Part 2

Bobby was among the number, of course, and it was so long before he could calm himself down sufficiently to explain the meaning of all the strange occurrences, that Tim was left some time in doubt as to whether he had really escaped from the savage Captain Pratt, or if it was all a pleasant dream, from which he would awake to receive the promised flogging.

When Bobby did sober down sufficiently to talk understandingly, Tim learned that owing to his friend's pleading, and tales of how he had been abused, Mr. Tucker had promised that he would oblige Captain Pratt to let the boy come ashore at Minchin's Island, where he should have a home for a time at least.

Relying on that promise, Bobby had gathered all the boys of the town together to give Tim a proper welcome, and all had been hidden behind the shed when the steamer came in, so that the surprise should be as great as possible. By what means Mr. Tucker had induced Captain Pratt to part with the cabin-boy he was "breaking in" no one knew, and no one seemed to care, since it had been so successfully accomplished.

When Bobby looked around for his father, to introduce to him the boy for whom he had done so much, he was nowhere to be seen, and Bobby said in apology: "I s'pose he thought we would want to talk a good deal, and so he went off; but we'll see him when we get home."

"But am I really going to live with you?" asked Tim, hardly able to believe the good fortune that had come to him so suddenly.

"You're goin' to live with me a good while anyhow, an' I guess for all the time; but father didn't say." Then, as the boys started up the wharf, he added, eagerly: "We're goin' over to Bill Thompson's father's schooner now. We've got some chowder, an' Bill's father said we could go over there an' have supper, so we're goin' to show you one of the best times you ever had."

The countenances of all the boys told that some big time was near, and more especially was that the case with Bill Thompson. By his very manner he showed that he considered himself of the greatest importance in that party, and walked on in advance, almost unable to contain himself because of his excessive dignity. Instead of going up into the little town, Bill led the way around the shore, and as the boys reached the headland where Tip had first touched the land of Minchin's Island, Bobby pointed to a small fishing-schooner that lay at anchor a short distance from the shore.

Then the other boys began to tell about the supper and the good time generally, until it was impossible to distinguish one word; but Bill Thompson walked on in silence, looking neither to the right nor the left. It was enough for him that he was the one on whom the pleasure depended, since it was to take place on his father's vessel, and he could not lower his dignity by talking.

A dory hauled up on the beach served to convey the party to the schooner, and once there, Bill Thompson led the way to the cabin, where every preparation had been made for the feast of welcome.

The table, formed by letting down a shelf from the side of the cabin, was large enough to accommodate half the party, and was laid with every variety of crockery and cutlery such as would be likely to be found on board a fishing vessel. The only food on the table was crackers, but a huge pot, which was bubbling and steaming in a contented sort of way on the stove, told that there was enough to satisfy the wants of the hungriest boy there.

"Set right down to the table, Tim," said Bill, unbending from his dignity a little, "an' the rest of us will do the work; you're the company, you know."

Tim took the place of honor, the only arm-chair in the cabin, and was more than gratified to find that a seat had been placed close beside him for Tip, who had already jumped on it, sitting there looking as wise and hungry as a dog could look.

The entire boy portion of the population of Minchin's Island had worked hard and earnestly to prepare this feast of welcome, and the result of their labors was the chowder, which was being served by means of a cocoanut-shell dipper, with a large hole in the side that somewhat delayed the progress.

At last all were served, and those who could not find places at the table were seated on the sides of the berths, on trunks, fishing-tackle, or any available space, and the feast was begun.

Tip had his share in a saucer, and he ate it in as dignified a manner as the best-behaved dog could have done.

For several moments all gave their undivided attention to the chowder, which was not exactly as good as they were accustomed to at home, but which, being the product of their own labor, tasted better than anything they had ever eaten before.

Especially to Tim was it good, because of the spirit which prompted its manufacture, and because it was an evidence of their good-will to him. Tip rather turned his nose up at it, however. Since his arrival at Minchin's Island he had been petted and fed by every boy in town, thanks to Bobby's stories of his ability as a bear dog, until now it required something more than ordinary food to tempt his appetite.

But the feast was not the only way by which the boy who had come among them was to be honored, as Tim soon found out. A very elaborate programme had been arranged, and not one single detail was to be omitted.

Bill Thompson, with his mouth uncomfortably full, arose to his feet in such a clumsy manner that he upset what remained of Bobby's chowder, very much to the disadvantage of the table-cloth and his trousers, and said, with some hesitation:

"Mr. Babbige, we fellers heard all about you last night from our esteemed feller-citizen Mr. Bob Tucker, an' we wanted to do something to show you what we thought of you."

Here Bill stopped to swallow a portion of the cracker that impeded his speech, and Tim looked around him in blank amazement, not understanding this portion of the proceedings. Bill continued in the most serious manner:

"We knowed what a hard time you was havin' on the _Pride_, an' we wanted to have you come an' live here, 'cause we thought we should like you, an' 'cause you had such a fine dog. This little chowder welcome ain't all we've got for yer. To-morrer we're goin' to take Tip an' you out in the woods, an' we've decided that the first bear he kills shall be skinned, an' the skin nailed up on Bobby Tucker's father's barn, where everybody can see what your Tip has done."

At this point Bobby Tucker slyly pinched Tip's stub tail, and he uttered such a yelp that the remainder of the company applauded loudly, thinking he must have understood what was said.

When the noise ceased, Bill bowed gracefully to Tip as an acknowledgment of his appreciation, and having swallowed that which had been in his mouth, was able to speak more plainly.

"Mr. Babbige, we fellers want to 'gratulate you on gettin' off the _Pride_, an' more 'specially on comin' to this town, where the fellers will treat you an' Tip as you ought to be treated. We hope you'll stay forever with us, an' never want to go away. Now, fellers, I say three cheers for Tip and Tim Babbige."

The cheers were given with a will, causing Tim's face to turn as red as a boiled beet, while his confusion was as great as his face was red.

As soon as the noise had died away, Bobby was on his feet ready to express his opinion on the subject.

"Mr. Tim--I mean Tim--no, Mr. Timothy Babbige," he began, very earnestly; but his difficulty in getting the name right so confused him that he forgot what he was to say next. He cleared his throat until his voice was as hoarse as an aged frog's, and yet no words came. Then he seized a glass of water, drinking it so fast that he gasped and choked until the tears came into his eyes, and his face was as red as Tim's.

"Mr. Babbige," he began, and Tim's big eyes were fixed on him so pityingly that he was all at sea again so far as words were concerned, and making one desperate effort, he said, "Well, we're glad to see you here, Tim, an' we mean to make it jest as lively for you as we know how."

Then Bobby sat down very much ashamed that he had made such a failure; but when the boys cheered him as loudly as they had Bill, he began to think it was quite a speech after all.

Now every one looked expectantly at Tim, and he knew he was obliged to make some reply. He gazed at Tip, and Tip gazed at him; but no inspiration came from that source, and he stood up in a desperate way, feeling that as a rule he had rather go hungry than pay such a price for a supper.

"Fellers," he said, loudly, believing, if the thing must be done, the more noise the better, "I want to thank you all for what you did for Tip when you pulled him out of the water, an' for what you've done for me. The chowder was splendid--"

Here he was interrupted by loud and continued applause as he paid this delicate compliment to their skill as cooks, and it was some moments before he could continue.

"Tip an' me have had a nice time eatin' it, an' we're a good deal more glad to be here than you are to have us."

He could think of nothing more to say, and was about to sit down when Bobby asked, "What about killin' the bears?"

"I'd 'most forgotten about them," he said, as he straightened himself up and looked down at Tip with pride. "If you've got any bears 'round here that wants to be killed, Tip will fix 'em for you; but if you want to save the skins to nail up on the barn, you must rush in an' catch Tip before he chews 'em all up. Why, I saw Tip catch a woodchuck once, an' before you could say 'scat' he'd chewed him awfully. So you'll have to be kinder careful of your bears when Tip once gets his eye on 'em."

That was the end of Tim's speech, for the applause was so great that for the next five minutes it would have been useless for any one to try to make himself heard.

It was very near nine o'clock by the time the formal welcome to Tim was concluded, and after the cabin had been cleaned, Bill Thompson said, as he wiped the dishwater from his hands, smoothed down his hair, and made himself presentable for an appearance at home, "I guess we'd better go now, an' to-morrow mornin' we'll go 'round back of Bobby Tucker's father's wood-shed an' fix up about the bear-hunt."

The idea that they were to start the ferocious bear from his lair so soon caused a fresh burst of enthusiasm, and each one made another and a personal examination of Tip, until the much-inspected dog came very near being cross.

It was rather a sleepy party that clambered over the side of the schooner that night, but it was a party that had the most absolute faith in Tip Babbige's ability to kill all the bears on the island.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

PIGEONS AND DOVES.

Very likely more than one boy will say, when he reads the heading of this article, that any fellow knows how to take care of doves, and that it is perfectly needless to tell him anything regarding them. But however many there may be who know, or think they know, exactly how these feathered pets should be treated, there certainly are some who have had difficulty in keeping their pigeons at home, or found it almost impossible to raise any young ones.

It is for the benefit of this last class of readers that this article is written, and all others may pass it over if they choose.

Certainly it is a very easy matter to keep pigeons or doves, for they are pets that require but little care; but this care consists in something more than putting them into a box that is nailed to the side of the building, and then allowing them to get along as best they can by themselves.

The dove-cote should either be placed on a pole at such a height that it can readily be reached with a ladder, in order that it may easily be kept clean, or inside a building with the entrance facing the south, in order that the inmates may, in a measure, be sheltered from the winter storms.

In this dove-cote should be separate apartments for each pair of birds, and at the entrance should be a broad ledge for them to alight on when coming home, or to sun themselves on when they do not care to go on a visit. These little houses should be cleaned at least once each month, and plenty of gravel and old mortar spread on the floor. A little salt must be sprinkled around once in a while, and every precaution taken to guard against the invasion of rats or mice.

Wheat, oats, or barley should be fed each morning, with plenty of water, and green food if they are confined any length of time. Care should be taken to have the food fresh and clean, and not allow it to decay in the cotes.

If there is any trouble in keeping the birds at home, or if they persist in flying back to their old quarters, do not clip their wings or pull their tail feathers out, for both practices are barbarous. Instead of doing that, clean the dove-cote thoroughly, and sprinkle the floor with lavender, assafoetida, or anything that gives forth a strong odor. A sweet, cleanly house, with good food, will make home bodies of your doves more quickly than anything else, and once they begin to build a nest, there will be no longer any difficulty in persuading them to remain.

Doves that are cared for properly will produce from ten to twelve pairs of young each year, and at this rapid rate of increase it may readily be seen that the young fancier need not buy a large stock to begin with.

Of the different varieties of these feathered pets there are so many that it is impossible to name them all in the space given here; but a few of those best known to fanciers generally can be mentioned.

Among the high-priced pigeons is the Crowned Gouri, which comes from the Indian Archipelago. It is a beautiful purple-brown, with gray breast, and has white bars across the wings, while on its head is a light blue or delicate gray crown.

The Nicobar also has a crest. The upper portions of this bird are green, shading to bronze and steel, while the head is slate-colored, with purple shades. Long pointed feathers grow from the neck, showing almost every color in the different degrees of light.

The Top-knot comes from Australia, and is a large silver-gray bird, striped with black, having a crest on his forehead and another on the back of his head.

The Bronze-winged pigeon also comes from Australia, and is brown and gray, with bronze-green spots on the wings.

From India and Java comes the Aromatic Vinago, with back and neck of dark red and purple, while the under feathers are green; the forehead is green, the throat yellow, and the tail blue, gray, green, and brown.

The Passenger-pigeon is too well known in this country to need any description, since he is to be seen by scores in almost any market.

The Carrier-pigeon should be dark blue to possess the color supposed to be the requisite of a good bird, but he is often seen of a dun or cinnamon color.

The Tumbler-pigeon may be of any color, and his antics in the air, as he turns all sorts of somersaults, are very funny. There are many varieties of these pigeons, such as the German Feather-footed, the Baldpate, Short-faced, and Almond, while according to their color they are known as Rocks, Blues, Checkers, Silvers, Duns, Kites, Reds, Yellows, Buffs, Drabs, Mealies, Gray-mottled, Blue-black, Strawberries, and so on through every shade and combination of color.

Of the Pouter there are the Ring-headed, Swallow-tailed, Rose-pinioned, and Bishoped, nearly all of which varieties the boys are familiar with, since with his apparently swollen crop the Pouter always attracts attention.

The Runt is a common bird, and the easiest of all his tribe to keep. The chief varieties are the Roman, Leg-horn, Spanish, Friesland, and Frill-back. The first is the largest, and the last the most singular of the species, since the feathers seem to grow from the tail toward the head.

The Nun is a nice little bird, with a tuft of feathers at the back of the head, and it is from the shape and color of this that the varieties are known as the Red, Black, or Yellow headed Nuns.

The Archangel is dark blue and copper-color, and is a good bird for the dove-cote.

Then the Fan-tail, or Broad-tailed Shaker, with his tail spread out like an angry turkey-gobbler's.

The Trumpeter is usually a yellowish-white bird, with a crest on his head, and what looks very like a mustache.

The Jacobite has a ruff around his neck; the Turbot looks as if it had on a ruffled shirt front; the Owl has a hooked nose and great staring eyes, similar to the bird for which he is named; the Laugher makes a noise like the gurgling of water; the Barb has pink wrinkled skin around the eyes; the Mawmet, Magpie, Helmet, and Spot are varieties but seldom seen.

But though there are so many varieties of beautifully colored and formed birds, the ordinary Dove-house pigeon is by far the most satisfactory to raise, and repays its owner far better both in young and domestic habits than do those which are not only rare, but difficult to rear.

HOW THE DAY WENT.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

"It was your work, Put, all of us fellows getting down here this morning. Now what'll we do?"

"Well, now, Dan, it's the last day of vacation, and school begins to-morrow, and we've just got to do something!"

"I don't care a cent for ball," remarked Charley Farrington at that moment, as he listlessly pitched a flat stone into the shallow river. "You don't catch me on the green to-day, anyhow. It's too near the 'cademy."

"Might go a-fishing," said Abe Larrabee, with a look of sadness on his sunburned face. "Jim Chandler, does your scow leak as bad as it did?"

"Worse and worse, and there isn't a fish left. I tried 'em yesterday all the way down to the mill."

"Nothing to shoot," said Dan Martin, "and no powder nor shot either. Boys, this 'ere vacation of ours is windin' up."

That was about it, or else it was very nearly run down, and there they all were on the bank, just above the old bridge, and not a boy of them could think of anything he cared three buttons to go and do. It was a trying time, and they all broke down under it, for in less than an hour there were five listless boys sauntering along up the hill toward Beecher's Woods, across lots, without any earthly reason to give for doing it. They could not travel straight, somehow, even then, for they went around through Deacon Chittenden's pasture lot. There was a level stretch in the middle of that pasture, and in the middle of that level there was a hole about five feet across. It had been a round hole once, Put Boswell remarked, but he may have been wrong in adding:

"You see, boys, he had two old wells at the house, and this was the meanest; so he carted it up here, and drove it into the middle of his cow lot."

"Didn't drive it in very deep," said Charley Farrington. "Not more'n ten feet. If I should tumble in there, I could climb out again up that broken side."

"Water's pretty deep."

"Guess not. The Deacon isn't the kind of man to throw away anything. That's why he saved up his old well."

Put Boswell must have had his reasons for disliking Deacon Chittenden, from the way he talked about him; but the whole party was too full of that end of their vacation, and of talk about all they had done since they got hold of it by its July end, and they began to walk on. They walked as far as Beecher's fence, but they were unwise to trust themselves on the rotten top rail all at one time, for Abe Larrabee was just saying, "If there ain't Beecher's prize ram! look at his horns!" when there was a cracking sound under them, and down they came, in a tangle, with a length of the rickety fence criss-crossed beneath them.

Worse than that: Abe had pointed straight at the ram, and the insulted animal was coming in a hurry to see why there had been such a gap made in his boundaries.

"Run, boys, run!" shouted Put Boswell. "He's the all-killingest butter in the county!"

They had found something to do, and so had the ram, and he seemed, in a minute more, to have decided that his duties included the care of Deacon Chittenden's cow lot.

It was odd, but every one of those five boys had the same idea in his head: "If I can only put that well between him and me."

They ran straight for it, and the ram was so close on Charley Farrington's heels when he reached it that there was nothing left for Charley but a long jump. Well for him that he was a good jumper on a run, and he landed three feet beyond the well, while the other four were dodging around it.

Where was the ram?

"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!"

Either he had begun his leap too soon, or he had not made it long enough, for it had carried him with great accuracy to the very middle of the old well, and his piteous voice was now coming up from just above the surface of the water at the bottom.

"Beecher's lost his prize mutton."

"Hear him! Oh, but doesn't he feel bad!"

"He isn't drowning, anyhow."

"Not exactly drowning, but it's an awful cold bath."

"Boys," said Put Boswell, "we must get him out. Old Chittenden'll be sure to find out that we fellows were up here, and they'd lay it all to us."

"They lay pretty much everything to us now," remarked Dan Martin. "But how'll we ever work it? Put, you go down and lift him up, while we get hold of him. You ain't afraid of a sheep, are you?"

"Not where there's any chance to run, if he wanted to bite me. You go down. The water's real nice and cool."

Not one of them wanted to go down, and the council they held around the mouth of that well used up a good deal of what was left of that morning.

"Tell you what," said Jim Chandler at last, "I'm getting hungry. Let's go for dinner, and not say a word to anybody about it, and come back with a rope. We can rope him out."

There was a unanimous vote in favor of that, for Jim was not the only member of the council who had been thinking about his dinner. There was not an ounce of listlessness among them all the way back to the village, and there was plenty of rope at the side of the old well early in the afternoon.

"Is he there yet?" said Charley, eagerly, as he came up.

"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!" arose in response from the dismal depths, where the ram was awaiting his deliverance.

"Ain't his feet wet by this time? Let's get some fence rails," said Put. "Good ones, too."

"Or we may join the ram," remarked Dan Martin. "That's it, Put, make a slip-noose."

"I'm going for his horns, soon as the rails get here."

That was quickly enough, and there was no special difficulty in dropping a wide noose over the horns of that ram, and in drawing it tight.

"We've got him now, unless his horns come off," shouted Abe Larrabee. "He's safe."

In the bottom of a well, and fastened by his horns to five boys and a fence rail, there was not a particle of danger that Beecher's prize ram would get away. The problem yet to be solved was at least as deep as the old well, nevertheless, and there was no telling how soon Mr. Beecher or Deacon Chittenden might put in an appearance.

"It's got to be done," said Put. "We can't leave an unfortunate fellow-creature in such a fix as that. Let's haul on the rope over the rail, and see how far we can draw him."

There were a good many experiments tried, hand running, and every boy had had his turn, sitting on the fence rails in the middle, and studying the ram after he had been let down again. It was beginning to look a little dark for him, when something put it into the head of Charley Farrington to grasp the rope tight at the rail where it was hitched, and swing down a little, with his feet on the projecting stones of the rude siding.

It was too bad for Dan Martin and Jim Chandler to get up from the rails to come and see what he was doing, for the one with the rope wound around it began to turn, with Charley's weight to turn it, and in five seconds more he was standing at the bottom of the well, by the side of what Put had called his "unfortunate fellow-creature."