Chapter 1

THE FIGHT.

The afternoon session of Mr. Morton's select school was but little more promising of revelations about the new boy than the morning had been. Most of the boys returned earlier than usual from their respective dinners, and either hung about the school-room, staring at their new companion, or waited at the foot of the stairs for him to come down. The attentions of the first-named division soon became so distasteful to the new-comer that he left the room abruptly, and went down the stairway two steps at a time. At the door he found little Benny Mallow looking up admiringly, and determining to practice that particular method of coming down stairs the first Saturday that he could creep unnoticed through a school-room window. But Benny was not one of those foolish boys who forget the present while planning about the future. Paul Grayson had barely reached the bottom step, when little Benny looked innocently up into his face, and remarked, "Say!"

"Well?" Paul answered.

"You're the biggest boy in school," continued Benny. "I noticed it when you stood beside Appleby."

Grayson looked as if he did not exactly see that the matter was worthy of special remark.

"I," said Benny, "am the smallest boy--I am, really. If you don't believe it, look at the other boys. I'll just run down the steps, and stand beside some of them."

"Don't take that trouble," said Grayson, pleasantly. "But what is there remarkable about my height and your shortness?"

"Oh, nothing," said Benny, looking down with some embarrassment, and then looking up again--"only I thought maybe 'twas a good reason why we should be friends."

"Why, so it is, little fellow," said Grayson. "I was very stupid not to understand that without being told."

"All right, then," said Benny, evidently much relieved in mind. "Anything you want to know I'll tell you--anything that I know myself, that is. Because I'm little, you mustn't think I don't know everything about this town, because I do. I know where you can fish for bass in a place that no other boy knows anything about: what do you think of that? I know a big black-walnut tree that no other boy ever saw; of course there's no nuts on it now, but you can see last year's husks if you like. Have you got a sister?"

Grayson suddenly looked quite sober, and answered, "No."

"I have," said Benny, "and she is the nicest girl in town. If you want to know some of the bigger girls, I suppose you'll have to ask Appleby. What's the use of big girls, though? They never play marbles with a fellow, or have anything to trade. Say--I hope _you're_ not too big to play marbles."

"Oh no," said Grayson; "I'll buy some, and we'll have a royal game."

"Don't do it," said Benny; "I've got a pocketful. Come on." And to the great disgust of all the larger boys Benny led his new friend into the school yard, scratched a ring on the dirt, divided his stock of marbles into two equal portions, and gave one to Grayson; then both boys settled themselves at a most exciting game, while all the others looked on in wonder, with which considerable envy and jealousy were mixed up.

"That Benny Mallow is putting on more airs than so little a fellow can carry; don't you think so?" said Sam Wardwell to Ned Johnston.

"I should say so," was the reply; "and that isn't all. The new fellow isn't going to be thought much of in this school if he's going to allow himself to belong to any youngster that chooses to take hold of him. I'll tell you one thing: Joe Appleby's birthday party is to come off in a few days, and I'll bet you a fish-line to a button that Master Benny won't get near enough to it to smell the ice-cream. How will that make the little upstart feel?"

"Awful--perfectly awful," said Sam, who, being very fond of ice-cream himself, could not imagine a more terrible revenge than Harry had suggested. Just then Bert Sharp sauntered up with his hands in his pockets, his head craned forward as usual, and his eyes trying to get along faster than his head.

"See here," said he, "if that new boy boards with the teacher, he's going to tell everything he knows. I think somebody ought to let him know what he'll get if he tries that little game. I'm not going to be told on: I have a rough enough time of it now." Bert spoke feelingly, for he was that afternoon to remain at school until he had recited from memory four pages of history, as a punishment for his long truancy.

"Who's going to tell him, though?" asked Sam. "It should be some fellow big enough to take care of himself, for Grayson looks as if he could be lively."

"I'll do it myself," declared Bert, savagely; saying which he lounged over toward the ring at which Benny and Grayson were playing. The boys had seen Bert in such a mood before, so at once there was some whispered cautions to look out for a fight. Before Bert had been a minute beside the ring, Grayson accidentally brushed against him as, half stooping, he followed his alley across the ring. Bert immediately got his hands out of his pockets, and struck Grayson a blow on the back of the neck that felled him to the ground. All the boys immediately rushed to the spot, but before they had reached it the new pupil was on his feet, and the teacher reached the window, bell in hand, just in time to see Grayson give Bert a blow on the chest that caused the young man to go reeling backward, and yell "Oh!" at the top of his voice. Then the bell rang violently, and all of the boys but Bert Sharp hurried up stairs, Grayson not even taking the trouble to look behind him. In the scramble toward the seats Will Palmer found a chance to whisper to Ned Johnston, "There's no nonsense about him, eh?"

And Ned replied, "He's splendid."

All of the boys seemed of Ned's opinion, for when Mr. Morton, just as Bert Sharp entered, rang the school to order, and asked, "Who began that fight?" there was a general reply of, "Bert Sharp."

"Sharp, Grayson, step to the front," commanded the teacher.

Bert shuffled forward with a very sullen face, while Grayson stalked up so bravely that Benny Mallow risked getting a mark by kicking Sam Wardwell's feet under the desk to attract his attention, and then whispering, "Just look at that."

Before the teacher could speak to either of the two boys in front of him, Grayson said, "I'm very sorry, sir, but I was knocked down for nothing, unless it was brushing against him by mistake."

"Was that the cause, Sharp?" asked Mr. Morton.

Bert hung his head a little lower, which is a way that all boys have when they are in the wrong; so the teacher did not question him any farther, but said:

"Boys, Grayson is a stranger here. I know him to be a boy of good habits and good manners, and I give you my word that if you have any trouble with him, you will have to begin it yourselves. And if you expect to be gentlemen when you grow up, you must learn now to treat strangers as you would like to be treated if away from your own homes. Grayson, Sharp, go to your seats."

"May I speak to Sharp, sir?" asked Grayson.

"Yes," said Mr. Morton.

"I'm sorry I hit you," said the new boy. "Will you shake hands and be friends?"

Bert looked up suspiciously without raising his head, but Grayson's hand was outstretched, and as Bert did not know what else to do, he put out his own hand, and then the two late enemies returned to their seats, Bert looking less bad-tempered than usual, and Grayson looking quite sober.

Somehow at the afternoon recess every boy treated Grayson as if he had known him for years, and no one seemed to be jealous when Grayson invited Bert to play marbles with him, and insisted on his late adversary taking the first shot. But the teacher's remarks about Grayson had only increased the curiosity of the boys about their new comrade, and when Sam Wardwell remarked that old Mrs. Battle, with whom the teacher and his pupil boarded, bought groceries nearly every evening at his father's store, and he would just lounge about during the rest of the afternoon and ask her about Grayson when she came in, at least six other boys' offered to sit on a board pile near the store and wait for information.

As for Grayson, he sat in the school-room writing while the teacher waited, for more than an hour after the general dismissal, to hear Bert Sharp recite those detestable four pages of history, and Bert was a great deal slower at his task than he would have been if he had not had to wonder why Grayson had to do so much writing.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

HOW A CRAB CHANGES HIS CLOTHES.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

"Say, now, you leave my dinner alone, or I'll tell mamma."

"You can tell, if you have a mind to. I don't care, tell-tale."

No, it was not children that I heard quarrelling; it was only two little crabs. Children never speak so crossly to each other; but those two little crabs scolded and bit down there in the water until-- But I am getting ahead of my story. I'll tell you how it was.

I had been out fishing, and as the sun became too hot, I rowed my boat to the shore under the shade of the trees, and sat thinking. I looked down into the water, and saw a little crab holding a clam shell under his mouth with his claw, and eating as fast as he could, at the same time turning his queer, bulging eyes in all directions to see that he would not be disturbed. But soon another crab came up, and tried to snatch away the clam shell. Then ensued the conversation which I have already quoted. I dropped a piece of clam into the water, and the new-comer seized it. He scuttled away under a piece of sea-weed, and cried out in triumph:

"Aha! greedy, you didn't get it, and it is much better than your old shell. Don't you wish you had it?"

"I'll change with you," said the other. "Just see this blue on the edge of my shell. Ain't it lovely?"

"Change! I guess not. Who cares for the blue? You can't eat the blue."

"Of course you can't eat it, but it is pretty. However, there is no use in talking to you about it; you have no love for the beautiful," said the other, tauntingly.

"You needn't put on so many airs. I'm bigger than you are, anyway," snarled the first.

"You won't be long, for I'm growing every day."

"Children! children! what is the matter?" asked the old mamma crab, who just appeared on the scene.

"Mamma, he tried to get my din--"

"I didn't; I only wanted--"

"He's a mean, horrid old thing, and I don't--"

"Why, children," interrupted the old crab, "I am ashamed of you. What is the matter?"

"He tried to take away my dinner," said one.

"He said I wasn't growing big," said the other.

"That did not stop your growth, did it?" said mamma.

"No--o," drawled the little one.

"And now," she continued, "I want you to behave yourselves. Stop such silly quarrelling. You act so much like boys and girls that I am ashamed of you."

"Say, mamma, my clothes are getting too tight for me, and I've bursted a seam in the back of my coat," said one of the youngsters, after a short pause.

"That is all right," answered mamma, assuringly; "you are only going to 'shed.'"

"Am I going to be all soft and helpless, like papa was, and then be taken away and not come back any more?"

"Oh no, I hope not. You must find a quiet place, and hide until you can take care of yourself," answered mamma.

Accordingly the young crab wandered around, and found a nice quiet place under the shadow of a large log; here he half buried himself in the mud, and commenced the operation of changing his clothes. He swelled himself out until the upper shell separated from the lower, then worked his claws slowly backward and forward, and expanded and contracted the muscles of his body; little by little he emerged from his shell, and finally, with one effort, he freed himself entirely from his old clothes. He lay back, exhausted by his exertions. While the crab is soft it is perfectly helpless, and it can be handled without fear of bites. When it first emerges from its shell it is covered with a skin as soft and delicate as yours, but if left undisturbed it will soon harden. If taken out of the water and kept in damp sea-weed, the process of hardening can be delayed for three or four days, when it dies of starvation, as it can eat nothing while soft, and that is the way in which it is brought to the market. But the little crab I saw was fortunate enough not to be disturbed. He lay perfectly still, and in about an hour, if you could have put your finger on his back, you would have felt that it had grown stiff and rough; in between three or four hours the shell reaches the stage known as "paper shell." It is hard and coarse, like brown paper, and the crab begins to show signs of liveliness, and in about seven hours there is no perceptible difference between our recently reclothed crab and his hard brothers and sisters; but if you should catch him you would find him to be lighter in weight, and watery when boiled, and the fat, which in a healthy crab is of a bright yellow color, like the yolk of an egg, is a greenish-brown. But no one had a chance to see the color of the fat in the crab which I was watching, for just as he started to move, a great toad-fish came along and swallowed him at one mouthful.

HALF AFRAID.

THE INVENTION OF STEEL PENS.

According to the following extract from a manuscript document in the library of Aix-la-Chapelle, entitled "Historical Chronicle of Aix-la-Chapelle, Second Book, year 1748," edited by the writer to the Mayoralty, "Johann Janssen," it would appear that the invention of steel pens is of older date than is commonly supposed. The paper referred to says: "Just at the meeting of the Congress I may without boasting claim the honor of having invented new pens. It is perhaps not an accident that God should have inspired me at the present time with the idea of making steel pens, for all the envoys here assembled have bought the first that have been made, therewith, as may be hoped, to sign a treaty of peace which, with God's blessing, shall be as permanent as the hard steel with which it is written. Of these pens, as I have invented them, no man hath before seen or heard; if kept clean and free from rust and ink, they will continue fit for use for many years. Indeed, a man may write twenty sheets of paper with one, and the last line would be written as well as the first. They are now sent into every corner of the world as a rare thing--to Spain, France, and England. Others will no doubt make imitations of my pens, but I am the man who first invented and made them. I have sold a great number of them, at home and abroad, at one shilling each, and I dispose of them as quickly as I can make them."

OUT IN THE STORM.

BY SIDNEY DAYRE.

"That story about the baby in the storm? Oh yes, I'll tell you all about it. See, there's the scar on his dear little forehead yet--he'll carry it all his life, they say--but I shall never get over being thankful he came out of it so much better than I did, the darling."

And Janet glanced at her poor crooked arm as she settled herself more comfortably for a long talk.

"This was the way it came about. Mother said to me one Saturday afternoon, 'Janet, I am going over to the village; I will take the little girls with me, and I want you to take good care of Harry till I come back.'

"This arrangement did not suit me at all. I had other plans for the afternoon, and I said, 'But, mother, I promised Mary Hathaway I would go down there this afternoon. She is going to show me a new stitch for my embroidery.'

"'I don't like to interfere with you, dear,' mother said, 'but it seems to me you have been running there quite often this week, and I must have your help now.'

"This was true, but it made no difference in the fact of my wanting to go again.

"'Can't Bridget take care of him?' I said.

"'No, she has too much else to do.'

"'I hate being tied to babies all the time,' I snarled. 'I think we might keep a nurse as well as the Hathaways. Mary never has to be bothered with the young ones.' Mother looked at me with a look which begged for something better from me, but I kept the scowl on my face till I saw them drive from the gate. She said good-by to me with a loving smile, which faded out, as I would not return it. Even when I saw three hands waved to me as they turned the corner, some ugly thing at my heart kept my hand down, although half a minute later I would have given anything for a chance of answering mother's smile.

"I carried baby out into the grove at the back of the house, and dumped him into the hammock, feeling cross and miserable enough. He sat there cooing and crowing and laughing in a way which would have put a better temper into any one but me. I sat on the ground beside him, fussing away at my embroidery, but I could not get it right, and I got crosser and crosser. At last Harry stretched over toward me, and took rather a rough grasp of one of my ears and a good handful of hair with it. He did it to pull my face around for a kiss, but as his pretty face came against mine with a little bump, I jumped up and spoke sharply to him. I laid him down with a shake, saying, 'Go to sleep now, you little tease.'

"He put up a grieved lip, and sobbed as I swung him. It was about the time of his afternoon nap, and he was asleep in a few minutes.

"Then I tried my embroidery again, but it was no use--I could not get the right stitch without some help from Mary. Then a thought came across my mind--why could I not just run down there? Baby would surely sleep for an hour, and I could easily be back within that time. He could not possibly fall out of the hammock, for there were strings tied to some of the cords, which could be fastened above him. I thought of telling Bridget I was going, so she would have 'an eye out' in case he _should_ awake, but I knew she would be crabbed about it, and feel as if I were imposing on her, even if he did not give a single 'peep.' So I tied him in very carefully--he gave another little sob as I kissed him, and I was so sorry I had been cross to him. In ten minutes more I was running in at Mrs. Hathaway's gate.

"I had been going toward the north, so I did not notice that a black, curiously shaped cloud, which lay low in the south as I left home, was rising very fast. Mrs. Hathaway told me Mary was out in an arbor back of the house, so I ran out there, and for a little while we were so deep in the embroidery that I forgot to notice how dark it was getting. Then there came a flash of lightning--oh, how white and terrible that lightning was! It came all about us; we seemed wrapped up in it; and such a burst of thunder as I never heard before or since. It sounded like a cannon-ball falling right at our feet.

"As soon as we could move we flew into the house. I was wild with fright as I saw the awful blackness in the sky. Great drops of rain began to fall, and peal after peal of thunder came, as I snatched my bonnet and rushed to the door. Mary seized my arm and held me back. She cried, 'You must not go; indeed you _shall_ not go out in such a storm.'

"Mrs. Hathaway came up to me too, and put her arm around me. 'Why, Janet, you can not go, my child. It might be at the risk of your life.'

"I think they almost meant to keep me by force, but I screamed out, 'I _must_ go! I will! I will!' and I broke away from them, and rushed out into that blinding storm. I couldn't think of anything except the poor baby I had left all alone. There was no one there to take care of him, no one knew where he was, and in the noise of the storm nobody could hear him scream.

"The rain poured down in sheets by the time I reached Mrs. Hathaway's gate. It seemed almost to beat me down to the ground, and the water was over my shoes in half a minute. The lightning seemed like one long flash, and the thunder never stopped. I staggered on and floundered on, and slipped down and got up again, all the time just saying to myself, 'The baby! the baby!--if I could only reach him and find him alive!'

"Then it seemed as if night came down all at once. It got dark in one minute, and I heard a horrible roaring sound behind me--louder than all the thunder. I heard a long, rattling crash, and then another. It was Mrs. Hathaway's house and barn going to pieces, but I didn't know it then. I heard people scream; I heard all sorts of things whizzing about me, but it was too dark to see much. Things came striking against me, and soon a heavy thing came banging against me on one side, and just as I was falling down something seemed to pick me up, and I was whirled and twisted round and round, till I didn't know anything more.

"When I opened my eyes the rain was falling on my face. It was lighter, and I saw boards and timbers, and trees and branches and bushes, lying all about me. I was in a field not far from home. I felt dizzy, and didn't remember anything at first, and then I thought of little Harry, and sprang up to run to him. But, oh, how sick and sore I felt! When I tried to lift a heavy branch which was lying partly over me, I could raise only one of my arms.

"But my feet were all right, and I ran as fast as I could toward home. I saw my father in the road in front of the house, looking up and down, with a white, frightened face. He hurried toward me.

"'Where have you been, child?' he said. 'I must go to see if anything has happened to your mother, but I could not go till I knew you and Harry were safe-- Why, dear, you are hurt!'

"But I ran past him, crying, 'The baby, father, he's in the hammock--come quick!'

"When we got round to the grove I screamed at what I saw. The trees lay about as if a scythe had mown them down. I hardly knew the place, or where to look for Harry.

"One of the trees the hammock was tied to was lying exactly where I had left my little brother. Another tree was blown right across it. Father did not stop to look, but called the hired man, and they brought axes and saws. I stooped down and listened, though I felt sure the dear little one must be dead. But I heard a sad little sob, as if he had cried till he was worn out. I was so glad, I got up and danced. But father shook his head and said, 'He's alive, but how do we know how he may be hurt.' They chopped away at the branches, while I held my breath, oh, how long, _long_ it seemed to wait! I crouched down and crept as near the baby as I could. I called to him, and he gave a pitiful little cry; he expected me to take him at once, and I was glad he got angry because he had to wait. He tried to free himself from the hammock, and I began to hope he might not be much hurt.

"At last a great branch was taken away, and I got closer to him. I called father, and we looked under, and I heard him say, 'Thank God!'

"There the darling was, in a kind of little bower made by two big branches which came down on each side of him. They had saved him when the other tree fell. His forehead was scratched deeply, but nothing else ailed him. Father reached in and cut away the hammock with his knife, and drew him out with hands that shook as if he had an ague fit. The little fellow held out his arms to me; but as I tried to take him my strength all seemed to go away. I grew dizzy, and fell down. Bridget took the child, and father carried me in and laid me on a bed.

"Then he and Bridget tried to get us into dry clothes. But I cried out every time they touched me, till father was nearly at his wits' end. I called aloud for mother. I knew she would not hurt me so.

"'I will go now and see where she is, dear,' father said at last, wiping his forehead. 'The good Lord only knows where she may be--and the little ones. I'll bring some one to help you, poor child.'

"The sun was shining brightly again by this time, but as I lay there, with a great deal of pain in my arm and head, I seemed to feel that black storm coming after me yet. The roar, roar, roar kept on in my head, and the bed was whirling up in the clouds with me, and Mary Hathaway was holding me, while some one pelted me with the stars; and mother said, 'Oh, my poor darling--look at her head!'

"Then the moon peeped at me, and said, 'Her arm is broken in two places.'

"It was the doctor who said this, and mother had really come to me. After that I seemed to be climbing and climbing through trees--oh, so long! I kept on for years, always hunting for little Harry, hearing him cry for me, and never able to reach him. But at last I saw a light--I had been in the dark all the time--and I struggled toward it, and looked out. Mother was there, but not Harry.

"'Where is he?' I cried.

"'Who, dear?' she said.

"'Why, the baby--little Harry,' I said. 'I was almost up to him.'

"'Here he is.'

"She lifted him up to me, and I tried to take him, but I could not raise myself, and was glad to find that I was in my own bed. I went off into a long sleep, and when I awoke I didn't want anything except to lie quiet and know mother was caring for me, and that Harry sometimes came toddling into my room, for he had learned to walk during the long weeks I had been sick.

"Well, that is about all there is of it. My arm was a long time getting well, and will always be crooked, like this. The doctor said it would have got entirely well if it had not been for the fever.

"But, dear me, how much thinking I did when my head got clear enough to think! When I was out in the storm all I had ever heard about the wrath of God on the children of disobedience seemed to come back to me. How I was punished! If I had been faithful to my duty, I should have been safe at home when the storm came. I shall always feel as if I knew something of that awful wrath, for wasn't I taken up in God's terrible hand?

"When I was getting well I began to wonder why Mary Hathaway never came to see me. Mother put off telling me as long as she could that she and a younger sister had been killed in a moment by the falling of their house, and that Mrs. Hathaway was crippled for life. None of us had been hurt but me. Mother had got beyond the track of the worst part of the storm, but her horse was killed by the lightning. Father lost his barns, most of his stock, and nearly all his crops.

"That's the story of the terrible tornado. Its path was not more than half a mile wide, and it was all over in less than half an hour. Mother says I grew five years older on that day, and I think she is right."

"MOONSHINERS."

BY E. H. MILLER.