Part 2

At least twenty of the Apaches had been more or less wounded, and every man of them was as proud of it as a school-boy who has been "promoted." A scar received in battle is a badge of honor to an Indian warrior, and he is apt to make a show of it on every fair opportunity.

There was no need, therefore, of throwing away any pity on those who had been cut by the lances or "barked" by the bullets of the Lipans. Red Wolf himself had concealed a smart scar of a lance thrust along his left side, for fear he might be forbidden to go on that second war-path. Even now he refused to consider it as amounting to anything, and his sister's face glowed with family pride as she said to Rita:

"Red Wolf is a true Apache. He is a warrior already. He will be a great chief some day. Knotted Cord is white. He has no scars. He has never been on a war-path."

She was speaking in her brother's hearing, and Steve was at no great distance, at that very moment, talking in a low, earnest tone with Murray.

Their conversation could not be overheard by their friends, but it must have been of more than a little importance, to judge by the expressions that came and went upon their faces. Dolores was busy at the camp fire, as usual, with her frying-pan, and they were looking at her.

"How old do you think she is, Steve?"

"It's hard to guess, Murray. Maybe she's forty-five."

"She is not much above thirty. The Mexican women grow old sooner than white ones. She was not much above twenty when she cooked for my miners on the Santa Rita mine."

"Do you feel perfectly sure about that?"

"I've watched her. There's no doubt left in my mind. Still, I may ask her a few more questions. Then there is one thing more I want to make sure of."

"Will it keep us here long?"

"It may keep me, Steve."

"Then it will keep me, Murray. You will need me if you have anything on hand. I am anxious enough to get off, but I will not leave you behind. I'll stay and help."

Murray held out his hand. "It's a fact, Steve. I may need all the help you can give."

"Take care. Here comes Many Bears himself and two of his cunningest old councillors."

"More advice wanted," thought Murray; but it was not asked for so soon as he expected. Many Bears had something very heavy on his mind that morning, and in order to get rid of it he had to tell the whole story of the buffalo hunt his band had made away beyond the mountains, and into the country claimed by the Lipans. That was the way they came to be followed so closely by Two Knives and his warriors.

Murray and Steve listened closely, for the chief spoke in very good Mexican-Spanish most of the time, and they both understood him. Then came the story of the return through the pass, and it wound up with the finding of the Talking Leaves by Rita.

"Send Warning knows the rest."

"No," said Murray, "I have not seen the Talking Leaves."

"Great medicine. Tell Apache chief about miners. Tell about old fight. Tell about blue-coat soldiers come and where go. Tell about big talk and treaty and presents. Many Bears want to hear more."

"Ask young squaw."

"Can't hear all. Send Warning listen. Say what he hears."

"All right. Bring young squaw."

Ni-ha-be and Rita were near enough to hear, and the latter at once darted into the lodge for her treasures. She was gone but a moment, and her whole body seemed to glow and tremble with excitement as she held out the three magazines to Murray.

"Take one, Steve. You haven't forgotten your reading, have you?"

"Send Warning hear leaves," said Many Bears, anxiously. "The Knotted Cord is young."

"He is white. He can hear. The great chief will listen."

"There, Murray," said Steve, "the chief was right. There's a picture of cavalry. All the others he spoke of are here. Here is the picture of the big talk and the treaty."

"Here is the mining fight--" And just there Murray paused, as if he could say no more, and the Indians looked at him in undisguised astonishment. His breast was heaving, his lips were quivering, and the hands that held the magazine were trembling as if their owner had an ague fit.

"What find?" exclaimed Many Bears. "Is it bad medicine?"

It was some seconds before Murray could trust himself to speak, but he was thinking very fast.

"The Talking Leaves have told Many Bears the truth. Now Send Warning is troubled in his mind."

They could all see that, and it made them not a little anxious.

"What want? What do?"

"Go into lodge with young squaw. Knotted Cord stay and talk with Apache chief. Nobody come into lodge. Take a little time. Then tell what hear."

It was an unusual request, but there could be no objection, in view of the fact that there was "great medicine" to be looked into. An Indian conjurer always required the absence of all observers for the performance of his most important jugglery. It was at once decided that Send Warning should have his way. Rita listened, pale and serious, while Ni-ha-be looked on in jealous amazement.

"I am an Apache girl. Why can he not teach me to hear the Talking Leaves?"

No doubt he could have done so, if she would have given him plenty of time, and been willing to begin with A B C, as Rita had done long years before.

How should all that A B C business have come back to her as it did when she found herself alone in her lodge with that white-headed old pale-face warrior?

Not a human eye was looking upon them, but Rita had suddenly covered her face with her hands.

"Speak," she said, earnestly. "I remember better when I do not see."

She was talking English, just as he had done, only more slowly, and almost as if it hurt her.

"I will read the first word, dear. Then you may spell it. M-i-n-e, mine. That means a gold mine, like ours, dear. Spell it, Rita, my darling!"

"Our mine?--darling? Oh, if I could see my father!"

Murray sprang to his feet as if he were a boy. His mouth opened and closed as if he were keeping back a great shout, and the tears came pouring down over his cheeks.

"Rita! Rita! My dear little daughter! Here I am!"

"Father!"

His arms were around her now, and he was kissing her almost frantically.

Slowly she opened her eyes. "I know it is you when you speak, and when my eyes are shut. When I open them, you are very old. My father was young and handsome. His hair was not white."

"Rita darling, it has been just as white as it is now ever since the morning after I came home and found that the Apaches had carried you away. They killed your mother, and I heard that they had killed you too. I have been an old man ever since, but I think I shall grow young again now."

Time was precious. They could only spare enough for a few hurried questions and answers, and Murray glanced rapidly over the pages of the three magazines.

"Let me take them," he said. "I would like to read them carefully. I shall know what to say to the chief. You must not let anybody know I am your father. Not until the right time comes."

"Oh, why not?"

"Because the Apaches would know then that I am their enemy, and have good reason to be. Even if they did not kill me at once, they would not trust me, and I want them to do that. It is my only hope of carrying you away with me. Stay here in the lodge until you are sure your face will not betray you."

She had been crying more copiously than her father, and that would have been a thing to be explained to Ni-ha-be and Dolores.

Rita therefore remained in the lodge, while Murray with a great effort recovered his usual calm self-control, and walked slowly and dignifiedly out. He needed to put on all the dignity he was master of for his heart was thump, thumping against his ribs, and his brain was in a whirl as to when and how he should be able to claim and carry off the great treasure he had found.

Treasure?

The Buckhorn Mine, piled mountain high with twenty-dollar pieces, was nothing to it.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

"RAILWAY JACK."

About three years ago, a rather large dog of the fox-terrier variety entered the guard's carriage of a train that was just starting from Brighton, England, for Horsham station. He had no ticket, and did not explain his business; but the guard seeing that he was a respectable dog decided to let him ride free.

From that day to this the dog, who is now well known all over England by the name of "Railway Jack," has constantly travelled on railway trains. For the first year or two he confined himself strictly to the trains of the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway.

This road has a great many branches, and a great many trains run over it every day, but Jack knew the time-table perfectly, and never troubled the ticket agents by asking them, "How can I go to such and such a place?" or "When does the next train start?" He took lodgings in a waste-paper basket in the station-house at Lewes station, and wherever he went he never failed to catch the last train from Brighton to Lewes.

It was at first believed that Jack travelled in connection with some private business of his own; that he was, for example, engaged in organizing a "United Terriers' Society for the Destruction of Rats," or was an agent for some "Co-operative Bone Store," that proposed to supply dogs with the best quality of bones at less than ordinary prices. It was soon found, however, that he was engaged in inspecting the railway.

While on the train he sat close to the window, and carefully watched to see if there were any signs that the embankments at the side of the track were out of order, or that the bridges needed repairs. He would stop at a station, and inspect the switches and the signals, and would then take the next train for some other station, where he would inspect the eating-room and test the quality of the food. It was thus very evident that he had appointed himself Inspector of the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway, and every one connected with the company recognized him as a faithful and efficient officer.

One day a lady presented him with a collar with the inscription, "I am Jack, the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway dog. Please give me a drink of water. This collar was presented by Mrs. J. P. Knight, Brockley." Jack seemed to feel that in gratitude for this present he ought to increase his labors. He therefore made a practice of taking frequent trips all over England to see if he could discover anything in the management of other railways which he could recommend his own railway company to copy. Sometimes he went as far as Scotland, and on one occasion when he visited London, and went to the Isle of Dogs to see if there was any good reason for its name, he lost his way, and was absent for some weeks.

A few days after he had been found and brought back to the railway, one of the men employed by the company died, and was buried at Hastings. On the day of the funeral, Jack arrived by the noon train, and went to the church, where he reverently listened to the funeral service, and then followed the coffin to the grave. He also attended the funeral of another railway servant at Lewes, and showed that he felt that the company had sustained a powerful loss.

A short time ago Jack met with a serious accident, which very nearly proved fatal. He was crossing the track late one evening at one of the stations of his own railway, when he slipped and fell just as a train rushed by, crushing one of his fore-legs. He was carried home to Lewes, where chloroform was given to him, and his leg was cut off close to the shoulder. There is no doubt that he was a little careless in crossing the track when a train was approaching; but although he had just returned from attending a wedding at Berwick, Scotland, it is admitted by every one that he was perfectly sober.

Jack bore the loss of his leg very well; but a day or two afterward he took off the bandages while his nurse was absent from the room, and very nearly bled to death before he could receive proper attention. Since then he has steadily improved, although his anxiety to return to duty has made him a little feverish at times. The fact that no accident has occurred on the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway since he was injured has been a great consolation to him, and he feels that it is due to the thorough way in which his work of inspection has been done.

Hereafter poor Jack will have to limp on three legs, for nobody has yet invented artificial legs for dogs. He will, however, be able to do his work, and will undoubtedly be more careful in avoiding danger than he was before the accident. His photograph--the one from which the picture in this number of YOUNG PEOPLE was taken--is considered to be an excellent one, and though it can not be called a beautiful picture, it is the portrait of an upright, faithful, and universally respected dog.

PEOPLE WE HEAR ABOUT.

BISMARCK.

The first day of April--"All-Fools' Day"--is the birthday of one who has done more to change the map of Europe than any man now living.

Otto von Bismarck was born in 1815, the year of the battle of Waterloo. When quite a little fellow he was sent away to boarding-school. The boys were badly fed and strictly ruled, and the lad who, many years afterward, was called "the man of blood and iron" was a "home boy," and did not like school. At the university, however, he seems to have overcome his gentleness in some degree, for he was always in mischief, and very popular.

It is not until he is thirty-three years old that we find him in public life as a member of the Prussian Diet, or parliament. His sympathies were with the King as against the people, because he thought that Germany could only exist as a kingdom. Of course his views on this subject brought him plenty of enemies. He complains in a letter to his wife that he is "famous, but not popular." On two occasions he has been shot at and wounded, and the first of these would-be assassins he seized with his own hands, gave him into charge of the police, and then returned home to a dinner party in his own house.

Though Bismarck is a statesman by profession, and not a soldier, he has seen much of war. The short but decisive campaign between Prussia and Austria in 1866 was Bismarck's doing, and his forethought hastened on the great war between France and Germany in 1870, for he knew that the Germans would win.

In 1871, Count von Bismarck was appointed Chancellor of the German Empire, and created a Prince. No man in Europe wields greater power than he, and yet in his tastes he is extremely simple, being fond of country life and sports.

THE MOTH DANCE.

Little moth maidens, stop in your flight: Where did you come from out of the night? Why do you never come in the day, Like the dear butterflies? Where do you stay?

Little moth maidens, look to your wings: Candles are pretty but dangerous things. Waltzing so airily round and around, Where could two daintier coquettes be found?

Silly moth maidens, why so unwise? Have you no sense, then--nothing but eyes? Beating the mirror, fanning the flame, Blinded and dying, and--who is to blame?

APRIL-FOOLS' DAY.

For a longer time than any one can remember, the 1st of April has been known as April-fools' Day, but why, no one seems to know. In old times, April-fooling was quite a serious thing; and people were made so uncomfortable by senseless jokes that they went out of fashion. It is a very poor kind of enjoyment that consists in giving pain to others, and telling untruths besides; and sport of this kind is always carried too far.

But on one occasion, in France, the well-known practices of April-fools' Day were the means of saving the lives of a noble couple. The Duke and Duchess of Lorraine, who were prisoners at Nantes, made their escape merely because it was the 1st of April, when every one was trying to send his neighbor on some ridiculous errand.

The story reads that the Duke and his wife disguised themselves as peasants, the gentleman carrying a hod on his noble shoulder as naturally as possible, while the elegant court lady had a basket of rubbish bound fast to her back. At a very early hour in the morning of April-fools' Day they passed through the city gates. But early as it was, a woman who knew them by sight happened to meet them, and she hurried off to the guard to give notice that the Duke and Duchess were escaping in disguise.

The soldier, however, remembered the day of the month, and he was not to be taken in so easily. "April-fool!" was the only answer he made to the excited woman, and then all the guard shouted "April-fool!" and the messenger was laughed at for her pains. Finally the story came, as a good joke, to the Governor's ears, and he thought it just as well to inquire into the matter. By this time the Duke and Duchess were quite out of reach, and a great many men had made fools of themselves in their anxiety not to let any one else do it for them.

The April-fool is not confined to any one land or any one language. In Scotland he is called the "April-gowk," and in France the "Poisson d'Avril" (April-fish). Sweden has her April-fools, for a great Swedish traveller named Toreen writes, "We set sail on the 1st of April, and the wind made April-fools of us." In fact, each and every country seems to have had its idea of giving one day at least to the business of being foolish, or making other people so. In Spain people play the fool in various ways on the Sunday and Monday preceding the holy season of Lent. Before very long, however, all April-fooling in civilized countries will probably be a thing of the past. As the world grows older, and people learn wisdom and common-sense, they discover so many better and more reasonable ways of enjoying themselves that such ridiculous practices are given up by common consent.

A very old legend of an instance in which folly served a good purpose is that of the "wise fools of Gotham," though it will hardly do to place too much confidence in its truth. Gotham was a village in England that fell under the displeasure of King John, who sent messengers to inquire into their conduct in preventing him from passing that way.

Being afraid of punishment, the people concluded to act like fools, to excuse themselves; and the King's messengers found them employed in all sorts of ridiculous ways. Some were trying to drown an eel in a pond, some were dragging their carts and wagons to the top of a barn to shade a wood from the sun, some were rolling cheeses down a hill to find their way to market, and some were hedging in a cuckoo that had perched upon a bush, as though he couldn't fly off at the top.

The report taken back to the King was that none but fools lived in Gotham, and fools were of course unworthy of a king's notice. But they thought themselves wise, and so came to be called "the wise fools of Gotham."

THE TITMOUSE FAMILY.

A small bird, with a grayish-white head, black wings, and a dull brown coat, a soft puffy little creature, may be found at all seasons hopping merrily about in the hedge-rows and orchards of England and France.

It is known as the long-tailed titmouse, and is one of the most remarkable members of the great titmouse family, which numbers more than eighty-seven varieties.

Its nest is a wonderful specimen of bird-architecture. The little birds work industriously, and at the end of fifteen days the beautiful home is finished and ready to receive the small speckled eggs. The nest is fastened to twigs covered with thick foliage, and a location near a small water-course is usually selected. It is shaped like a large egg. The little round door is at one side near the top, and some nests have been found with a similar opening on the other side, lower down. As the birds can not speak and explain this freak in the construction of their house, the reason has never been found out. Some naturalists think it is for better ventilation.

To weave its nest the bird collects bits of wood, soft moss, and the strong silken winding of certain cocoons, which it twists together in thick impenetrable walls, within which its little ones may lie secure from rain and storm and cold. The exterior of the nest is artistically covered with beautiful lichens and bits of soft bark, which make it in color and outward texture so much like the branches to which it is secured that a very sharp eye is needed to distinguish it.

When the little house is complete, it is furnished with a soft thick bed of downy feathers, and the mother begins to brood over seven or eight little rose-white eggs delicately specked with red.

These long-tailed titmice are the most faithful of all bird-parents. They keep their children near them until they are a year old, and as two broods are born during the warm weather, with seven or eight in each brood, a whole titmouse family--papa, mamma, and as many as sixteen little ones--may often be seen hopping about together and scouring the hedges in search of food.

They are ravenous little creatures, and always hunting from morning till night, and as they are very sociable, they go in large flocks, twittering and chirping gleefully as they spy a swarm of fat flies, or discover among old stone heaps or in the bark of trees the hiding-places where tiny worms are lying asleep in a chrysalis shroud. They will also eat beech-nuts, acorns, hemp, and other oily seeds.

English boys call these birds tomtits, and consider them the most impertinent of all the feathered inhabitants of the country; for small and graceful as they are, there are few birds which possess such a violent temper or such cruel instincts. They will fight furiously with each other for the possession of a plump insect or some other dainty morsel, and--sad to relate--they show no mercy toward a poor wounded or sick bird. No matter whether it is one of their own kind or of some other species, the titmice set upon it and kill it with sharp blows from their strong little beaks. When it is dead, they pick open its skull and eat its brains.

In France titmice are often captured in snares, but unless the specimen is very young, it will make a savage attack on the hands of the hunter who takes it from the net. It is not difficult to tame them. They make very wise and amusing pets, and if allowed to fly about will quickly clear a room of flies and mosquitoes. But they should never be put in a cage with other birds, for they will harass and worry them to death.

Titmice are very useful inhabitants of gardens and orchards, as they wage continual war on all kinds of saw-flies and other small insects, which do much injury to fruit-bearing trees and shrubs, and a wise gardener will allow the saucy tomtit full liberty to hop and jump about in search of a breakfast for himself and his numerous family.

In the United States ten varieties of titmice have been found, and there are no doubt more. The most familiar among them is the chickadee, which may be heard any sunny day during our long northern winter trilling its merry chickadee-dee-dee in the fields and woods. It is one of the few birds that remain with us during the entire year, and is always the same lively, blithe little creature.

HARE AND HOUNDS.

NED MORNINGSTAR'S STORY.

BY M. EYTINGE.

This ain't much of a story, only you fellows say I've got to tell something, and I can't think of anything else.

Harry Hunter was the one that first started the game. He came there just after Professor Weston had taken Merrit's place in the academy. He was a first-rate fellow, and a reg'lar out-and-out Englisher. He didn't really drop his h's, but it suited us to pretend he did, 'cause some English fellows do, you know.

Ben Price--he's near-sighted--came in one Monday morning with two pairs of eyeglasses on his nose, one pair over the other, and he looked under all the desks and into every corner.

"What ever are you looking for?" says Hunter.