronounced beautiful, and which the now rejoicing head servant placed carefully upon the table.

The company that day consisted of the most cultivated men of Venice--merchants, princes, noblemen, artists, and lovers of art--and among them were many who, like Faliero himself, were skilled critics of art-work.

When these people were ushered in to dinner their eyes fell upon the butter lion, and they forgot for what purpose they had entered the dining-room. They saw there something of higher worth in their eyes than any dinner could be, namely, a work of genius.

They scanned the butter lion critically, and then broke forth in a torrent of praises, insisting that Faliero should tell them at once what great sculptor he had persuaded to waste his skill upon a work in butter that must quickly melt away. But Signor Faliero was as ignorant as they, and he had, in his turn, to make inquiry of the chief servant.

When the company learned that the lion was the work of a scullion, Faliero summoned the boy, and the banquet became a sort of celebration in his honor.

But it was not enough to praise a lad so gifted. These were men who knew that such genius as his belonged to the world, not to a village, and it was their pleasure to bring it to perfection by educating the boy in art. Signor Faliero himself claimed the right to provide for young Antonio, and at once declared his purpose to defray the lad's expenses, and to place him under the tuition of the best masters.

The boy whose highest ambition had been to become a village stone-cutter, and whose home had been in his poor old grandfather's cottage, became at once a member of Signor Faliero's family, living in his palace, having everything that money could buy at his command, and daily receiving instruction from the best sculptors of Venice.

But he was not in the least spoiled by this change in his fortunes. He remained simple, earnest, and unaffected. He worked as hard to acquire knowledge and skill in art as he had worked to become a dexterous stone-cutter.

Antonio Canova's career from the day on which he moulded the butter into a lion was steadily upward; and when he died, in 1822, he was not only one of the most celebrated sculptors of his time, but one of the greatest, indeed, of all time.

THE LITTLE DOLLS' DRESSMAKER--(_Continued._)