CHAPTER I.

The boys had talked all winter of the cruise which they hoped to take in a sail-boat during the coming summer, and they spent a great many Saturday afternoons at boat yards and places in New York, Jersey City, and Brooklyn, where sail-boats are laid up for the winter. They found several cat-boats that suited them very well, and that could be bought at a low price; but they did not find it so easy to convince Uncle John that a sail-boat cruise would be a safe enterprise for boys so young as Tom Schuyler, Jim and Joe Sharpe, and Harry Wilson. They did not say much about it to Mr. Schuyler, Mr. Sharpe, or Harry's father, for, as Joe pointed out, when Uncle John Wilson gave his consent, it would be time enough to speak to them. "If I go now," he said, "and ask father if I can go cruising in a cat-boat, he'll say, 'Most certainly not, my son; boys have no business with sail-boats.' But if Uncle John goes to him, and tells him all about it, he'll be perfectly satisfied, and say, 'My son, I think you had better do as Mr. Wilson suggests.'" Joe was quite right, for Mr. Sharpe, while he knew nothing about boats, had entire confidence in Mr. John Wilson's prudence and judgment; and though he would have been very apt to refuse to give his sons permission to go sailing--on any ordinary occasion--he would have consented to any plan proposed by so careful and trustworthy a man as Uncle John was known to be.

When the sail-boat cruise was first proposed to Uncle John, he was not inclined to think well of it. "You've been Moral Pirates in a row-boat," said he, "and now you want to try Moral Piracy in a sail-boat. To tell you the truth, boys, I don't half like the idea. To manage a sail-boat requires more coolness and judgment than boys generally have, so I don't think the Department will be able to put a sail-boat in commission this year."

It was not until Uncle John found that the water in the bays on the south side of Long Island, where Tom Schuyler wanted to cruise, was in nearly all places too shallow for drowning purposes, that he consented to say that he would "think about" the sail-boat plan. He thought about it for some time without seeing any good reason to approve of it. He told Tom that while it was true that the water in the bay was deep only in certain narrow steamboat channels, a sail-boat might capsize in one of these very channels. Besides, if one of the boys were to fall overboard, the sail-boat could not pick him up as quickly as he could be picked up were he to fall out of a row-boat. "After all," he added, "the real difficulty is that not one of you is accustomed to manage a sail-boat, and that is a difficulty which we can't get over."

The boys still continued to talk among themselves about their desired cruise, without giving up the hope that Uncle John would change his mind, and when spring came something happened that did make him change it. Tom received a letter from his friend Charley Smith, who was in the Naval Academy at Annapolis, saying that he would come and spend the months of July and August with him. Now Charley was a very fine fellow, nearly a year older than Tom. He had been two years at the Academy, and was already a good sailor. Tom immediately wrote to him and asked him how he would like to be captain of a sail-boat, and go on a cruise through the south bays. Charley was delighted with the plan, and wrote to his guardian--for he had no father nor mother--and easily obtained his consent.

Now Uncle John knew Charley Smith well, and thought very highly of him, and when Tom came to him and showed him Charley's letter, he said at once that the Department of Moral Piracy would be glad to put Captain Charles Smith in command of a cat-boat.

"My dear boy," he continued, "I hated to say no when you proposed your plan, and I am as pleased as you are now that I can conscientiously approve of it. Charley is perfectly competent to manage a sail-boat, and if he will take charge of the boat, and you and the other boys will obey his orders, you shall have your cruise if I can bring it about."

And he did bring it about, as Joe said he would. Mr. Sharpe, Mr. Schuyler, and Harry's father all gave their consent when Uncle John explained the matter to them; and when this important business was settled, Uncle John went with the boys to select a boat.

They found one at Gowanus which they all agreed was just the boat they wanted. She was twenty feet long, with plenty of beam, and with room under her forward deck to carry a good deal of cargo. She was only two or three years old, and was perfectly sound and very strong. There was a good copper pump fastened to the after-end of the centre-board trunk, and all she seemed to need to fit her for immediate use was a good coat of paint. The boatman from whom she was bought was ordered to deliver her at Harlem, and the boys went home delighted.

For the next few weeks the boys went to look at the boat at least twice a week, and devoted most of their spare time in drawing up lists of things to be taken with them on the cruise, and to studying the Coast Survey charts of the south shore of Long Island. Tom contrived a plan for making a cabin to be used at night. He had small iron sockets placed at each end of the cockpit so as to hold two upright sticks. Across these an oar was laid for a ridge-pole, and over the ridge-pole was stretched a piece of canvas, the sides of which were tied to rings fastened on the outside of the washboard. In this way the cockpit was entirely covered, and in the cabin thus formed the boys could lie or sit on the bottom of the boat and keep perfectly dry in the heaviest shower. Of course this cabin, or tent, could be used only when the sail was furled, and the boom hoisted a foot, so as to be out of the way, but it was not intended to use it except at night, when the boat would be at anchor or moored to the shore.

The various lists of stores drawn up by the boys showed that their cruise in the _Whitewing_ had taught them what things were necessary and what things were unnecessary for a long boating expedition. Uncle John had cushions made for the seats, not, as he told the boys, because they needed cushions to sit on, but because these cushions could be laid on the bottom of the boat at night and used as mattresses. This particularly pleased Joe Sharpe, who had put down on his list, "Thirty pounds of tenpenny nails for a bed." He said, in explanation of this:

"I'm tired of sleeping on coffee-pots and tin cups, as I used to when we slept in the _Whitewing_, and I thought some good big nails would be a good deal more comfortable. However, if Uncle John supplies mattresses, I'll cross off the nails, for I don't think they would be quite as comfortable as a mattress."

As on their former cruise, the boys decided to wear only blue flannel shirts and trousers, and to take neither coats nor waistcoats. Of course each one had a change of clothes, besides a blanket and a rubber blanket, but Harry's proposal that they should take rubber overcoats with them was voted down. When Uncle John came to look over their lists, he found scarcely a single article which could be spared, with the exception of Tom's cannon. This was an iron cannon about a foot long, and with an inch bore, and the boys were so anxious to take it with them that Uncle John consented, telling them that it might prove useful in the way of ballast should any of their sand-bags be lost overboard.

It was decided not to paint the boat or to name her until Charley Smith should see her. On the 1st of July he arrived in town, and was met by the boys, who instantly carried him to Harlem to show him the boat. They expected that he would be delighted with her; but what was their dismay when, after looking at her for a few minutes in silence, he answered Tom's question, "How do you like her?" by saying, gravely, "I don't like her at all."

"Why, what in the world is the matter with her?" demanded Tom, while the others looked wonderingly at the young sailor who did not like their beautiful boat.

"Nothing that can't be cured," answered Charley. "The trouble with her is that she's a cat-boat, and a cat-boat is just the meanest kind of boat in the world."

"Can't we turn her into a dog-boat or a horse-boat?" asked Joe. "To tell the truth, boys, I don't believe a cat-boat can be good for much if she is anything like a cat. I wonder if cat-boats can climb back fences and howl?"

"I always thought that a cat-boat was the best kind of sail-boat anybody could have," said Tom. "There's only one sail and three ropes to handle."

"There are two reasons why a cat-boat isn't fit for a cruise where you are liable to meet all kinds of weather," replied Charley. "One is that you can't run before a gale with her. You've no sail except the mainsail, and even if you close reef it and drop the peak, you will sometimes have more sail than the boat ought to carry. Then, when you're scudding, the boom is apt to roll under, and if this happens when it is blowing hard, and there's a good deal of sea on, you'll capsize so quick that you won't have time to put on your overshoes."

"But what good would overshoes do you in deep water?" asked Tom.

Charley smiled, but did not answer him. "The other reason why I don't like a cat-boat is that she won't work to windward with her peak dropped. If you are sailing in a wind, no matter how hard it blows, you must keep the peak up, or you can't keep the boat from falling off. I don't care how many rows of reef-points the sailmaker may have put on the sail, you can't reduce it to more than half its original size if you expect the boat to beat to windward. If a cat-boat is caught in a heavy gale blowing directly off shore, she can't carry sail enough to work into the lee of the land, and she is liable to be blown a hundred miles out to sea."

"What kind of a boat ought we to have, then?" inquired Tom, who did not understand everything that Charley said, but who knew that he must be right.

"A jib-and-mainsail boat, of course," replied Charley. "If you have to scud, you can scud all day under your jib, and keep as dry as a bone, and you can work her to windward with the mainsail close reefed. If you have your jib sheets led aft, the boat can be handled by one man just as easy as a cat-boat. The only thing a cat-boat is good for is sailing in a dead calm on a mud-bank."

"But how can you sail if there's a dead calm?" asked Tom.

"What we ought to do with that boat," Charley continued, "is to step her mast about eighteen inches aft of where it is stepped now. Then we can rig out a bowsprit and put a jib on her. She ought to be lengthened at the stern too, so that we could reach the end of the boom and put in a reef without going ashore to do it."

"We might make the bowsprit ourselves," said Tom; "but we couldn't lengthen her ourselves, and it would cost a good deal to get it done."

"I'll undertake to lengthen her myself," said Charley. "It won't cost us anything but the price of a few nails and some pieces of wood."

"How on earth would you go to work?" cried Jim. "Do you mean to saw her in two, put a piece in, and nail her together again?"

"Perhaps," said Joe, "he means to steam her, and then stretch her. If you can bend wood by steaming it, you ought to be able to stretch it."

"I'll show you what I mean if you fellows will only pay attention," replied Charley. "Now here's her transom, this flat board at her stern, where her name ought to be painted. You see it's all above water, and that the end of every plank is nailed to it. Now the first thing to do is to take four pieces of joist--I believe that's what carpenters call it--about four inches square, and bolt them to the transom. You want to put them about six inches apart, and they must be just as long as the transom is deep."

"I don't quite understand," said Tom, "what you mean by saying they must be as long as the transom is deep."

"I mean that each piece that you bolt on must reach from the level of the deck, that is, from the top of the transom, to the lower edge of the transom."

"Oh, now I understand," exclaimed Tom.

"Very well. Now you want to take four pieces of inch plank, two feet eleven inches long, and fasten them with screw-bolts to the side of each piece of joist, so that they will extend in a straight line from the stern. To the ends of these planks you must nail a new transom, which will have to be smaller in every way than the old one, because the lines of the boat, when carried out three feet, will approach each other. After you have put braces between the pieces of plank, so as to keep them firm, you must carry out your planking and your deck to the new transom, and there you have your boat lengthened three feet. The lengthened part will be all 'overhang,' but the boat will be all the prettier for it."

"Won't she be very weak?" asked Tom.

"Not if you do the work carefully. The new planking mustn't all begin at the old transom, or she wouldn't hold together; but if you cut every other one of the old planks off at the first timber (rib, I suppose you'd call it) forward of the transom, and fasten the end of the new plank to this timber, and follow the same plan in carrying out the deck planks, she'll be strong enough. We'll leave a hole in the deck for the rudder head to come through, and will have to move the iron rod that the sheet-block travels on a couple of feet further aft. I'd like no better fun than to lengthen her, if you fellows would like to have me do it, and we can get the tools."

The boys were greatly pleased with Charley's proposal. The boat, when lengthened, and sloop-rigged, would, they thought, be a real yacht, and altogether a much more imposing craft than a cat-boat. The matter was laid before Uncle John that night, and he willingly agreed to pay the cost of carrying out Charley's plans. "He is right," said Uncle John, "about the rig, and I suppose he is right about lengthening the boat. He shall have whatever he needs; but I hope you'll all remember that if the Department spends all its money in fitting out this boat, you'll have to turn round and keep the Department in food and clothes for the rest of its days."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE DRAGON-KILLER.[1]

A STORY OF THE ISLAND OF RHODES.

BY DAVID KER.

[1] The name of dragon is often applied to large serpents by the old chroniclers. The knight's exploit, which was performed in 1342, may perhaps have given rise to our modern legend of St. George and the Dragon.--D. K.

Many, many years ago, when the isle of Rhodes was still unconquered by the Turks, and belonged to the Christian Knights of St. John, a great crowd was gathered one morning in the streets of its capital, before the fortress where the knights and their Grand Master lived. A grave-looking man in the uniform of the Order (a long white frock, with a scarlet cross on the breast) had just issued from one of the gates, side by side with a herald bearing a trumpet. The herald blew three long blasts, and the grave man cried aloud, "Thus saith Helion de Villeneuve, the most noble Grand Master of the Order of St. John: Forasmuch as five knights of the Order have fallen in combat with the dragon [serpent] that dwelleth by the Mount of St. George, this adventure is henceforth forbidden to all who wear the red cross, and he who shall presume to disobey this command shall be disgraced and banished as a rebel."

The faces of the crowd grew blank with dismay as they listened; for this serpent was the pest of the whole island, and had already destroyed many of them. Their only hope lay in the Knights of St. John; and when they heard that even these famous warriors were forbidden to fight for them, they gave themselves up for lost, and went sadly home to tell the bad news to their wives and children.

Amid the throng there were not a few of the knights themselves who seemed quite as ill pleased as the rest, for these dangerous adventures were just what they delighted in, and every man of them secretly hoped to have the glory of delivering the island from the monster that was laying it waste. But the Grand Master's commands were positive, and what could they do? Biting their lips in stifled rage, the brave men turned slowly away--all but _one_.

That one was a tall, noble-looking knight from Sicily, Dieudonné[2] de Gozon by name. He had proved his courage in many a hard battle with the Turks, and was held to be one of the bravest of the Order; and one might see by his set lips and stern eyes that _he_ had no thought of giving up the dragon adventure even now.

[2] God-given.

Long after all the rest had gone he stood motionless in the midst of the empty market-place, with his arms folded upon his broad breast, buried in thought. At length a sudden light broke over his downcast face, and he moved away with a brisk step, as if he saw his way through the difficulty at last.

The next morning De Gozon was nowhere to be found, and some of his comrades said that he had got leave from the Grand Master to go home to Sicily for a while, and no one thought any more about him.

But had they seen what he was doing in the mean time, it would have puzzled them a good deal. The first thing he did on getting home was to make a complete figure of the dragon-serpent with wood and canvas, and to paint it as life-like as he could--scales, forked tongue, fiery eyes, and all. Not much to be done _that_ way, you will say, toward killing the monster; but wait a little.

The next thing was to buy two fierce hounds, for whom the killing of a wolf or the pulling down of a full-grown deer (or of an armed man for that matter) was a mere joke. Then he mounted his war-horse, called his dogs, and went right up to the pictured figure of the monster. But at the first glimpse of this hideous creature, uglier and stranger than anything they had ever seen before, the hounds ran yelling away, and the good steed reared so that he all but threw his rider.

This, however, was just what De Gozon expected, and he was not a whit disheartened. He tried again and again, and yet again, until horse and hounds were able to face the horrible figure without flinching. Then he trained his dogs to throw themselves under it, and fasten their teeth in its sides, where the flesh was soft and unprotected by scales; and the dogs learned their lesson readily enough--so readily, indeed, that once or twice they all but tore the figure to pieces. Then the knight thought it time to begin his work, and sailed back to Rhodes again.

The moment he landed, off he set for the Mount of St. George, accompanied only by the two esquires who served him. As he neared the fatal spot, the hills around seemed to grow darker and steeper, and a cloud came over the sun, and the gloomy gorge through which his path began to wind looked blacker and drearier than ever. It was as if he were going down alive into the grave. No sight, no sound, of life; the whole place seemed smitten with a curse. Now, too, he began to see fearful tokens of the monster's presence: here the skull of a horse, there the half-devoured skeleton of a bullock, yonder a heap of rusty armor, mingled with the crushed bones of some good knight who had gone forth upon the same quest as himself, and never come back. Suddenly he turned a sharp corner, and right before him yawned the black mouth of the dismal cavern in which the destroyer had made its den.

Just across the valley, under an overhanging rock, stood a little chapel, now silent and deserted, for those who used to pray there had fled in terror, and the poor old priest who tended it had been devoured by the serpent long ago. Kneeling before the moss-grown altar, the brave man prayed to God to strengthen him in the battle, and help him to destroy the enemy of the land.

Just then his horse started, and sent forth a neigh like a trumpet blast. Out of the darkness of the cavern a huge flat head was rearing itself, with its forked tongue quivering, and its sunken eyes glittering fiercely at the sight of prey.

"Now, my friends," said De Gozon to his esquires, "draw back, and let me try this fight alone. If it be God's will that I should conquer, He can strengthen my single arm to do the work; if I am to die, better that one life be lost than three."

There were tears in the eyes of the strong men as they listened, but they knew better than to dispute their leader's will. They bowed in silence, and drew back, while the knight, couching his lance, charged furiously upon his terrible foe. But the spear slid harmlessly over the slippery scales, and the monster's hot, foul breath and hideous aspect proved too much for the good war-horse. He started back, and neither spur nor call could urge him forward again.

There was but one thing to do, and De Gozon did it. Leaping to the ground, he drew his sword, and renewed the attack on foot. A blow fell--another--yet another. But the good blade which had cloven helmet and turban like pasteboard fell vainly upon the tough, slimy body of the reptile. One lash of that mighty tail, and down went De Gozon, stunned and bleeding, with the terrible jaws gaping over him like the mouth of the grave. The knight commended his soul to God, and thought all was over.

But just then a fierce yell was heard, and in sprang the dogs, fixing their teeth in the monster's undefended flesh with a grip that all its struggles could not shake off. The pain paralyzed it for a moment, and that moment was enough for the fallen knight to raise himself on his elbow and plunge his sword hilt-deep in the snake's exposed side. One mighty quiver ran through every coil of the huge body, and the terror of the island lay dead upon the trampled grass, overwhelming its conqueror in its fall.

Meanwhile the news that another champion had gone forth to meet the dragon had run abroad like wild-fire, and when the fight began, hundreds of trembling lookers-on were watching it from the surrounding hill-tops. There was a groan of dismay when the knight's war-horse failed him, and he had to face the monster on foot. When he was struck to the ground and the huge jaws were seen gaping over him, the in-drawn breath of the terrified crowd sounded like a hiss amid the dead silence; but when the battle ended, and they saw their terrible enemy lying dead before them, up went a shout that seemed to rend the very sky. Strangers embraced each other like brothers; children clapped their hands, and shouted for joy; women hid their faces, and wept aloud; and the whole throng poured downward like a wave into the gloomy valley which they had so long avoided like a plague-spot.

When De Gozon opened his eyes again, he found himself in the midst of thousands of people, who were shouting his name, and blessing him as their deliverer. His ride back to the town, with the dead monster in a wagon behind him, was like a triumphal procession. Every one struggled for a sight of him. Flowers and laurel leaves were showered upon him from the windows. Even the stately Knights of St. John lent their voices to swell the cheering; and so the great procession swept on to the hall of the Order, and into the court where the Grand Master was sitting in his chair of state, with his chosen knights around him.

As soon as the uproar lulled a little, De Gozon told his story in a quiet, matter-of-fact way which showed that _he_ had no wish to make much of what he had done. Every one expected to see the Grand Master start up and embrace him; but the old knight sat firm as a rock, and his face was very grim.

"Thou hast done a great deed," said he at last; "but tell me, what is the _first_ duty of every true knight?"

"To obey," answered the dragon-slayer, with a faint flush on his sun-browned cheek.

"And how hast _thou_ obeyed?" asked the Grand Master, sternly. "Is it not written in our laws that no knight of the Order shall undertake any adventure without the bidding of his chief? _Thou_ hast acted not only without my bidding, but against it; and in the ranks of our Order there is no place for one who sets his own will before his vow of obedience. Loose that cross from thy breast, and begone!"

The crowd stood aghast at hearing this terrible rebuke given to their hero, and all eyes were turned expectantly upon him. For a moment he stood like one thunder-struck; then, without a word, he took the scarlet cross from his breast, laid it meekly at the Grand Master's feet, and turned to depart.

Then the old man's iron face yielded suddenly, as ice yields at the coming of spring. He leaped from his chair, and rushing after the banished man, threw his arms round him like a father embracing his child.

"Come back, my son," he cried, "and take up again that cross which none is worthier to wear. He who in his hour of triumph could bear without a murmur such a reproof as mine, deserves to be not only a knight of our Order, but its head; and when it shall please God to call me, I shall be well content to have _thee_ my successor."

And a very few years later De Gozon did succeed the old warrior as Grand Master of the Order, and is still remembered as the best and kindliest chief who ever ruled it. If you ever go to Rhodes (as I did a few years ago), you will see there, unless the Turks have destroyed it, an old tomb, quaintly carved, bearing this inscription, "Here lies Dieudonné de Gozon, the Dragon-killer."

BOB PERKINS'S PARCEL.

A STORY FROM CHICAGO.

BY A. A. HAYES, JUN.

A good many boys who read this story may live in Chicago, or have made a visit to that great Western city, but those who have never been there must hope to see it some day. It lies on one of the great lakes, so much like the ocean that one can hardly believe that he has not been transported, on the back of the Enchanted Horse, over a thousand miles of land, and is looking at the broad Atlantic. Certainly that is what young Bob Perkins thought as he entered the city one pleasant morning about ten years ago. He had come from New York with his father, who had business in Chicago which would probably detain him for a year or more, and had therefore taken his family with him to reside there. They left New York at night, and Bob saw Niagara Falls for the first time as the train crossed the famed Suspension-Bridge the next day. In the morning he had seen the Falls of the Genesee at Rochester, and been told of the useless feat in which Sam Patch lost his life, saying that "some things could be done as well as others," and then leaping to his death. He was thus better prepared to appreciate the splendid achievement of which his father told him as the train, weighing many, many tons, rolled slowly across the bridge hung by wire cables over the roaring and foaming rapids. It seems that when Mr. Roebling, the engineer, made known his plans, people declared that they were foolish and dangerous, and that such a bridge could not be made safe enough to support carriages, much less a train. He did not argue with them, but he did something which, while quite convincing to the public, showed a rare faith in his own skill and care. When he had stretched one wire across, he suspended a basket on it, and in this basket he, his wife, and his child were drawn from bank to bank.

Next morning, when Bob had dressed himself and looked out of the window of the sleeping-car, he saw the waves dashing up from Lake Michigan high enough to wet the wheels of the train as it ran swiftly along the shore. A few minutes more saw him in the station, and with that day his life in Chicago began.

The city seemed even busier to him than New York. The people moved faster through the streets, and were apparently more absorbed in the pursuit of their various occupations. It was early autumn, and very dry, as the summer had been. Bob heard his father say that the farmers were complaining greatly of the want of rain, and when he rode out on the prairie, everything looked yellow and parched. He preferred to walk along the shore of the lake, and out to the mouth of the river, where he could see the lumber vessels coming in from Wisconsin and Michigan, and enjoy the cool breezes.

One Sunday evening, while reading, he heard the bells ring, and, like almost all boys, wanted to run to the fire. His father told him that he himself would like a walk, and that they might go a certain distance, but would probably find that the fire was extinguished. Bob remembered, however, that the wind was blowing hard when they were coming home from church, and then it suddenly occurred to him that in that absence of rain of which he had heard, the wooden buildings so common in the city must be as dry as tinder. When they turned the corner of the street, both uttered a cry of surprise. The sky was all aflame, and dense clouds of smoke, in which cinders were thickly mingled, were driven by the wind over their heads.

"I do not think that it is near my office, Bob," said his father; "but it seems a great conflagration, and we had better find out if it is likely to spread."

They walked rapidly toward one of the bridges over the Chicago River, and crossed it. As they passed on they met a gradually increasing throng, apparently fleeing from the fire and seeking a place of safety. The smoke and cinders grew more plentiful, and the sky was now lit from horizon to horizon. At last they reached the office, and Mr. Perkins opened it with his key. Everything inside was quiet and undisturbed; but he felt a strange degree of alarm, none the less acute because somewhat vague. He almost mechanically opened his safe, and stood looking at its contents, and mentally wondering whether it would preserve them in case of the advent of the flames. Even while he was thus engaged, the noise outside grew louder and louder. Crowds were heard hurrying through the street, and many were crying and shouting. Bob went to the door and opened it, only to shrink back almost in terror. The burning cinders had been blown over to the street where the office was, and the block had taken fire.

Mr. Perkins saw in a moment that his office must be destroyed, and that he had not even time to save all the contents of his safe. He hurriedly selected a few documents, wrapped them up in a paper, and gave them to Bob, telling him to carry them in his hand, and be sure not to let them pass from his possession. Then, with a caution to keep close to him, and hurriedly closing the safe, he started again for his house. They were compelled to go a long distance around, and even then reached their destination with much difficulty. Mr. Perkins, as they passed along, had carefully observed the course of the flames, and made up his mind that they would reach his house, as they had already reached his office. He proceeded at once, therefore, to send his family to the residence of some friends in the country, again cautioning Bob about the parcel of papers. Then he called some men to his aid, took as much furniture as possible out of his house, and sent it in carts to one of the parks. As the last cart started, the flames caught the eaves, and he looked back to see them enveloping what had been a pleasant home. There was no time for regrets; he only hurried his driver along, hoping that he would reach a place where his effects would be secure. All in vain: he saw them consumed in their turn, and he was finally compelled to seek protection himself under a bridge, where he passed the rest of that terrible night. In the morning he joined his family at the house whither they had gone. The calamity which had happened was so great that none of them quite realized it. In a few hours not only had their beautiful city been laid in ashes, but their pretty home, Mr. Perkins's place of business, and much of their property had been likewise destroyed.

"Well," at last remarked Mr. Perkins, "I am glad of _one_ thing. I secured a good many valuable mortgages, railroad bonds, and notes of hand, and wrapped them in a package, and gave them to my careful Bob to keep, and I know that he has them now."

"Yes, papa," cried Bob, with a glowing face. "The parcel never left my hands except for a few minutes, when I laid it on the piano while I was helping mamma put her jewels in a bag. Here it is;" and he handed his father a paper parcel. Mr. Perkins opened it, and took out--half a dozen sandwiches![3] To such a state of excitement had the terrible events of the night brought every one that poor Bob never knew when he exchanged the precious bundle of documents for the parcel of provisions which his thoughtful mother had put up.

[3] Fact.

* * * * *

Bob staid in Chicago, which, as every one knows, has been rebuilt, and is handsomer than ever. Perhaps his name can be found in the directory; but if any one should meet him who has read this story, it would be well not to allude to either parcels or sandwiches.

MEMPHIS.

Memphis was one of the oldest of the world's great cities. It was built on the banks of the Nile when all Europe was a savage wilderness, and its inhabitants barbarians living in huts and caves. The great city grew up under the rule of the Pharaohs to be a scene of busy trade, almost as thickly peopled as London or New York. To-day its site can scarcely be traced. But four thousand years ago Memphis was a city of palaces and temples. Pharaoh was lodged more splendidly than Louis XIV., and Cheops provided himself with the most magnificent of tombs. One of the Memphian temples is thus described: "He seemed to be in Memphis, his native city; and entering the temple of Isis, saw it shining with the splendor of a thousand lighted lamps; all the avenues of the temple were crowded with people, and resounded with the noise of the passing throngs." The inner shrine was supposed to be the residence of the goddess. To Memphis, perhaps, came Joseph, the gentle Jew, to become the ruler of the land. There came his brethren and the Israelites to buy corn. Here the Jews passed their four centuries of captivity; from its palaces they bore off the jewels and gold of the Egyptians; from its memorable shore they set out on their march; from the gates of Memphis the furious Pharaoh followed with chariot and horse, to perish in the treacherous sea.

Nowhere can be found more striking incidents than are connected with this desolate narrow part of the shore of the Nile. Moses, perhaps, floated in his basket near by, and won his life with the smile of infancy, always irresistible. It was the scene of the plagues, of the terrible darkness, of the years of plenty and the years of want. It nourished in splendor and wealth for a period that makes the age of most cities seem trivial. New York is more than two hundred and fifty years old, London about nineteen hundred: Memphis flourished for more than three thousand years. It has passed away, but one of its labors can never apparently perish. Cheops, one of the Memphian Kings, built the largest of the Pyramids, and near it are several others not much less in size. A Pyramid was no doubt a royal tomb. Various explanations have been given of the origin and purpose of these wonderful buildings. Some suppose them intended for astronomical purposes; others suggest that they were designed to mark the dimensions of an inch, and fix the system of computing distances. But history and tradition assert that they were the tombs of the Memphian Kings.

SUSIE KINGMAN'S DECISION.

BY KATE E. McDOWELL.