CHAPTER I.

"Look, Rita! Look!"

"What can it mean. Ni-ha-be?"

"See them all get down and walk around."

"They have found something in the grass."

"And they're hunting for more."

Rita leaned forward until her long hair fell upon the neck of the beautiful little horse she was riding, and looked with all her eyes.

"Hark! they are shouting."

"You could not hear them if they were."

"They look as if they were."

Ni-ha-be sat perfectly still in her silver-mounted saddle, although her spirited mustang pony pawed the ground and pulled on his bit as if he were in a special hurry to go on down the side of the mountain.

The two girls were of about the same size, and could not either of them have been over fifteen years old. They were both very pretty, very well dressed, and well mounted, and they could both speak that strange, rough, and yet musical language, but there was no other resemblance between them.

"Father is there, Rita."

"Can you see him?"

"Yes; and so is Red Wolf."

"Your eyes are wonderful. Everybody says they are."

Ni-ha-be might well be proud of her coal-black eyes, and of the fact that she could see so far and so well with them. It was not easy to say just how far away was that excited crowd of men down there in the valley. The air was so clear and the light so brilliant among those snow-capped mountain ranges that even things far off seemed sometimes close at hand.

For all that, there were not many pairs of eyes, certainly not many brown ones like Rita's, which could have looked as Ni-ha-be did from the pass into the faces of her father and brother, and recognized them at such a distance.

She need not have looked very closely to be sure of one thing more--there was not a single white man to be seen in all that long, deep, winding green valley.

Were there any white women?

There were plenty of squaws, old and young, but not one woman with a bonnet, shawl, parasol, or even so much as a pair of gloves. Therefore none of them could have been white.

Rita was as well dressed as Ni-ha-be, and her wavy masses of brown hair were tied up in the same way with bands of braided deer-skin; but neither of them had ever seen a bonnet. Their sunburned, healthy faces told that no parasol had ever protected their complexions; but Ni-ha-be was a good many shades the darker.

There must have been an immense amount of hard work expended in making the graceful garments they both wore. All were of fine antelope-skin, soft, velvety, fringed, and worked and embroidered with porcupine quills. Frocks, and capes, and leggings, and neatly fitting moccasins, all of the best, for Ni-ha-be was the only daughter of a great Apache chief, and Rita was every bit as important a person, according to Indian notions, for Ni-ha-be's father had adopted her as his own.

Either one of them would have been worth a whole drove of ponies, or a wagon-load of guns and blankets, and the wonder was that they had been permitted to loiter so far behind their friends on a march through that wild, strange, magnificent land.

Had they been further to the east or south or north it is likely they would have been kept with the rest pretty carefully, but Many Bears and his band were on their way home from a long buffalo-hunt, and were already, as they thought, safe in the Apache country, away beyond any peril from other tribes of Indians, or from the approach of the hated and dreaded white men. To be sure, there were grizzly bears, and wolves, and other wild animals to be found among those mountain passes, but they were not likely to remain very near a band of hunters like the one now gathered in that valley.

Great hunters, brave warriors, well able to take care of themselves and their families, but just now they were very much excited about something.

Something on the ground.

The younger braves, to the number of more than a hundred, were standing back respectfully, while the older and more experienced warriors carefully examined a number of deep marks on the grass around a bubbling spring.

There had been a camp there not long before, and the first discovery made by the foremost Apache who had ridden up to that spring was that it had not been a camp of his own people.

The prints of the hoofs of horses showed that they had been shod, and there are neither horseshoes nor blacksmiths among the red men of the Southwest.

The tracks left by the feet of men were not such as can be made by moccasins. There are no heels on moccasins, and no nails in the soles of them.

Even if there had been Indian feet in the boots, the toes would not have been turned out in walking. Only white men do that.

So much was plain at a mere glance, but there were a good many other things to be studied and interpreted before Many Bears and his followers could feel satisfied.

It was a good deal like reading a newspaper. Nobody tears one up until it has been read through, and the Apaches did not trample the ground around the spring until they had searched out all that the other trampling could tell them.

Then the dark-faced ferocious-looking warriors who had made the search all gathered around their chief, and, one after another, reported what they had found.

There had been a strong party of white men at that spot three days before. Three wagons drawn by mule-teams. Many spare mules. Twenty-five men who rode horses, besides the men who drove the wagons.

"Were they miners?"

Every warrior and chief was ready to say "No," at once.

"Traders?"

No, it could not have been a trading party.

"All right," said Many Bears, with a solemn shake of his gray head. "Blue coats. Cavalry. Come from Great Father at Washington. No stay in Apache country. Go right through. Not come back. Let them go."

Indian sagacity had hit the nail exactly on the head, for that had been a camp of a United States military exploring expedition looking for passes and roads, and with instructions to be as friendly as possible with any wandering red men they might meet.

Nothing could be gained by following such a party as that, and Many Bears and his band began at once to arrange their own camp, for their morning's march through the pass had been a long and fatiguing one.

If the Apache chief had known a very little more, he would have sent his best scouts back upon the trail that squad of cavalry had come by, until he found out whether all who were travelling by that road had followed it as far as the spring. He might then have learned something of special importance to him.

Then at the same time he would have sent other scouts back upon his own trail, to see if anybody was following him, and what for. He might have learned a good deal more important news in that way.

He did nothing of the kind, and so a very singular discovery was left for Rita and Ni-ha-be to make without any help at all.

As they rode out from the narrow pass, down the mountain-side, and came into the valley, it was the most natural thing in the world for them to start their swift mustangs on a free gallop. Not directly toward the camping-place, for they knew well enough that no girls of any age would be permitted to approach very near to warriors gathered in council. Away to the right they rode, following the irregular curve of the valley, side by side, managing the fleet animals under them as if horse and rider were one person.

So it came to pass that before the warriors had completed their task the two girls had struck the trail along which the blue-coated cavalry had entered the valley.

"Rita, I see something."

"What is it?"

"Come! See! Away yonder."

Rita's eyes were as good as anybody's, always excepting Apaches' and eagles', and she could see the white fluttering object at which her adopted sister was pointing.

The marks of the wheels and all the other signs of that trail, as they rode along, were quite enough to excite a pair of young ladies who had never seen a road, a pavement, a sidewalk, or anything of the sort; but when they came to that white thing fluttering at the foot of a mesquit bush they both sprang from their saddles at the same instant.

One, two, three--a good deal dog's-eared and thumb-worn, for they had been read by every man of the white party who cared to read them before they were thrown away, but they were very wonderful yet. Nothing of the kind had ever before been imported into that region of the country.

Ni-ha-be's keen black eyes searched them in vain, one after another, for anything she had ever seen before.

"Rita, you are born white. What are they?"

Poor Rita!

Millions and millions of girls have been "born white," and lived and died with whiter faces than her own rosy but sun-browned beauty could boast, and yet never looked into the fascinating pages of an illustrated magazine.

How could any human being have cast away in the wilderness such a treasure?

Rita was sitting on the grass, with one of the strange prizes open in her lap, rapidly turning the leaves, and more excited by what she saw than were Many Bears and his braves by all they were discovering upon the trampled level around the spring.

"Rita," again exclaimed Ni-ha-be, "what are they?"

"They are talking leaves," said Rita.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

BITS OF ADVICE.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

A STITCH IN TIME.

The other day a poor woman who lives near my house came running in in great excitement. "Oh," she exclaimed, "Mrs. Marjorie, I am in so much trouble! I have just lost all the money I had in the world, between my house and the corner. I must have dropped it in the street. What shall I do?"

The only thing I could advise was that she should insert an advertisement of her loss in the paper; and as she did not know how to write, I wrote one for her. Then I said, "How came you to lose your pocket-book? Was there a hole in your pocket?"

She showed me a rip between the lining and the outside of her dress, and said she supposed she had slipped her money through that instead of into the right place. "I've been meaning to sew that for a week," she said, very sadly.

I felt too sorry for her to tell her that experience had taught her a very dear lesson, but it did seem hard that the savings of two months should have been lost for want of a stitch in time.

The homely old proverb says, "A stitch in time saves nine." Please think of it when you are studying your etymology, and are not sure about a derivation. It will take only a few seconds to look it up now, but it may save you much trouble at examination-day to be sure on the subject. Think of it, too, when your little playmate passes you coldly; and when you feel that you have given offense to your teacher or mother, a frank word of apology, a kind, forgiving look _in time_, may save you from many hours of regret and distress. A great many tangled and troublesome things in this world would be set right speedily if everybody believed in a stitch in time. You may apply this principle to everything in life, and it will never fail you. A great poet, Mr. Tennyson, says,

"It is the little rift within the lute That by-and-by will make the music mute."

A very tiny leak, if not repaired, will cause the great ship to go down in the midst of the sea. Any small wrong thing may be corrected or mended while it is small, but every day that it is left alone it will grow larger and stronger. One weed is easier to pull up than ten are. Don't forget the stitch in time, wherever you may be.

THE CALL OF THE CROW.

Caw! caw! caw! Over the standing corn The cheery cry is borne-- Caw! caw! caw!

Caw! caw! caw! Into the school-room door, Over the clean-swept floor-- Caw! caw! caw!

Caw! caw! caw! The crow he is free to fly, But the boy must cipher and sigh-- Caw! caw! caw!

Caw! caw! caw! And I wish I could go with him Where the woods are wild and dim-- Caw! caw! caw!

GALILEO IN THE CHURCH AT PISA.

One day Galileo, a young student of medicine at Pisa, saw the great bronze chandelier of the cathedral swing to and fro. He watched it carefully, and found that it moved regularly. It always came back to the same place. He thought he could imitate it, and suspended a weight to a string, and thus formed the first pendulum. His invention has never ceased to be of use to every one. The pendulum was attached to the works of a clock, and has from that moment continued the chief means of measuring time. It rules every family, directs the business of cities, and tells when to go to school and when school is out. The great clock in the City Hall and the clocks in all the steeples and towers are guided by Galileo's pendulum. The wooden clock we buy for two or three dollars, and the costly French clock that ticks on the mantel, owe their chief value to the invention of the young student. The pendulum, wherever it swings to and fro, seems to speak of Galileo.

He was born at Pisa in 1564, the same year with Shakspeare. His father was poor, and wished to apprentice him to the wool trade. But Galileo showed a strong love for mechanics and mathematics; he professed to study medicine at the University of Pisa, but was always busy with mechanical experiments. He worked incessantly with his tools and books, and produced a great number of inventions, more, perhaps, than any other man. From youth to extreme old age he was constantly in his workshop, and labored while others slept. One of his inventions was the thermometer that measures the heat or cold of every land. It is used to mark the temperature of the highest mountains, and is plunged into the depths of the sea; tells the boiling-point and the freezing-point, and governs in the house and the factory.

At last, in 1609, Galileo invented the telescope. It had been thought of in Holland, but never brought to any perfection. Galileo caught up the idea, and produced the remarkable instrument that brings distant things near. Until that time no one had supposed men could see beyond a certain limit, and the sailor on the ocean and the travellers by land could look only a few miles before them. Galileo's first telescope was made of lead, small and imperfect, but it was polished and perfected with his wonderful skill and industry. It filled all Italy and Europe with an intense excitement. Men came in crowds to look through the first telescope. At Venice, where Galileo was staying, the merchants climbed to the top of the highest tower to see their ships far off on the water two hours before they could have been seen without the telescope. Galileo was enriched with honors and a large salary. He went to Florence, and was received with wonder and delight by great crowds of his countrymen.

Next came a still more startling discovery. Galileo turned his telescope to the skies, and saw things that had never before been witnessed by mortal eyes. The Milky Way dissolved into a bed of stars; Jupiter showed its four satellites, Saturn its rings; the moon seemed covered with mountains, seas, and rivers. The heavens seemed revealed to man, and Galileo soon after, startled by his own discoveries, published his "Message from the Stars." In this pamphlet he describes the wonders of the skies he was the first to see. It was read all over Europe, and the people and the princes heard with awe the account of the new heavens. Many persons denied that there was any truth in the narrative; it was looked upon as a kind of "Moon hoax" or "Gulliver's Travels"; some said it was an optical delusion, and Galileo was attacked by a thousand enemies.

His health was always delicate, and he was always kept poor and in debt by a worthless son and an idle brother. His life, so prosperous, ended in misfortune. His telescope proved to him that the world moved round the sun, and he ventured to say so. Unfortunately the Inquisition and nearly every one else believed that the sun moved round the earth. Galileo was forced to say that he was mistaken. He was tried at Rome, condemned, and obliged on his knees to confess his error, and during the last years of his life was kept a prisoner in his own house near Florence. He passed his time in constant work, studying the moon, and making instruments. At last he became blind. Here Milton visited him, and looked upon him with veneration. He died in 1642, and was buried privately in the church of Santa Croce, at Florence.

Galileo was of a pleasant countenance, always cheerful. His hair was of a reddish tinge, his eyes bright and sparkling until they became dimmed like Milton's. His figure was strong and well formed. It was said of him that no one had ever seen him idle. He was never weary of improving his telescope. The first one he made only magnified three times, a second eight times, and then he made one that magnified thirty times. It is the men who are never idle that help themselves and others.

[Begun in No. 92 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, August 2.]

TIM AND TIP;

OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.

BY JAMES OTIS,

AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," ETC.