CHAPTER III.

The port watch did as they were ordered; that is, after having put everything in order, they stretched themselves lazily on the seats, and let Charley and Joe manage the boat. The tide was now running up the creek, and Joe, using one oar as a pole, rapidly poled the boat on her way. The creek wound in and out through the meadow, and the boat constantly ran aground, so that it was by no means easy work either to find the channel or to keep in it. Half a dozen bridges were passed, under one of which the passage between the piles was so narrow that had it been two inches narrower the _Ghost_ would have found her way effectually stopped. Charley and Joe frequently changed places, one steering while the other poled, and thus managed to work the boat through the creek without getting too tired. Poling a boat where the bottom is muddy is no joke, as Joe found after he had fallen overboard twice. There was no trouble in putting the oar on the bottom, or in pushing the boat along, but when he tried to pull the oar out again, it would sometimes stick firmly in the mud, and try its best to pull him overboard. Harry and Tom did not lift a finger to help Joe out of the water when he fell into it, because, as they said, it was their duty not to interfere unless the Captain should call all hands. The water was not over two feet deep, so that Joe was not in any danger, but he was not very well pleased at the way in which Harry and Tom laughed, and he announced that if the port watch intended to laugh every time the starboard watch fell overboard, he should consider it the duty of the latter to drip all over the former.

The creek now broadened into what is called Sheepshead Bay, which is merely an arm of Jamaica Bay, and Charley ran the boat into a small dock, where half a dozen men cheerfully helped the boys to step the mast. The mainsail and jib were hoisted and trimmed, and the _Ghost_ began to thread the channel between the islands that are so plentiful in Jamaica Bay. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and for the last hour a steady sea-breeze had been blowing, that carried the boat along at the rate of six miles an hour. Joe changed his clothes, ate a biscuit, and enjoyed the relief from the hard labor of poling. Presently Charley called him to take the helm while he studied the chart, in order to find the way to the place where they meant to drag the boat across to Hempstead Bay. The chart was of great use in helping him to find the way among the islands in the western part of the bay; but when the _Ghost_ finally reached the broad open water, it was no longer needed, for the houses of Far Rockaway came into sight, and served as landmarks. At twelve o'clock the port watch took charge of the deck, and an hour later the bow of the boat was run ashore at the eastern extremity of the bay, the sails were furled, and lunch was made ready.

The boys had intended to drag the boat over the sandy strip of land between Jamaica Bay and the entrance to Hempstead Bay. They had all said that as the distance between the two bays was only a few rods, it would be easy to get the boat across; but as yet nobody had suggested how it was to be done. When they came to look the matter in the face, they found that what they had proposed to do was quite impossible. The boat would have to be dragged at least twenty rods through deep sand, and not even a team of horses could have performed the feat. "It's no use talking about it," said Tom; "it can't be done. If the _Ghost_ isn't sailed into Hempstead Bay, she will never get there."

"Then she shall sail!" exclaimed Charley.

"Have we got to go all the way back to New York Bay and sail outside of Coney Island?" asked Harry. "The _Ghost_ is a good boat, but I don't want to go to sea in her."

"We needn't go back to New York Bay. Look at this chart. Here you see Rockaway Inlet. The steamboats come through it into Jamaica Bay. Now from Jamaica Inlet to the entrance to Hempstead Bay, which isn't a regular inlet, but just a channel between Rockaway Beach and the bar outside of it that is all above water at low tide, isn't more than three or four miles. We'll sail back to the inlet, run out of it, and run into Hempstead Bay without a bit of trouble. There's a good steady breeze, and the sea is almost as quiet as the bay. There won't be the least danger in doing it."

"All right," said Harry. "We'll start right away, and get into the other bay as soon as possible. It looks easy enough, but we must be sure to do it before dark."

They all went on board, and the sails were again set. The wind was nearly ahead all the way to the inlet, and the _Ghost_ made slow progress. They were nearly opposite the last of the Rockaway Beach hotels, when Joe said, "I must have a drink of water."

This was a very simple remark, but it recalled to everybody the recollection of the fact that there was not a drop of water on board the boat. The boys had drank coffee at their breakfast and at supper the night before, and it had so happened that nobody had wanted a drink of water until Joe mentioned the subject. Not only did they all instantly discover that they were terribly thirsty, but they were ashamed to find that they had started on a cruise on the Atlantic--for after passing through the inlet they would really be on the broad ocean--without a drop of water.

"You made the coffee," said Charley to Harry. "Where did you get your fresh-water from?"

"Out of two bottles," replied Harry, "that I filled with ice-water before we started from Harlem."

"And is that all the water you intended to take?"

"Well, we didn't think much about it, I guess," Harry replied. "But we can go ashore here at the hotel and fill the bottles again."

"Bottles won't do," said Charley. "We must have a cask of water if we're going to cruise on the ocean. Head her for the steamboat landing, Tom, and we'll try to get a water cask."

The only thing that the landlord of the hotel could let the boys have was an empty ten-gallon beer keg. Before it could be used for fresh-water, it had to be rinsed about a dozen times with cold water, and then scalded with hot water. Even then the water with which the boys filled it tasted unpleasantly of beer, but, as Charley assured his companions, any water that was not positively unwholesome would be very welcome if they were to find themselves perishing of thirst. Harry's bottles were filled with drinking water, and with this and the beer cask the boys returned to the boat.

"Does anybody know what provisions we have on board?" inquired Charley.

"Well," said Harry, "I can remember pretty well what we bought, for I bought nearly everything myself, and have got the bill somewhere. Then there is a lot of cake and sandwiches and things that we brought from home with us the day we started."

"Would you mind making out a list of them, and keeping an account of what we use and what we buy?" said Charley. "I'd like to know every day just what provisions we've got to depend upon, and then I can take the responsibility of seeing that we don't run short of food, as we did of water. We must remember that we're making a regular cruise, and not sailing up and down the river for pleasure."

"All right," replied Harry. "You shall have the list the first time I get a chance to make it. I believe as much as you do in having everything ship-shape."

They were now nearing the inlet, and Charley began to feel anxious about the wind. As nearly as he could judge from the chart, the wind, as it was blowing from the south-west, would enable them to sail out of the inlet, but it was quite possible that the channel might lie in such a direction as to prevent the _Ghost_ from making the attempt until the wind should change. It was nearly four o'clock, the time when the excursion steamers were starting for New York, and it was necessary to keep a look-out for them, for the steamboat channel was narrow and winding, and though the _Ghost_ might apparently be quite out of the path of an approaching steamer, it was always possible that the steamer would suddenly swing round and head directly for the sail-boat. The steamers, however, all passed safely on their way, and disappeared as they rounded the further point of the beach, and passed out of the inlet.

The boys were in excellent spirits, and did not feel the slightest uneasiness about their expected sail on the Atlantic. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to run out of the inlet, and to coast along the beach until they should be once more in the safe shelter of the bay. Never were boys more astonished than they were to find, when they came within sight of the inlet, that across it stretched a line of white breakers through which it seemed absurd to think of sailing a boat.

"That can't possibly be the inlet," said Harry. "There isn't any channel through those breakers."

"It's the inlet, sure enough," replied Charley; "but it looks as if there was a bar right across it."

"Perhaps the bar is put up at night, and they forgot to take it down this morning," suggested Joe.

"How could anybody put a bar across a big inlet?" asked Tom, seriously.

"Charley means there's a sand-bar under the water," said Harry.

"Tom, did you ever see a joke in your life?" asked Joe.

"No, and nobody else ever saw a joke. What do you think a joke looks like? Is it round or square?"

"Joe's are usually flat," said Harry. "But what's the use of talking in this way? What we want to do is to get out of that inlet."

"Let go all your halyards, Joe, and then drop the anchor overboard. We'll stop here awhile, and make up our minds what to do," ordered Charley.

The _Ghost_ was soon riding quietly at anchor in three feet of water. Charley looked carefully at the line of breakers, wondering where the channel could possibly lie. Suddenly it occurred to him that the breakers were not caused by a bar, but by the tide, which was running out of the bay, meeting the swell of the ocean. "There's a channel there somewhere, deep enough for big steamboats, and if we only knew just where it was, we'd try it," said Charley, after studying the matter for some time.

"Shall we get through the breakers without getting full of water?" inquired Tom.

"I don't know. I suppose we'll have to take our chances. Boats do go through the inlet every day, and I never heard of one getting swamped."

"Let's wait here until we see some boat go in or out. We can see how she gets through, and where the channel is," suggested Tom.

The idea was a good one, and the boys all agreed to wait. In the course of half an hour a fishing-boat no larger than the _Ghost_ made its appearance, coming from the direction of Canarsie, and bound out of the inlet. The boys watched her closely, and noticed just what course she took. When she reached the breakers, she passed through them as easily as if she was in smooth water, only a little spray flying over her bow, and not a drop apparently entering her cockpit.

"Pshaw! we've been waiting here for nothing," exclaimed the Captain. "Hoist that mainsail, the port watch. Up with the anchor, the starboard watch. Now run up the jib, Joe, and one of you fellows haul in the jib-sheet. Look out for your heads, everybody, when the boom swings around."

The _Ghost_, turning her head toward the inlet, ran straight for the breakers. The boys had confidence in their Captain and in the boat; but it did seem rather nervous work to sail straight into the curling and breaking seas. Charley himself began to fear that he had made a mistake, but it was now too late to draw back.

"Come aft here, everybody!" he exclaimed. "We must keep her head as high out of the water as we can. Now, boys, hold on to something, and don't be frightened. It will all be over in a minute."

The _Ghost_ was now flying with the wind and tide, and in another moment she was in the rough water. She drove her nose straight into a curling sea that broke on her deck with a crash as if it would stave it in. A shower of spray flew all over the boat, and half a hogshead of water poured over the wash-board into the cockpit. But the good little boat did not seem to mind it. The danger was passed almost in a second, and the _Ghost_ was now fairly at sea in smooth water, and Charley was easing the main-sheet, and heading her to the eastward.

"There! we did it, you see," cried Charley, exultingly. "Only," he added, "I don't want to do it again."

"We're as wet as we used to be in the _Whitewing_," said Joe; "and I'm afraid everything on board is as wet as we are."

"Then don't lose any time in bailing her out," said Charley. "Get a couple of tin pans and bail, while one of you pumps. We'll have the water out in no time."

It took, however, a good deal of time to pump the boat dry, and Charley secretly admitted to himself that had the _Ghost_ shipped another such sea, she would have been in a dangerous situation.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

BELL COUNTS HER CHICKENS.

BY AMANDA SHAW ELSEFFER.

"Aunt Lena, come look at my chickies; They have a house all to themselves; It's very much bigger than Dickie's; They sleep in a row on the shelves."

"And how many have you?" asked Auntie. "I'll count them," said dear little Bell. "There's Speckle, and Top-knot, and Bantie, And that little lame one is Nell;

"And papa calls this _Coach-in-China_, The greediest one of the lot; And that one we named for old Dinah, Because it's as black as a pot;

"And Brownie, and Whitey's her mother, And Yellow-legs there by the door, And Shanghai, and Prince, and another, And Graywing, and Dot, and one more;

"And there, you see, 'way in the corner, Is Patsy--we call her Cross-patch-- And Ned says she looks like a mourner, But I know she's going to hatch.

"And so I have five that are hidden, But Patsy knows what she's about, And won't come away if she's bidden Until she can bring them all out.

"I do hope that one is a Bantie, And don't you want one for Elaine?" "Well, how many have you?" "Why, auntie, I s'pose I must count them again."

THE BRAVEST MAN IN THE REGIMENT.

BY DAVID KER.

"So you want me to tell you a story about a brave man, little people?" said Colonel Graylock, as his half-dozen nephews and nieces, tired with their afternoon's play, gathered around his arm-chair by the fire. "Well, I've seen plenty of them in my time, but the bravest man I ever knew was a young Ensign in our regiment, whom we used to call 'Gentleman Bob'--and right well he deserved the name, though not as we meant it.

"Soldiering's a very different thing now from what it was in my young days, and men have learned--what it's a pity they didn't learn sooner--that a man may make none the worse officer for being a gentleman and a Christian. Henry Havelock taught us that pretty fairly, but in the rough old times it was a very different thing. Then the harder an English officer drank, and the louder he swore, and the more he bullied his men, and the readier he was to fight a duel or to join in any low frolic, the better his comrades liked him, and I'm afraid we were much the same as the rest.

"So you may fancy what we thought when a man like 'Gentleman Bob' came among us, who was always quiet and sober and orderly, and instead of brawling and rioting like the rest of us, spent all his spare time over dry scientific books that we knew nothing about, and read a chapter of the Bible every morning and evening. How we did laugh at him, and make mock of him, to be sure! But the provoking thing was that he never seemed to mind it one bit, and he was so good-natured, and so ready to do any one a good turn when he could, that it certainly ought to have made us ashamed of ourselves; but it didn't, more's the pity.

"But before long something _did_ make us ashamed of ourselves, and this was it. Our Colonel was in a great hurry one day to find out the whereabouts of a village that wasn't marked on his map, and none of us could help him, when, lo and behold! forward stepped 'Gentleman Bob,' with a neat little map of his own drawing, and there was the very place, just where it should be. The Colonel looked at it, and then at us, and said, grimly, 'It's not often, gentlemen, that the youngest officer of a regiment is also the smartest: let this be a lesson to you.'

"You may be sure this reproof made us none the more merciful in talking against poor Bob; and perhaps we might have done something more than talk but for a thing that happened one night at mess. Our junior Captain, a rough, bullying kind of fellow, was going to empty a glass of wine over Bob's head, when the Ensign grasped his wrist, and overturned the wine upon him instead, and the wrist was black and blue from that squeeze for many a day after.

"About a month after this, one of our men, who used to have fits of madness every now and then, from an old wound in the head, came flying along with a big knife in his hand, slashing at everything within reach. Some cried to shoot him, but Bob said, quietly, 'A man's life is worth more than that: let me try.' And in a moment he had seized the fellow's knife-hand, and tripped him so cleverly that he was down before we could call out; and then some of the men came up and secured him.

"Of course we could say nothing against Bob's pluck after that; but all this was a trifle to what was coming. A few days later came one of the greatest battles of the war, and we were so hard pressed on the left (where my regiment was) that at last there was nothing for it but to fall back. We formed again under cover of some thickets, but even there we had enough to do to hold our ground, for the enemy had brought up several guns, and were giving it to us pretty hot.

"Suddenly, between two gusts of smoke, one of our wounded, lying out on the open plain, was seen to wave his hand feebly, as if for help. It was one of our Lieutenants, who had been harder than any one upon 'Gentleman Bob,' and his chance was a poor one, for it seemed certain death to try and reach him through such a pelt of shot, while if a bullet didn't finish him, the scorching sun was pretty sure to do it.

"All at once a man was seen stepping out from the sheltering thicket, and that man was 'Gentleman Bob.' He never looked to right or left, but went straight to where his persecutor was lying helpless, and tried to raise him. At first the French banged away at him like fury, but when they saw what he was doing, several officers called out. 'Ne tirez pas, mes enfants' ('Don't fire, my boys'), and raised their caps to him in salute. Bob lifted the wounded man gently in his arms, and shielding him with his own body, brought him back into our lines; and such a cheer as went up then I never heard before or since."

"And did that horrid Lieutenant die, uncle?"

"Luckily not," answered the Colonel, laughing, "for I'm sorry to say the 'horrid Lieutenant' was no other than myself."

"Oh, uncle! were you ever as naughty as that?" lisped a tiny voice, in tones of amazement.

"But what became of 'Gentleman Bob'?" asked an impatient boy.

"He's now my respected brother-in-law, and your papa," said the Colonel, exchanging a sly look with a fine-looking man on the other side of the room, who had been listening to the story with a quiet smile. "And now that you've had your tale, go and say good-night, for it's high time for by-by."

THE STORY OF PALAI.

BY E. MULLER.

Grandma Meronne sat in her garden, near Morges, on Lake Geneva, telling stories to Gustave Meronne and an American boy from the school at Geneva.

"Just out there," said Madame Meronne, pointing to the shining blue water, "there lived a boy a long time ago."

"Where, Grandmère?" asked Rob Grayson. "Over at Evian or Thonon?"

"No; just out there on the water. His house was built far out from shore, on a sort of wooden pier, with a long narrow pathway, on piles, leading to land. There was a whole village of such houses, built of logs, with piazzas all around, and carefully barred up on the land side to keep out the bears and wolves and hyenas."

"Hyenas! Oh, Grandmère! how can you?" exclaimed Gustave.

"Yes, hyenas. This was long ago, I said; and the boy's name was Palai. He was brave and hardy from his babyhood, and even when he could only creep, his mother had to tie a string to him, and fasten him to the house, or he would have crept on land or into the water, for he would not stay quiet a moment. When he could run about, his father showed him how to make a knife out of stone, and many an hour's hard work Palai had rubbing his knife on a great stone slab which lay in the middle of the house on purpose to sharpen things on. His father gave him a hollow bone of a deer to make a knife-handle, and then Palai was allowed to go on shore, and watch the cows and sheep at pasture. He was expected to keep off bears and wolves--yes, and hyenas, Gustave--with no weapons but a wooden club and this stone knife, which, by-the-way, was nothing like your knives, but more like a carpenter's chisel, as its sharp edge was at the end instead of the side. In summer Palai enjoyed his pasture-watching, and busied himself making more knives and spears, and pretty beads from bones and colored stones found along the lake.

"These were Palai's pleasant hours; but in winter, when the cattle were driven close to the lake, and Palai and other boys had to spend long cold nights watching for wild animals, it was not so pleasant. Palai's grandma--yes, Gustave, he had a grandma--used to tell him of the fearful beasts she had heard of in her youth, some of which her grandfather had seen. He had seen a bird so large that its legs alone were taller than he, and one of its eggs held as much as a hundred and forty hen's eggs. This was a Dinornis, and Palai wished he could have gone bird nesting after such eggs. Then there was a great dragon--the Labyrinthodont--which had been seen by Palai's grandma's great-grandfather; and the Dinotherium, a beast twice as large as an elephant, and many other fearful creatures. Palai never said 'Oh, grandma!' when she related these wonders. He had seen the huge bones of some of these creatures lying among the caves and rocks on the hills, and he wished constantly to meet and kill some great animal, for he was very brave. 'Never mind, Palai,' his grandmother said, 'these great beasts may have left this country, but there is always something great to be done, if one is brave.' When Palai was about fourteen, his father allowed him to go hunting with him to kill a cave-bear--an animal nearly twice as large as the bears we see now.

"Palai and his father each carried a club, tied to the waist by deer-skin strings, a knife, and a long wooden spear with a stone head. It was a great honor for a boy to be allowed to hunt the cave-bear; only very brave men attacked this beast, so Palai felt proud."

"But he knew the danger, and that he might never come home again, so he gave presents to all his friends and relations to remember him by. To his mother he gave a new distaff and stone spinning weights which he had made; to his grandmother he gave a wolf-skin to make a warm robe; and to his friend Jurassa--a nice little girl who lived in the next house--he gave a long string of pretty beads, which he had cut and polished just for her.

"'I won't forget you, Palai,' said Jurassa. 'But do something brave.'

"'I will,' said Palai.

"The country was not fair and smooth as it is now; great rocks were more frequent than grassy fields. The Bernese Alps were always covered with snow to their very base, as the top of Mont Blanc is now; and in the thick dark forests lived wild beasts which were as eager to find the hunters as the hunters were to find them.

"'Palai,' said his father, 'this bear is of the fiercest; it carried off two of our cows.'

"'I do not fear,' said Palai.

"'This is not play, like killing a wolf in the flock, or crossing the lake in your canoe. You must kill or die.'

"'I do not fear,' said Palai, who knew that his father was trying his courage, as was the custom among hunters.

"Two other hunters joined them, and before long they had climbed the hills, and found the cave-bear at home. Palai's dog, a thin wolfish creature, with long stiff hair, gave the alarm; but before they could throw themselves behind trees, this fearful monster sprang from his cave, and threw down Palai's father. Palai rushed forward, and struck the beast with his club, and the other hunters shouted and struck it with their spears, till it turned on them. Then they ran away. You can not blame them; they thought Palai's father was dead, and it was no use throwing their lives away. But Palai did not run. As the bear rose to grasp him, he threw himself under it, and stabbed furiously at its heart, killing it almost instantly, so that it fell upon him. When the other hunters saw this, they came and dragged Palai out, nearly smothered; and great was their rejoicing, till they found that Palai's father, for whom he had risked his life, was dead.

"Palai's father was a kind of chief among the villagers, so there was great mourning among the people, which prevented their being very glad over the death of the terrible bear. But as soon as their mourning was over, Palai learned that he was to be chief, young as he was, for no other hunter in the village had ever tried to stab a cave-bear by getting under it--and on his first hunt, too. Then all the people brought to his house presents of skins and grain, stone knives and kettles, bone beads, and woven cloths, and canoes, so that he was the richest as well as the bravest in the village. Then his mother and grandmother were proud of him, and so was Jurassa."

"And is that all?" asked Rob.

"That is all I know of Palai," answered Grandma Meronne.

"I never heard you tell such a queer story, Grandmère," said Gustave. "Half fairy story, and half made up."

"No, it is not half 'made up,'" said Grandma Meronne. "When you are old enough to read about the Lake-Villages of Switzerland, and how many things were found in one house, you will believe me."

"But the dragons, the Laby-- _Oh_, Grandmère!" exclaimed Gustave, incredulously.

"They all lived, my Gustave, as surely as you do; but their lives were in the Neozoic Age."

HOW TINKER BRADLEY FOUND THE NORTH POLE.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

The winter had been a long one and very hard. The ice on Deacon Potter's mill-pond had been wonderfully hard, and had staid so until the first week in March. Then it began to grow slushy, and the skating was gone, but the winter hung round in one way and another until after the 1st of April.

It was just as all the old folks said, nevertheless. When so hard a winter as that was did at last break up, it went in a hurry, and the spring followed it like a ready-made coat, only needing to be picked out and put on.

That was the reason why the weather was so warm the second week in May that all the boys and girls in the class in geography at the Putnamville Academy were glad to hear Professor Hackleman talk about the Arctic Ocean. It was cooling and comfortable to know about such a deal of snow and ice. It was all the better, perhaps, to sit and hear about it with all the windows open, and a lost bumble-bee buzzing around the ceiling.

Some of the boys and girls in that class were young ladies and young gentlemen, and could sit still and be dignified without an effort--at least so long as Professor Hackleman turned his eyes so fast along the benches, and sent so many sudden questions flying here and there. More than half, however, were somewhere about the age and size of Tinker Bradley, and nobody had ever known him sit still so long as he did that morning. His mouth was open, too, and that was almost proof that he was thinking of something.

Perfectly still he kept until Professor Hackleman remarked, "The North Pole, my young friends, is a place where winter remains the year round, and where the ice and snow do not melt--not even in May."

Tinker Bradley's mouth shut like a steel-trap, but it opened again, almost instantly, with, "I know where it is, then; I found it last Saturday."

"Did you, indeed?"

"Yes, sir; there's three woodchuck holes on the side-hill."

"My young friend, if you have found the North Pole, and know where it is, you know more than any other living man," said the Professor.

"Yes, sir," said Tinker Bradley.

That was not the first time by a good deal that the vast extent of his knowledge had occurred to the mind of Tinker Bradley, and when, at the noon recess, a dozen boys of his own size asked him questions about it, he stoutly answered: "It's just what he said it was, and it's over in the hemlock woods north of our pasture lot. If you don't believe it, I'll go and show you right away after school. Show you three of the biggest woodchuck holes you ever saw, too, and a crow's nest, and a place where there's going to be cords of raspberries."

It was enough to spoil school for all of them on so hot an afternoon as that, and they were hardly let loose at three o'clock before there was a small army, with Tinker Bradley at its head, marching straight away across the green.

On they went, over the bridge and up the hill, and they were all puffing and nearly out of breath when they reached the bars that let down into Mr. Bradley's pasture lot.

"Now, boys," said their leader, "if we come across the brindle cow, don't you say a word to her. She's got a calf, and she gets mad the easiest you ever saw."

Each one of them made up his mind to let the brindled cow alone; and all would have been well if it had not been for Soddy Corcoran's dog.

They came across the cow, indeed, and her calf was with her; but they made a great bend to the left, and would have been safe if the dog had made the bend when they did. They had hardly noticed that he was with them, he was so very small, until Tinker Bradley shouted, "Soddy! Soddy Corcoran! there goes your dog--right straight for the cow!"

"Ape! Ape! April! coom here wid ye. She'll be the death of ye, sure."

"April? Did you name him--"

"That isn't the whole of it. I've only had him six weeks. Wait till you hear him bark. Hark to that now!"

It was not a bark; it was a growl. The little, grisly, wiry, bow-legged mite of a quadruped was almost hidden by the tuft of grass he was sitting in; but a bush twenty feet high could not have hidden that growl, or the short, hoarse, gruff, threatening bark which followed it. It was no wonder the brindled cow stopped feeding, and began to look around her.

"Did your dog growl that growl?" asked Tinker Bradley.

"'Dade an' he did."

"There isn't room in him for such a growl as that and such a bark. The cow can't find him."

"No more there is. When I got him I thought it was a bad cold he had, an' it wud lave him wid warrum weather, but he's only worse. He's an April-fool of a dog, and that's his whole name."

Again and again all that big sound was thrown at the head of the brindled cow, and she knew it came from somewhere in the grass. She saw the wiry-haired bit of a quadruped, of course, but she was an old experienced cow, knowing all about dogs, and she knew the bark could not come from him.

Those boys! She knew a good deal about boys, and she had never before seen so many at once in that pasture lot. Her calf could be left alone for a moment, with nothing to hurt him but a tuft of yellow hair in a bunch of grass. She herself went at once after that Polar Expedition.

It was already running, every boy of it, as fast as its many short legs could carry it, and the cow had no idea how triumphantly Soddy Corcoran's dog was galloping over the grass behind her. He had no doubt whatever but what he had scared the calf's mother, and was chasing her.

The boys made for the north fence, because it was nearest, but not all of them would have reached it in time if the cow had not hesitated for a moment just as she got almost among them. She stopped in her tracks, with her head down, and right behind her, almost under her heels, again arose that awful growl and the short hoarse bark. There was no room in that dog for a longer bark of that thickness, but it made the angry cow wheel to look for it.

"Woof! Ur-r-r-r-r! Woof!"

Right at her heels all the time, and nothing to be seen, however fast she might wheel, for Soddy Corcoran's dog was determined to sit in a safe spot, and the cow, after all, might have looked for half an hour without hitting so small a mark.

"Ape! Ape! Sure an' ye've fooled her enough for wanst. Coom along, now."

He might not have obeyed, but the cow either thought of her calf just then, or was frightened at having so near her what seemed to be a bark without a body, for she suddenly ceased wheeling after it, and galloped back across the pasture lot.

"Now, Tink, where's your North Pole?"

Three or four boys asked that question, one after another, but Tinker Bradley stoutly replied: "Come right along. We're in the woods now. It's only a little ways further. There's the first woodchuck hole."

There it was, sure enough, and the moment the boys saw it they began to have more confidence, for the cow had chased some of that out of them. In less than five minutes Tinker said, "There's the second woodchuck hole. Maybe you'll begin to believe what I told you."

Some of them would indeed have been nearly ready to look around for poles of some kind, but then the _north_ pole--that was another thing.

The hill-side grew steeper and steeper, with great rocks and bowlders showing here and there among the hemlocks; and now Tinker Bradley shouted: "There's the third woodchuck hole! What do you think of that?"

They had never seen any hole in the ground made by any woodchuck that yawned upon them with so very wide a mouth, and it almost seemed as if the weather must be growing cooler. Still, nobody had ever heard of polar bears' being found in Bradley's woods.

"Here we are. I'll show you."

"Why, Tink, it's the Gulch."

"Come right along. Follow me."

So they did, and the whole procession disappeared, to its last boy, between the jaws of that deep, jagged, gloomy ravine. That is, it would have been gloomy if everything around it had not been so green, and if it had been evening instead of afternoon.

Away up to within twenty or thirty rods of the upper end of the Gulch, and then Tinker Bradley halted, with just enough of breath left to shout: "There it is! Didn't I tell you?"

Straight before them, as they turned their eyes to the right, where he pointed, was a great wide fissure, cloven in the rock. Above, it was almost closed over by a leaning crag, and the upper edges, sixty feet from the bottom, were thickly lined with hemlocks and cedar bushes. Nobody could guess how deep it went in, for it was packed full half way up with what was as nearly like ice as anything they had ever seen. No sunshine could reach it. The rocks and trees protected it. It was a great natural ice-house, and was doing its duty capitally.

"That ain't the North Pole."

"Then Professor Hackleman don't know, that's all. He said it was a place where the snow and ice didn't melt in May."

"Woof! Ur-r-r-r-r! Woof!"

Soddy Corcoran's dog was with his master again, and had seated himself in the shadow of a big stone to give his opinion of Tinker Bradley's discovery.

"You're right, me boy!" exclaimed Soddy. "That's one April-fool, and you're another."

"Isn't it all there--the ice and the snow? And didn't I show you the three woodchuck holes?"

"'Dade an' you did. It's worth comin' to see any day."

They each broke off a big piece of the North Pole to show to Professor Hackleman. That is, they all started for the lower end of the pasture lot, away below the cow, carrying as large a fragment of ice to each boy as he thought he could get home with. Every piece had to be broken smaller before they reached the bars, however, and by the time they got home they all knew that if the North Pole is to stay frozen, it must be left where it is, especially in May, for their share of it had melted.

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 80, May 10.]

SUSIE KINGMAN'S DECISION.

BY KATE R. McDOWELL.