SOUTHERN STORIES

RETOLD FROM ST. NICHOLAS

[Illustration]

NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1907

Copyright, 1889, 1890, 1891, 1892, 1894, 1898, 1900, 1902, 1903, 1907, by THE CENTURY CO. 

THE DE VINNE PRESS

 * * * * *

[Illustration: A REAL UNCLE REMUS STORY. ]

CONTENTS

 PAGE

 A REAL UNCLE REMUS STORY _Frontispiece_

 HIS HERO _Margaret Minor_ 3

 JERICHO BOB _Anna Eichberg King_ 18

 HOW WE BOUGHT LOUISIANA _Helen Lockwood Coffin_ 28

 THE CITY THAT LIVES OUTDOORS _W. S. Harwood_ 34

 QUEER AMERICAN RIVERS _F. H. Spearman_ 52

 THE WATERMELON STOCKINGS _Alice Caldwell Hegan_ 65

 THE "'GATOR" _Clarence B. Moore_ 80

 THE EARTHQUAKE AT CHARLESTON _Ewing Gibson_ 96

 HIDING PLACES IN WAR TIMES _J. H. Gore_ 102

 ST. AUGUSTINE _Frank R. Stockton_ 108

 CATCHING TERRAPIN _Alfred Kappes_ 126

 "LOCOED" _Edward Marshall_ 130

 A DIVIDED DUTY _M. A. Cassidy_ 165

 THE "WALKING-BEAM BOY" _L. E. Stofiel_ 178

 THE CREATURE WITH NO CLAWS _Joel Chandler Harris_ 185

SOUTHERN STORIES

SOUTH

 Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees; Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. 

 _Longfellow. _

HIS HERO

BY MARGARET MINOR

It was an October afternoon, and through Indian summer's tulle-like hazea low-swinging sun sent shafts of scarlet light at the highest peaks ofthe Blue Ridge. The sweet-gum leaves looked like blood-colored stars asthey floated slowly to the ground, and brown chestnuts gleamedsatin-like through their gaping burs; while over all there rested adense stillness, cut now and then by the sharp yelp of a dog as hescurried through the bushes after a rabbit. 

Surrounded by this splendid autumn beauty stood Mountain Top Inn, nearthe crest of the Blue Ridge in Rockfish Gap, its historical value datingfrom the time when Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe, after a long andspirited discussion in one of its low-ceiled rooms, decided upon thelocation of the University of Virginia. 

On the porch of this old inn there now sat a little boy, idly swinging apair of sun-tanned legs. Occasionally he tickled an old liver-coloredhound that lay dozing in a limp heap; but being rewarded only bytoothless snaps at very long intervals, he finally grew tired of thisamusement, and stretching himself out on his back, he began to dreamwith wide-open eyes. At these dream-times, when he let his thoughtsloose, they always bore him to the very same field, and here his fancypainted pictures with the vivid colors of a boy's imagination: picturesso strong that they left him flushed and tingling with pride; again, pictures that brought a cool, choking feeling to his throat; and attimes pictures that made his childish mouth quiver and droop. Among allof these thought-born scenes, at intervals there would stand out thereal ones, scenes that were etched on the clean walls of his memory ineverlasting strokes. 

He never tired thinking of that first morning--that morning when all theworld seemed gilded with sunshine and throbbing with martial music. Hisgrandfather had lifted him up on one of the "big gate" posts to see thesoldiers march by. With mingled feelings of admiration and childish envyhe had watched them drill for many weeks, but they had never seemed suchreal, grand soldiers until now, as they came marching by with quick, firm steps, keeping time to the clear, staccato notes, marching off toreal battle-fields. It was all so beautiful, splendid, and gay--themusic, the soldiers, the people, the hurrahing! It stirred his sentientlittle body through and through with a kind of joy, and he thought it sostrange that his mother's eyes were full of tears. 

Just a few days later he had listened eagerly to the sharp, cracklingsound of guns and the rumbling thunder of cannon, so near that the airseemed to vibrate. He and another little boy had stood and talked inhigh, quick tones, bragging and predicting breathlessly the result ofthe battle as they used the term "our men. "

Finally they climbed the tallest oak on the lawn, and strained theiryoung eyes to see which was "gettin' whipped. "

A little while after this he remembered following his father through thelong hospital ward. Over the first bed he saw him stoop and loosen thewhite cotton bandages of a wounded man. On the next narrow cot therewas a slender boy of fifteen, who lay with clenched hands watching thework of the surgeon. Then they passed a woman, who was gently bathingthe forehead of a man whose soldier days seemed likely to come to anearly end. 

Some weeks had gone by, when one day he followed a party of men toMarye's Heights. It was a short time after the battle of Fredericksburg. A light snow had fallen the night before, which the wind whirled andsifted about the dead, in a way that made them appear to be shuddering. Once a sharp gust blew the snow off a body lying on its face, and theboy's eyes filled. He scarcely heeded the talk of the men with whom hehad gone. His thoughts were held fast by the awful scene which layspread before his young eyes. 

How often since then had the boy pictured himself a grown man, seated onjust such a fine horse and following Lee! It was always Lee; in hisdreamland through the heart of the battle he always followed GeneralRobert E. Lee, his hero, whom he had never seen, but whom he had carriedhalo-crowned in his heart ever since he could remember. 

And then the very saddest day in his life had come--the day when thefirst news of Lee's surrender lay heavy on the hearts of the household. For a while he had followed his mother as she went silently, with closedwhite lips, from one duty to another. Finally he went out to seekcomfort from Uncle Jake, whom he found sitting with his back proppedagainst the side of the corn-crib, drawing little quick puffs of smokefrom his pipe. 

"Uncle Jake, " he said, "Lee's just _had_ to s'render. "

"Yes, honey. " And as he looked into Uncle Jake's little red, wateryeyes, he saw no comfort there, and turned away. 

Seven months had gone by since the war had ended; still, on this Octoberafternoon, as the boy lay stretched out on the porch of the old inn, hedreamed his boyish dreams of romance and heroism. 

Suddenly his attention was attracted by the sound of hoofs, and turninghis head he saw a man riding slowly down the road. A new arrival at theinn was always most interesting. An eager light came into the boy's eyesas he watched the rider, who was now near enough for him to see howfirmly he sat in his saddle. The man seemed a very part of the stronglybuilt horse, which carried him with an ease that indicated long habit. 

A wiry little negro had also seen the approaching horseman, and was nowhurrying across the lawn to meet him. 

"May I spend the night here, my man?" asked the stranger. 

"Yessuh--yessuh!" answered Uncle Jake, quickly, and opening the gate hestepped out and caught the bridle near the bit, as the horseman swungout of the creaking saddle to the ground. 

"Uncle Jake, take the horse around to the stable!" called out the boy, who felt that the honors of hospitality rested on him, there being noone else in sight. Then he ran briskly down the walk to meet thestranger, who extended his fine, strong hand with a little smile, andsaid very kindly:

"How do you do, sir?"

"I'm well, " replied the boy. 

"And what is your name?"

"Jimmy. "

"Jimmy? Well, Jimmy is a nice name, " he said. Then he turned, and stillheld the boy's hand as he watched the little old negro, who stood withhis head under the saddle-skirt, tiptoeing and straining in his effortto unfasten the girth. Finally, when he succeeded, he flung the saddleon the ground, and the horse, feeling relieved of his burden, firstshook himself violently, and then expressed his comfort again and againin deep chest-tones. 

During all this time Jimmy's eyes had been fastened on the stranger'sspurs, and a peculiar feeling of incredulity gradually filled his mind. 

Silver, indeed! He could not fool him! No one was rich enough to havereal silver spurs! So sternly did he resent what he thought to be anattempt at deception that he drew his small brown hand slowly out of thestranger's gentle clasp. 

After slipping off the bridle from the horse's head and dropping it bythe saddle, Uncle Jake led him away by his forelock to the stable, andJimmy walked toward the inn with his guest, who said as they reached thesteps:

"Jimmy, we will sit here for a while, and then I will go over to thestable and see about my horse. "

As they sat down the old hound came cautiously down the steps, wheezingout a husky greeting. 

"She is too old to hurt any one, " said Jimmy. 

"Is she yours?"

"No, sir. Tip's mine. Listen!" he exclaimed, as the sharp yelp of a dogagain broke the stillness. "That's Tip! He goes off and runs rabbits allby himself. "

"Perhaps he is after a fox. "

"No, sir; Tip won't run a fox. "

"Jimmy, can you tell from a dog's cry whether he is running a fox or arabbit?"

"No, sir. "

"Well, if he is trailing a rabbit he does not bark continually, but ifhe is after a fox he does; so you can always tell if you listencarefully. "

"Never heard about that before, " replied Jimmy, with a smile. 

After this there followed a long pause, during which the stranger lookedabout inquiringly, then said:

"Jimmy, how long have you been living here?"

"Not very long. We refugeed over in North Carolina the first part of thewar. Then we came back to Spottsylvania County while father was inprison. Why, we just came here after the s'render. You remember when Leejust had to s'render?" he asked, looking up into the stranger's face. 

[Illustration: "'YOU REMEMBER WHEN LEE JUST HAD TO S'RENDER?' ASKEDJIMMY. "]

The boy's mouth, as usual, quivered as he uttered the word "s'render, "but the man did not appear to see this. He seemed to be looking at afar-off mountain peak. After a pause he replied, "Yes, I remember, " ashe arose and started toward the stable. 

"I'll show you the way, " said Jimmy. 

"Thank you, sir, " he answered gravely. 

When they entered the stable the big gray horse greeted his master withsome soft little nickerings. "Oh, he knows you without even looking!"exclaimed Jimmy, in tones expressing delight and surprise. 

"Yes, he knows me pretty well, " the man replied, as he looked withanxious sympathy at a saddle-galled place on the horse's back. 

Jimmy had climbed up on the side of the stall, and was also looking withmuch interest. Suddenly he exclaimed: "I know what's good for that! Somestuff down in the bottom of the chalybeate spring. "

He pronounced each syllable of the word "chalybeate" very clearly, forit was a newly learned word, and he was proud of his ability to use it. 

"Why, yes; the iron in it ought to be healing. How far is the spring?"

"Oh, just a little way; I'll show you, " Jimmy replied, jumping to theground and quickly opening the stable door. "Let me lead him, " he added. 

"Hadn't you rather ride him, Jimmy?"

"Yes, sir, " he replied, in rather shy but pleased tones. 

"All right, " said the man, as he swung the little fellow up on thehorse. "There! Sit farther back, so you will not hurt that galled place. Now I'll lead him, and you tell me in which direction to go. "

"Down the road there, just on the other side of the ice-pond, " saidJimmy, pointing in that direction as they moved off. 

The boy was happy as he cupped his bare legs close around the body ofthe horse, and watched the square shoulders of the man who walked slowlyahead. He thought him exceedingly nice and kind, and his feelings inregard to the spurs were not nearly so intense. The desire to ask ifthey were real silver, though, was strong, but he felt that perhaps itwould not be polite, so he said nothing. 

After they had gone some distance Jimmy exclaimed, "There's the spring!"Then he slid quickly to the ground, and without other words knelt downand, baring one arm, dipped out of the bottom of the spring a handful ofrust-colored flakes. 

"This is what you put on his back, " he said. "Just lay it right on. Itdoesn't hurt; it just feels cool. "

The directions were quietly obeyed, and the horse made no movement, savea slight quiver of the skin, as if to shake off a fly. 

"Uncle Jake says that doctors can't make any finer medicine than this, "he said, as he scooped up another handful. 

"Well, Jimmy, I am very much obliged to you, and I'm sure that my horseis also, " said the stranger, as they started on back to the stable. 

In the meantime the saddle left by Uncle Jake near the horse-rack hadattracted the attention of a young man as he came through the frontgate. After looking at it for a few minutes, idle curiosity prompted himto turn it over with his foot, and as he did so three bright brassletters--"R. E. L. "--greeted him. He looked sharply at them at first, then his eyes dilated, and a little prickly thrill ran through him. "Iwonder if it can be!" he said. Suddenly some convincing feeling seemedto fill his mind, and then he almost ran to the house. On reaching thesteps, he sprang up them two at a time, and entered the hall, where hemet Mrs. Claverly. 

"Mrs. Claverly--" he began, and stopped. 

"Well?" she asked, smiling at his hesitation. "What is it, Charley?"

"Ah, do you know, Mrs. Claverly, I think that General Lee is here. " Hisvoice was husky with excitement. 

"General Lee! Where?" But without waiting for a reply, she steppedquickly to the door of the old-fashioned parlor, and exclaimed in soft, suppressed tones to a group of women sitting there:

"They think that General Lee is here!"

"What makes them think so?" asked a thin, gray-haired woman, as shehastily arose. 

"Why, " replied the young man, his tones now quite positive, "his saddlewith 'R. E. L. ' on it is out there by the gate. "

"There he comes now, " said one of the group, eagerly; "at least, Isuppose that it is he. "

"Let me see, " said Mrs. Claverly, going rapidly to the window. "I sawhim once at the Greenbrier White, and I am sure that I would know him. Yes, it is he!" she exclaimed, as she looked at the man coming slowlyacross the lawn, talking earnestly to the barefoot boy at his side. Histhoughts were so completely occupied by what he was saying that notuntil he was quite near the inn did he see the group on the porch, andhis face flushed slightly as he realized that they were there to greethim. Lifting his hat, he ascended the steps with bared head. Mrs. Claverly walked quickly forward, and extended her slim white hand. 

"General Lee, I believe. "

"Yes, madam, " he replied gravely, as he bowed low over her hand. 

At the sound of Lee's name Jimmy's eyes grew round, and filled withastonishment. For one brief moment he stood gazing up at the stately oldsoldier, whom every one was greeting, then he backed slowly away untilhe reached the door. There he stood another moment, seeing nothing buthis hero. 

Suddenly he turned and darted down the long hall, up the stairway, andinto his mother's room. 

"Mother!" he exclaimed in breathless wonderment, "mother! General Lee isdownstairs, and he is just splendid, and--er--mother, he's just exactlylike anybody else!"[1]

[Footnote 1: This story is based upon the personal experience of one whorelated it to the author. ]

JERICHO BOB

BY ANNA EICHBERG KING

Jericho Bob, when he was four years old, hoped that one day he might beallowed to eat just as much turkey as he possibly could. He was eightnow, but that hope had not been realized. 

[Illustration]

Mrs. Jericho Bob, his mother, kept hens for a living, and she expectedthat they would lay enough eggs in the course of time to help her son toan independent career as a bootblack. 

They lived in a tumble-down house in a waste of land near the steamcars, and besides her hens Mrs. Bob owned a goat. 

Our story has, however, nothing to do with the goat except to say he wasthere, and that he was on nibbling terms, not only with Jericho Bob, but with Bob's bosom friend, Julius Cęsar Fish, and it was surprisinghow many old hat-brims and other tidbits of clothing he could swallowduring a day. 

As Mrs. Bob truly said, it was no earthly use to get something new forJericho, even if she could afford it; for the goat browsed all over him, and had been known to carry away even a leg of his trousers. 

Jericho Bob was eight years old, and the friend of his bosom, JuliusCęsar Fish, was nine. They were both of a lovely black; a tallow-dipcouldn't take the kink out of their hair, and the hardest whipping didnot disturb the even cheerfulness of their spirits. They were so muchalike that if it hadn't been for Jericho's bow-legs and his turn-upnose, you really could not have told them apart. 

A kindred taste for turkey also united them. 

In honor of Thanksgiving day Mrs. Bob always sacrificed a hen whichwould, but for such blessed release, have died of old age. One drumstickwas given to Jericho, whose interior remained an unsatisfied void. 

Jericho Bob had heard of turkey as a fowl larger, sweeter, and moretender than hen; and about Thanksgiving time he would linger around theprovision stores and gaze with open mouth at the noble array of turkeyshanging, head downward, over bushels of cranberries, as if even at thatuncooked stage, they were destined for one another. And turkey was hisdream. 

It was spring-time, and the hens were being a credit to themselves. Thegoat in the yard, tied to a stake, was varying a meal of old shoe andtomato-can by a nibble of fresh green grass. Mrs. Bob was laid up withrheumatism. 

"Jericho Bob!" she said to her son, shaking her red and yellow turban athim, "Jericho Bob, you go down an' fetch de eggs to-day. Ef I find yerdon't bring me twenty-three, I'll--well, never mind what I'll do, butyer won't like it. "

Now, Jericho Bob meant to be honest, but the fact was he foundtwenty-four, and the twenty-fourth was so big, so remarkably big. 

Twenty-three eggs he brought to Mrs. Bob, but the twenty-fourth hesinfully left in charge of the discreet hen. 

On his return he met Julius Cęsar Fish, with his hands in his pocketsand his head extinguished by his grandfather's fur cap. 

Together they went toward the hen-coop and Julius Cęsar Fish spoke, orrather lisped (he had lost some of his front teeth):

"Jericho Bobth, that 'th a turkey'th egg. "

"Yer don't say so?"

"I think i'th a-goin' ter hatch. " No sooner said than they heard a pickand a peck in the shell. 

"Pick!" a tiny beak broke through the shell. "Peck!" more beak. "Crack!"a funny little head, a long, bare neck, and then "Pick! Peck! Crack!"before them stood the funniest, fluffiest brown ball resting on two weaklittle legs. 

"Hooray!" shouted the woolly heads. 

"Peep!" said turkeykin. 

"It's mine!" Jericho shouted excitedly. 

"I'th Marm Pitkin'th turkey'th; she laid it there. "

"It's mine, and I'm going to keep it, and next Thanksgiving I'm goingter eat him. "

"Think your ma'll let you feed him up for thath?" Julius Cęsar asked, triumphantly. 

Jericho Bob's next Thanksgiving dinner seemed destined to be a dream. His face fell. 

"I'll tell yer whath I'll do, " his friend said, benevolently; "I'll keep'm for you, and Thanksgivin' we'll go halvth. "

[Illustration: JERICHO BOB AND JULIUS CĘSAR FISH PLANNING THEIRTHANKSGIVING DINNER. ]

Jericho resigned himself to the inevitable, and the infant turkey wasborne home by his friend. 

Fish, Jr. , lived next door, and the only difference in the premises wasa freight-car permanently switched off before the broken-down fence ofthe Fish yard; and in this car turkeykin took up his abode. 

I will not tell you how he grew and more than realized the hopes of hisfoster-fathers, nor with what impatience and anticipation they sawspring, summer, and autumn pass, while they watched their Thanksgivingdinner stalk proudly up the bare yard, and even hop across the railroadtracks. 

But, alas! the possession of the turkey brought with it strife anddiscord. 

Quarrels arose between the friends as to the prospective disposal of hisremains. We grieve to say that the question of who was to cook him ledto blows. 

It was the day before Thanksgiving. There was a coldness between thefriends which was not dispelled by the bringing of a pint of cranberriesto the common store by Jericho, and the contributing thereto of a coupleof cold boiled sweet potatoes by Julius Cęsar Fish. 

The friends sat on an ancient wash-tub in the back yard, and there was amomentary truce between them. Before them stood the freight-car, andalong the track beyond an occasional train tore down the road, which sofar excited their mutual sympathy that they rose and shouted as one man. 

At the open door of the freight-car stood the unsuspecting turkey, andlooked meditatively out on the landscape and at the two figures on thewash-tub. 

One had bow-legs, a turn-up nose, and a huge straw hat. The other wore afur cap and a gentleman's swallow-tail coat, with the tails caught upbecause they were too long. 

The turkey hopped out of the car and gazed confidingly at hisprotectors. In point of size he was altogether their superior. 

"I think, " said Jericho Bob, "we'd better ketch 'im; to-morrow'sThanksgiving. Yum!"

And he looked with great joy at the innocent, the unsuspecting fowl. 

"Butcher Tham 'th goin' ter kill 'im for uth, " Julius Cęsar hastened tosay, "an' I kin cook 'im. "

"No, you ain't. I'm goin' to cook 'im, " Jericho Bob cried, resentfully. "He's mine. "

"He ain'th; he'th mine. "

"He was my egg, " and Jericho Bob danced defiance at his friend. 

The turkey looked on with some surprise, and he became alarmed when hesaw his foster-fathers clasped in an embrace more of anger than of love. 

"I'll eat 'im all alone!" Jericho Bob cried. 

"No, yer sha'n't!" the other shouted. 

The turkey fled in a circle about the yard. 

"Now, look yere, " said Julius Cęsar, who had conquered. "We're goin' tobe squar'. He wath your egg, but who brought 'im up? Me! Who'th got afriend to kill 'im? Me! Who'th got a fire to cook 'im? Me! Now you gitup and we'll kitch 'im. Ef you thay another word about your egg I'lljeth eat 'im up all mythelf. "

Jericho Bob was conquered. With mutual understanding they approached theturkey. 

"Come yere; come yere, " Julius Cęsar said, coaxingly. 

For a moment the bird gazed at both, uncertain what to do. 

"Come yere, " Julius Cęsar repeated, and made a dive for him. The turkeyspread his tail. Oh, didn't he run!

"Now I've got yer!" the wicked Jericho Bob cried, and thought he hadcaptured the fowl; when with a shriek from Jericho Bob, as the turkeyknocked him over, the Thanksgiving dinner spread his wings, rose in theair, and alighted on the roof of the freight-car. 

The turkey looked down over the edge of the car at his enemies, and theygazed up at him. Both parties surveyed the situation. 

"We've got him, " Julius Cęsar cried at last, exultantly. "You git on theroof, and ef you don't kitch 'im up thar, I'll kitch 'im down yere. "

With the help of the wash-tub, an old chair, Julius Cęsar's back, andmuch scrambling, Jericho Bob was hoisted on top of the car. The turkeywas stalking solemnly up and down the roof with tail and wings halfspread. 

"I've got yer now, " Jericho Bob said, creeping softly after him. "I'vegot yer now, sure, " he was just repeating, when with a deafening roarthe express-train came tearing down the road. 

For what possible reason it slowed up on approaching the freight-carnobody ever knew; but the fact remains that it did, just as Jericho Boblaid his wicked black paw on the turkey's tail. 

The turkey shrieked, spread his wings, shook the small black boy'sgrasp from his tail, and with a mighty swoop alighted on the roof of thevery last car as it passed; and in a moment more Jericho Bob'sThanksgiving dinner had vanished, like a beautiful dream, down the road!

What became of that Thanksgiving dinner no one ever knew. If you happento meet a traveling turkey without any luggage, but with a smile on hiscountenance, please send word to Jericho Bob. 

Every evening he and Julius Cęsar Fish stand by the broken-down fenceand look up and down the road, as if they expected some one. 

Jericho Bob has a turn-up nose and bow-legs. Julius Cęsar still wearshis dress-coat, and both are watching for a Thanksgiving dinner that ranaway. 

HOW WE BOUGHT LOUISIANA

BY HELEN LOCKWOOD COFFIN

It is a hard matter to tell just how much power a little thing has, because little things have the habit of growing. That was the troublethat France and England and Spain and all the other big nations had withAmerica at first. The thirteen colonies occupied so small andunimportant a strip of land that few people thought they would everamount to much. How could such insignificance ever bother old England, for instance, big and powerful as she was? To England's great loss shesoon learned her error in underestimating the importance or strength ofher colonies. 

France watched the giant and the pygmy fighting together, and learnedseveral lessons while she was watching. For one thing, she found outthat the little American colonies were going to grow, and so she said toherself: "I will be a sort of back-stop to them. These Americans aregoing to be foolish over this bit of success, and think that justbecause they have won the Revolution they can do anything they wish todo. They'll think they can spread out all over this country and grow tobe as big as England herself; and of course anybody can see that that isimpossible. I'll just put up a net along the Mississippi River, andprevent them crossing over it. That will be the only way to keep themwithin bounds. "

And so France held the Mississippi, and from there back to the RockyMountains, and whenever the United States citizen desired to go west ofthe Mississippi, France said: "No, dear child. Stay within your own yardand play, like a good little boy, " or something to that effect. 

Now the United States citizen didn't like this at all; he had pushed hisway with much trouble and expense and hard work through bands of Indiansand through forests and over rivers and mountains, into Wisconsin andIllinois, and he wished to go farther. And, besides, he wanted to havethe right to sail up and down the Mississippi, and so save himself thetrouble of walking over the land and cutting out his own roads as hewent. So when France said, "No, dear, " and told him to "be a goodlittle boy and not tease, " the United States citizen very naturallyrebelled. 

Mr. Jefferson was President of the United States at that time, and hewas a man who hated war of any description. He certainly did not wish tofight with his own countrymen, and he as certainly did not wish to fightwith any other nation, so he searched around for some sort of acompromise. He thought that if America could own even one port on thisuseful river and had the right of Mississippi navigation, the matterwould be settled with satisfaction to all parties. So he sent JamesMonroe over to Paris to join our minister, Mr. Livingston, and see ifthe two of them together could not persuade France to sell them theisland of New Orleans, on which was the city of the same name. 

Now Napoleon was the ruler of France, and he was dreaming dreams andseeing visions in which France was the most important power in America, because she owned this wonderful Mississippi River and all this"Louisiana" which stretched back from the river to the Rockies. Healready held forts along the river, and he was planning to strengthenthese and build some new ones. But you know what happens to the plans ofmice and men sometimes. Napoleon was depending upon his army to helphim out on these plans, but his armies in San Domingo were swept away bywar and sickness, so that on the day he had set for them to move up intoLouisiana not a man was able to go. At the same time Napoleon had onhand another scheme against England, which was even more important thanhis plans for America, and which demanded men and money. Besides this, he was shrewd enough to know that he could not hold this far-awayterritory for any long time against England, which had so many moreships than France. He suddenly changed his mind about his Americanpossessions, and nearly sent Mr. Monroe and Mr. Livingston into a stateof collapse by offering to sell them not only New Orleans but also thewhole Province of Louisiana. 

[Illustration: MAP OF THE

UNITED STATES

SHOWING

THE LOUISIANA PURCHASE

AND OTHER

ACCESSIONS OF TERRITORY. ]

There was no time to write to President Jefferson and ask his advice, and this was before the days of the cable; so Monroe and Livingston tookthe matter into their own hands, and signed the contract whichtransferred the Louisiana territory to the United States for aconsideration of $15, 000, 000. They were severely criticized by many oftheir own countrymen, and they had some doubts of their own about thewisdom of their action. You see, nobody knew then that corn and wheatwould grow so abundantly in this territory, or that beyond theMississippi there were such stretches of glorious pasture-lands, or thatunderneath its mountainous regions were such mines of gold, silver, andcopper. Americans saw only the commercial possibilities of the river, and all they wanted was the right of navigating it and the permission toexplore the unknown country to the westward. 

But Jefferson and Monroe and Livingston builded better than they knew. All this happened a hundred years ago; and to-day that old Louisianaterritory is, in natural resources, the wealthiest part of the wholeUnited States. Without that territory in our possession we should haveno Colorado and no Wyoming, no Dakotas, or Nebraska, or Minnesota, orMontana, or Missouri, or Iowa, or Kansas, or Arkansas, or Louisiana, orOklahoma, or Indian Territory. 

For all these reasons we owe our most sincere and hearty thanks to thepatriotic and far-sighted men who were concerned in buying thisterritory for the United States. 

THE CITY THAT LIVES OUTDOORS

BY W. S. HARWOOD

When the wind is howling through the days of the mad March far up in thelands where snow and ice thick cover the earth, here in this city thatlives outdoors the roses are clambering over the "galleries" and thewistaria is drooping in purplish splendor from the low branches of thetrees and from the red heights of brick walls. 

The yellow jonquils, too, are swelling, and the geraniums are throwingout their scarlet flame across wide stretches of greensward, while theviolets are nodding at the feet of the gigantic magnolias, whose hugeyellowish-gray buds will soon burst into white beauty, crowning thisnoblest of flower-bearing trees. 

It is a strange old city, this city that lives outdoors--a city rich inromantic history, throbbing with tragedy and fascinating events, abeautiful old city, with a child by its side as beautiful as the mother. The child is the newer, more modern city, and the child, like theparent, lives out of doors. 

The people seem to come into closer touch with nature than the people ofmost other portions of the land. The climate, the constant invitation ofthe earth and sky, seem to demand a life lived in the open. This citythat lives outdoors is a real city, with all a city's varied life; butit is a country place as well--a city set in the country, or the countrymoved into town. 

For at least nine months in the twelve, the people of this rare old townlive out of doors nearly all the waking hours of the twenty-four. Forthe remaining three months of the year, December, January, and February, they delude themselves into the notion that they are having a winter, when they gather around a winter-time hearth and listen to imaginarywind-roarings in the chimney, and see through the panes fictitious andspectral snow-storms, and dream that they are housed so snug and warm. But when the day comes the sun is shining and there is no trace of whiteon the ground, and the grass is green and there are industrious budsbreaking out of cover, and the earth is sleeping very lightly. Open-eyed, the youngsters sit by these December firesides and listen totheir elders tell of the snow-storms in the long ago that came so very, very deep--ah, yes, so deep that the darkies were full of fear and wouldnot stir from their cabins to do the work of the white people; whensnowballs were flying in the streets, and the earth was white, and the"banquettes, " or sidewalks, were ankle-deep in slush. 

All the long years of the two centuries since this old city was born, amighty river has been flowing by its doors, never so far forgetting itspurpose to live outdoors as to freeze its yellow crest, stealing softlypast by night and by day, bearing along the city's front a vast commerceon down to the blue waters of the Gulf, and enriching the city by itscargoes from the outer world and from the plantations of the upperriver. Strangely enough, the great yellow river flows above the city, its surface being nearly thirty feet above the streets in time of flood. It is held in its course by vast banks of earth. 

[Illustration: THE SPANISH DAGGER IN BLOOM. ]

It is a cold, drear March where the north star shines high overhead; buthere, where it seems suddenly to have lost its balance and to havedropped low in the brilliant night, March is like June. It is Juneindeed, June with its wealth of grasses, its noble avenue ofmagnolias, its great green spread of live-oaks--most magnificent ofSouthern trees; June with its soft balm, and its sweet sunshine, and itsperfume-laden air. And if you have never seen the pole star in the skyof the north, where the star is almost directly over your head, youcannot realize how strange a sight it is to see it so low in the sky asit is here. 

There is a large garden in this city--it is, in fact, a part of the cityproper. It was once a beautiful faubourg, now known as the GardenDistrict, where the people live outdoors in a fine old aristocratic way, and where all the beauty in nature seen in the other sections of thecity seems to be outdone. Very many rare old homes are in this gardenregion, with its deep hedges and ample grounds, inclosed in high stonewalls, and a wealth of flowers and noble courts and an aboundinghospitality. But what, after all, are houses to a people that livesoutdoors? Conveniences only; for such a people, better than houses arethe air of the open, the scent of the roses, the blue of the Southernsky, the vast, strong sweep of the brilliant stars!

If we pause here along this street where run such every-day things aselectric street-cars, we shall see on one side of the splendid avenue asmooth-paved roadway for the carriages, on the other a course for thehorsemen, and in the center a noble inner avenue of trees set in avelvet-like carpet of grass; and here and there along the way, almost intouch of your hand from the open car window, appears the Spanish dagger, with its green, sharp blades and its snowy, showy plume. Not far awaystands a lowly negro cabin, where the sun beats down hot and fierce upona great straggling rose-bush, reaching up to the eaves, beating back therays of the sun defiantly and gaining fresh strength in the struggle. Onsuch a bush one day I counted two hundred and ninety roses. 

This city which lives outdoors must play most in the open, and in itsnoble park, with its vast stretches of bright green, here empurpled bymasses of the dainty grass-flower, there yellowing with the sheen of thebuttercup, one finds the tireless golf-players leisurely strolling overthe links; from yonder come the cries of the boys at ball; and in thefarther distance you may see through the frame-like branches of agiant live-oak the students of a great university hard set at agame of tennis. And yet--is it the air, or the race, or thetraditions?--something it is which makes the sportsmen, like the spring, seem slow to move. 

[Illustration: FAR IN THE PINEY WOODS. ]

And here even the palms grow outdoors in the city yards. And should yougo past the city's limits, and yet within seeing distance of itsblue-tiled housetops, you will find the palms growing rank in the greatswamps, which you must search if you care to hunt for the languidalligators--palms growing so thick and rank that it is quite likelooking into some vast conservatory, with the blue dome of the sky forglass. And here grow the magnolias in their wild, barbaric splendor ofbloom, and the live-oaks, mighty of girth and spread, draped in sombergray moss as if for the funeral of some god of the deep green wood. Atthe fringe of the swamp, tempting you until near to jumping into themorass after them, are the huge fleurs-de-lis, each gorgeous blossomfully seven inches across its purple top. 

To the north, somewhat apart from the reach of the treacherous river, lie the health-giving piny woods, and along the big, sullen stream thesugar plantations, some of them still the home of a lavish hospitality, some of them transformed into mere places of trade, where thrift andpush have elbowed out all that fine gallantry and ease and amplehospitality of an earlier day--that hospitality which will ever remain aleading characteristic of the people. To be a Southern man or a Southernwoman and to be inhospitable--that is not possible in the nature ofthings. 

[Illustration: A PICTURESQUE FRONT IN THE FRENCH QUARTER. ]

It is, when all is said and done, on the gallery that this city livesmost of its life--on the gallery even more than on the evening-throngedbanquette, which is the sidewalk of the North, or the boulevards, oreven the fragrant parks, where life flows in a fair, placid stream. Somethere must be who toil by day in shop, or at counter, or in dimaccounting-rooms, or on the floors of the marts where fortunes are madeand lost in sugar or cotton or rice. For such the gallery is a haven ofrest. If they must pass the earlier day indoors, for them the galleryduring the long, late afternoon, and the ghost of a twilight, and thelong evenings far into the starry night. The ghost of a twilightindeed--the South knows no other. Sometimes I have watched the long, splendid twilight come down over the wild Canadian forest--slowlydelaying; creeping up the low mountains; halting from hour to hour inthe glades below; shade after shade in the glorious sky of the westgradually merging into the dimness of the oncoming dusk; the momentspassing so slowly, the day fading so elusively, until, at last, wheneven the low moon has hung out its silver sign in the west and the starsare pricking through, it is still twilight along the lower earth. Andstill farther to the north, around the globe in the far upper Europe, with the polar circle below you, it is like living on a planet ofeternal day to sit through the northern light and feel about you theall-pervasive twilight of the land of the midnight sun. But the night isso hasty here, and the day is swift; and between them runs but aslender, dim thread. 

[Illustration: OLD PLANTATION VILLA ON ANNUNCIATION STREET. ]

The gallery is a feature of every house in this city that livesoutdoors, be it big or little, humble or grand, or lowly or mean. It ison the first floor or the second, or even the third, though the third itseldom reaches, for few people care for houses of great height. Indeed, there are hundreds of homes of but one story, full of the costliesttokens of the taste of an artistic people. And the soil below is so likea morass that ample space must be left between floor and earth; while asfor cellars, I have heard of but two in all the great city. Thegallery may run around the entire house, flanked and set off by splendidpillars with capitals rich and ornate; it may run across one end of theresidence and be a marvel of rich ironwork, as fine as art andhandicraft can make it, with, mayhap, the figures of its field outlinedin some bit of color, as gold or green; it may be but a single cheapwooden affair, paintless, dingy, dilapidated, weather-worn, and stainedwith neglect; but a gallery it is still, an important social feature ofthis outdoor life. 

Over the gallery grow the roses; out near at hand a bignonia-vine liftsits yellow flare aloft and throws down a fluttering shower of bell-likeblooms, and all the air is heavy with the scents of the South. Sothrough the long evening the people sit upon the gallery and chat orread or sing or doze or plan or discuss their family affairs. By day thegalleries are protected with gay-colored awnings or those filmy wovensheets of reeds which keep out the glare and let through the light andthe fragrant breeze. Children make of the gallery a play-house; youngpeople here entertain their friends; the elders discuss the affairs of anation or dwell on that wonderful past through which this ancientSouthern city has come tumultuously down through the lines of Castilianand Saxon and Gaul. 

[Illustration: OLD SPANISH HOUSES. ]

If you should take your map of the United States and run your finger fardown its surface until it rested upon the largest city in all thebeautiful South, and the metropolis of a vast inner empire which holdstwo civilizations, one French-Spanish, one American, both slowly, veryslowly, merging through the centuries; or, better still, if you shouldstroll along the streets on a sweet March day, peering into its curiousquarters, watching the beautiful little children and the dark-eyed menand the gaily dressed women and all the throngs of people, city peoplewho can never long remain away from the green fields and the noble oldtrees and the scent of the roses--then you could not fail to hit uponthis charming old place, New Orleans--in many ways the most interestingof all the cities in America, the beautiful city that lives outdoors. 

QUEER AMERICAN RIVERS

BY F. H. SPEARMAN

I wonder if my readers realize what a story of the vast extent of ourcountry is told by its rivers?

Every variety of river in the world seems to have a cousin in ourcollection. What other country on the face of the globe affords such anassortment of streams for fishing and boating and swimming andskating--besides having any number of streams on which you can do noneof these things? One can hardly imagine rivers like that; but we havethem, plenty of them, as you shall see. 

As for fishing, the American boy may cast his flies for salmon in theArctic circle, or angle for sharks under a tropical sun in Florida, without leaving the domain of the American flag. But the fishing-riversare not the most curious, nor the most instructive as to diversity ofclimate, soil, and that sort of thing--physical geography, the teachercalls it. 

[Illustration: A LIVE-OAK WITH SPANISH MOSS. ]

For instance, if you want to get a good idea of what tropical heat andmoisture will do for a country, slip your canoe from a Florida steamerinto the Ocklawaha River. It is as odd as its name, and appears to behopelessly undecided as to whether it had better continue in the fishand alligator and drainage business, or devote itself to raisinglive-oak and cypress-trees, with Spanish moss for mattresses as a sideproduct. 

In this fickle-minded state it does a little of all these things, sothat when you are really on the river you think you are lost in thewoods; and when you actually get lost in the woods, you are quiteconfident your canoe is at last on the river. This confusion is due tothe low, flat country, and the luxuriance of a tropical vegetation. 

To say that such a river overflows its banks would hardly be correct;for that would imply that it was not behaving itself; besides, it hasn't any banks--or, at least, very few! The fact is, those peacefulFlorida rivers seem to wander pretty much where they like over thepretty peninsula without giving offense; but if Jack Frost takes such aliberty--presto! you should see how the people get after _him_ withweather-bulletins and danger-signals and formidable smudges. So theOcklawaha River and a score of its kind roam through the woods, --ormaybe it is the woods that roam through them, --and the moss sways fromthe live-oaks, and the cypress trees stick their knees up through thewater in the oddest way imaginable. 

In Florida one may have another odd experience: a river ride in anox-cart. Florida rivers are usually shallow, and when the water is highyou can travel for miles across country behind oxen, with more or lessriver under you all the way. There are ancient jokes about Floridasteamboats that travel on heavy dews, and use spades for paddle-wheels. 

But those of you who have been on its rivers know there is but oneFlorida, with its bearded oaks and fronded palms; its dusky woods, carpeted with glassy waters; its cypress bays, where lonely cranes pose, silently thoughtful (of stray polliwogs); and its birds of wondrousplumage that rise with startled splash when the noiseless canoe glidesdown upon their haunts. 

[Illustration: MOSS-DRAPED LIVE-OAKS. ]

Every strange fowl and every hideous reptile, every singular plant andevery tangled jungle, will tell the American boy how far he is to thesouth. Florida is, in fact, his corner of the tropics; and the clearwaters of its rivers, stained to brown and wine-color with the juicesof a tropical vegetation, will tell him, if he reads nature's book, howdifferent the sandy soil of the South is from the yellow mold of thegreat Western plains. 

Such a boy hardly need ask the conductor how far west he is if he cancatch a glimpse of one of the rivers. All the rivers of the plains arealike full of yellow mud, because the soil of the plains melts at thetouch of water. These are our spendthrift rivers, full to the banks attimes, but most of the year desperately in need of water. It is onlywith the greatest effort that they can keep their places in the summer:there is just a scanty thread of water strung along a great, ramblingbed of sand, to restrain Dame Nature from revoking their licenses to runand turning them into cattle-ranches. 

No wonder that fish refuse to have anything to do with such streams, andrefuse tempting offers of free worms, free transportation, andprotection from the fatal nets. Fancy trying to raise a family of littlefish, and not knowing one day where water is coming from the next!

Not but what there is water enough at times; only, those rivers of thegreat plains, like the Platte and the Kansas and the Arkansas, are sowasteful of their supply in the spring that by July they are gasping fora shower. So, part of the year they revel in luxury, and during the restthey go shabby--like shiftless people. 

But the irrigation engineers have lately discovered something wonderfulabout even these despised rivers. During the very driest seasons, whenthe stream is apparently quite dry, there is still a great body of waterrunning in the sand. Like a vast sponge, the sand holds the water, yetit flows continually, just as if it were in plain sight, but more slowlyof course. The volume may be estimated by the depth and breadth of thesand. One pint of it will hold three quarters of a pint of water. Thisis called the underground flow, and is peculiar to this class of rivers. By means of ditches this water may be brought to the surface forirrigation. 

Scattered among the foot-hills of the Rockies are rivers still morewilful in their habits. Instead of keeping to their duties in amethodical way, they rush their annual work through in a month or two;then they take long vacations. For months together they carry no waterat all; and one may plant and build and live and sleep in their desertedbeds--but beware! Without warning, they resume active business. Maybeon a Sunday, or in the middle of the night, a storm-cloud visits themountains. There is a roar, a tearing, a crashing, and down comes aterrible wall of water, sweeping away houses and barns and people. Nofishing, no boating, no swimming, no skating on those treacherousrivers; only surprise and shock and disaster!

So different that they seem to belong in a different world are the greatinter-mountain streams, like the Yellowstone and the Colorado. 

They flow through landscapes of desolate grandeur, vast expansescompassed by endless mountain-ranges that chill the bright skies withnever-melting snows. The countless peaks look down on the clouds, whilefar below the clouds wind valleys that the sunlight never reaches. Twisting in gloomy dusk through these valleys, a gaping cańon yawns. Peering fearfully into its black, forbidding depths, an echo reaches theear. It is the fury of a mighty river, so far below that only a sullenroar rises to the light of day. With frightful velocity it rushesthrough a channel cut during centuries of patience deep into thestubborn rock. Now mad with whirlpools, now silently awful withstretches of green water, that wait to lure the boatman to death, themighty river rushes darkly through the Grand Colorado Cańon. 

No sport, no fun, no frolic there. Here are only awe-inspiring gloom andgrandeur, and dangers so hideous that only a handful of men have everbraved them--fewer still survived. 

Grandest of American rivers though it is, you will be glad to get awayfrom it to a noble stream like the Columbia, to a headstrong flood likethe Missouri, or an inland sea like the Mississippi; on them at leastyou can draw a full breath and speak aloud without a feeling that thesilent mountains may fall on you or the raging river swallow you up. 

In the vast territory lying between the Missouri River and the PacificOcean the rivers are fast being harnessed for a work that will one daymake the most barren spots fertile. Irrigation is claiming every yearmore of the flow of Western rivers. Even the tricksy old Missouri iscontributing somewhat to irrigation, but in the queerest possible way. 

With all its other eccentricities, the Missouri River leaks badly; foryou know there are leaky rivers as well as leaky boats. The governmentengineers once measured the flow of the Missouri away up in Montana, andagain some hundred miles further down stream. To their surprise, theyfound that the Missouri, instead of growing bigger down stream, as everyrational river should, was actually 20, 000 second-feet[1] smaller at thelower point. 

[Footnote 1: The volume of rivers is measured by the number of cubicfeet of water flowing past a given point every second. The breadth ofthe river is multiplied by its average depth, and the ascertained speedof the current gives the number of cubic feet of water flowing by thepoint of measurement each second. This will explain the termsecond-feet. ]

Now, while 20, 000 second-feet could be spared from such a tremendousriver, that amount of water makes a considerable stream of itself. Manyvery celebrated rivers never had so much water in their lives. Hencethere was great amazement when the discrepancy was discovered. But oflate years Dakota farmers away to the south and east of those points onthe Missouri, sinking artesian wells, found immense volumes of waterwhere the geologists said there would n't be any. So it is believed thatthe farmers have tapped the water leaking from that big hole in theMissouri River away up in Montana; and from these wells they irrigatelarge tracts of land, and, naturally, they don't want the river-bedmended. Fancy what a blessing it is, when the weather is dry, to have ariver boiling out of your well, ready to flow where you want it over thewheat-fields! For of all manner of work that a river can be put to, irrigation is, I think, the most useful. But isn't that a queer way forthe Missouri to wander about underneath the ground?

THE WATERMELON STOCKINGS

BY ALICE CALDWELL HEGAN

(Author of "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch")

"Jes' look at dat ornery little nigger!" exclaimed Aunt Melvy, as shedeposited a basket of clothes on the cabin floor. "I lef her to cleanup, an' to put de 'taters on to bile, an' to shoo de flies offen detwinses, an' I wisht you 'd look at her!"

Nell Tracy, who had come down with Aunt Melvy from the big house on thehill, viewed the culprit ruefully. 'Mazin' Grace was Aunt Melvy's eighthdaughter, and had been named for her mother's favorite hymn, which began"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. " She was very short and very fat, and her kinky hair was plaited into ten tight pigtails, each of whichwas bound with a piece of leather shoe-string. At present she sat withher back propped against the door, her mouth wide open, and sleptpeacefully while the flood of her mother's wrath passed over her. 

[Illustration: "'MAZIN' GRACE SLEPT PEACEFULLY. "]

"Oh, but, Aunt Melvy, won't you please let her come?" begged Nell, throwing off her sun-bonnet and letting down a tangle of yellow curls. "I have n't got anybody to play with me. Mother drove to town withfather, and she said I was to get 'Mazin' Grace to stay with me. "

"Why, I'se gwine to let her come, honey, " said Aunt Melvy, "co'se I is. I wouldn't mek you cry fer nothin'! Only, I'se gwine to whup her fust. She ain't 'sponsible on her word, dat's what's de matter wid her. Shedone 'low to me she would n't wink her eyeball while I was gone. Whatyou think I ketch her doin' one time?" Aunt Melvy's voice sank to awhisper. "She sewed, on a Sunday! She knowed as well as me dat w'en shegits to heben she'll hab to pick out ebery one ob dem stitches wid hernose. "

Nell looked at the sleeper's round pug-nose and wondered how she wouldever be able to do it. But it was no use thinking of the punishment inthe next world, when an immediate whipping was promised in this;consequently she turned the whole battery of her eloquence upon AuntMelvy, who in the end gave in. 

[Illustration: "'AND I AM GOING TO WEAR THE WATERMELON STOCKINGS, ' CRIEDNELL. "]

Ten minutes later the two little playmates were skipping down the avenueunder the shady old beech-trees where their fathers had playedtogether in the long ago. 

"Is yer maw gwine lemme tek you to de Christian an' Debil Society?"asked 'Mazin' Grace, as they skirted the house, and made their way intothe back yard. 

"Yes, " cried Nell, gleefully, "and I am going to wear the watermelonstockings!"

If 'Mazin' Grace had not been so black, a cloud might have been seenpassing over her face. She was the sharer of all Nell's woes, and of allbut one of her joys. The exception was the possession of the watermelonstockings. 

These were a sort of heirloom among the children of the family, and wereregarded with reverence and pride. They were of a peculiar shade of pinksilk, with clockwork up the sides and sprays of white flowersembroidered over the instep. A long time ago they had belonged to CousinMary, who was quite a big girl now, and she had sent them to UncleRobert's boy up in Ohio. He learned to waltz in them, and in time sentthem to little Agnes in Virginia, who wore them for a year on stateoccasions, then sent them back to Kentucky to little Cousin Nell. 

If ever a tempted soul longed for a forbidden treasure, 'Mazin' Gracelonged for the watermelon stockings. "Effen they was mine, I'd give youone anyways, " she argued with Nell, but to no avail. 

In the back yard stood a big old chicken-coop, which had been cleanedout and nicely whitewashed for the children to use as a play-house. Ithad an upstairs and a downstairs, and a square little door that fastenedon the outside with a wooden peg. Nell could climb in easily; but'Mazin' Grace was too fat, and after many efforts she had given up, contenting herself with watching the play from outside. 

To-day a doll funeral was in progress, and Nell, moving comfortablyabout inside the coop, arranged the broken bits of china in a spool-box, tied a sweeping piece of crape on her biggest doll, and allowed herimagination full swing in depicting the grief of the doll family. 

'Mazin' Grace, sitting under the apple-tree outside, took littleinterest in the proceedings. The hot sun beat down on the long stretchof blue-grass, and up from the creek came the warm odor of mint; a fatold bumblebee hummed close to her head, but she did not stir. She wasthinking about the watermelon stockings. 

[Illustration: "NELL TIED A SWEEPING PIECE OF CRAPE ON HER BIGGESTDOLL. "]

Presently she began to move stealthily toward the coop, watching Nellcautiously from the corner of her eyes. "Ain't nobody to home but me an'her, " she whispered to herself, "an' there wouldn't nobody know, an'--"With a deft movement she closed the small door and fastened it with thewooden peg. Then she turned, and, leaving the unconscious prisoner, spedsoftly up the garden path, through the basement, and up the stairs. 

In Mrs. Tracy's bedroom was a wide old mahogany dresser with big glassknobs that seemed to glare unwinking reproof at 'Mazin' Grace as sheopened the bottom drawer. 

"Dis heah is where dey stays at, " she said, tossing aside ribbons andlaces in her eagerness. "Oh, goody, goody! Heah dey is!"

Tearing away the tissue-paper, she gazed with delight at the covetedstockings. The knobs might glare as much as they liked; the sparrowsmight scold themselves hoarse on the window-sill; 'Mazin' Grace was lostin the rapture of the moment, and refused to consider consequences. Shetraced the pattern of the embroidery with her stubby finger, she rubbedthe silk against her cheek, and even tied one stocking around her headand stood on tiptoe to see the result in the mirror. The more shehandled them the more reckless she became. 

"I 'spect I 'se gwine to try dese heah stockin's on!" she said, with agiggle, as she drew the silken lengths over her bare, dusty feet. "GeeBob! Ain't them scrumptious! I look lak a shore-'nuff circus lady!"

[Illustration: "CATCHING HER RAGGED SKIRTS IN EITHER HAND, SHE BOWED LOWTO HER IMAGE. "]

She tipped the mirror in order to get the full reflection, and stood fora moment entranced. Then catching her ragged skirts in either hand, she bowed low to her image, and, after cutting a formal and elaboratepigeonwing, settled down to a shuffle that shook the floor. Music andmotion were as much a part of 'Mazin' Grace as her brown skin and herwhite teeth. All Aunt Melvy's piety had failed to convince her of theawful wickedness of "shaking her foot" and "singing reel chunes. " Shedanced now with utter abandon, and the harder she danced the louder shesang:

 "Suzanne Goffin, don't you cry; Take dat apron from your eye. Don't let de niggers see you sigh; You'll git a pahtner by an' by. "

The small figure with its flying pigtails swayed and swung, and the pinklegs darted in and out. Backward, forward, right glide, left glide, twoskips sidewise. Her breath was almost gone, but she rallied her forcesfor a grand finale. With a curtsy to the bedpost and hands all around, she dashed into the rollicking ecstasy of the "Mobile Buck":

 "Way up yonder in de moon, Yaller gal lickin' a silver spoon. Cynthy, my darlin', who tol' you so? Cynthy, my darlin', how do you know?"

As she dropped panting on the floor, something arrested her attention. She held up her head and sniffed the air. It was a familiar odor thatroused her conscience as nothing else could have done. Something burningusually meant that she had failed to watch the stove, and thatcatastrophe usually meant a whipping. She scrambled to her feet and ranto the window. Over across the road, the big barn where Mr. Tracy storedhis grain was wrapped in flames. The wind was blowing from thatdirection, and it fanned the smoke into 'Mazin' Grace's eyes. 

"Gee! Dat was a spark of fire, " she cried, as she snatched her hand fromthe window-sill. She climbed out of the window upon the porch, andlooked anxiously up and down the road. Nothing was to be seen save thelong stretch of empty turnpike, with the hot sun beating down upon it. As she turned to go back inside the window, she stopped, horrified. Onthe cornice of the roof above her a glowing ember was smolderingdangerously. 'Mazin' Grace wrung her hands. 

"Mammy said I was gwine to git burned up fer bein' so wicked. An' MarseJim's house, what's belonged to we-all sence de wah! An' de settin'-roomwhere we hangs up our stockin's ebery Christmas! An' dere ain't nobodyto take keer ob it all but me! Oh, Lordy! Lordy! what mus' I do?--whatmus' I do?"

As she stood there, wild-eyed and tearful, a thought made its waythrough the kinky hair into her bewildered brain. She darted back intothe house, and reappeared with a broom. 

"I'se gwine up dat ladder, " she said with grim determination, "an' I'segwine to sweep dem sparks off. An' effen I can't sweep 'em off I kinspank 'em out. "

The fire at the barn was now raging; great volumes of smoke swept towardthe house, heavily laden with live embers. 'Mazin' Grace, choking andfrightened, wielded her broom with telling effect; no sooner did a sparktouch the roof than it was brushed off into the long grass below. Butthey were coming faster and faster, and, watch as she would, she couldnot keep some of them from igniting the dry shingles. From side to sideshe scrambled, sweeping, beating, fighting the fire with all thestrength in her little body. Her eyes smarted fiercely, her feet werebruised, the heat was suffocating; but 'Mazin' Grace never thought ofdeserting the post: she worked, as she had danced, with all her mightand main, pitting her puny strength valiantly against that of theflames. 

[Illustration: "FROM SIDE TO SIDE SHE SCRAMBLED, SWEEPING, BEATING, ANDFIGHTING THE FIRE. "]

But courage does not always bring success. Just when the fire at thebarn began to subside, and the sparks ceased to fall on the roof, a tinycolumn of smoke began to curl up from the gabled roof of the porch. 'Mazin' Grace clambered down the ladder, and, sitting astride of theangle, worked her way outward toward the fire. She could not carry thebroom, but if she could only reach the blaze perhaps she could beat itout with her hands! Excitement gave her fresh strength. On either sidethe roof sloped abruptly, but she worked her way on, inch by inch. Twoshingles had caught--three! The smoke had changed into a blaze. Leaningover as far as she dared, 'Mazin' Grace stretched out her hand towardthe flame. She could not reach it. 

With a cry of terror and despair, she fell forward on the ridge; all hercourage and strength suddenly deserted her--she could only cling thereface downward, and sob and sob as if her heart would break. "Effen ourhouse burns down, I want to die too, " she whispered. "But Miss Lucy an'Marse Jim won't never know how I tried to take keer on it. 'Deed I did. "

Up from the creek came the faint perfume of the mint; the sparrowsscolded in the beech-trees. Nellie, who had broken her prison bars, called again and again from the playground, while slowly but surely upthe roof crawled the ever-increasing flames. But 'Mazin' Grace heardnothing, saw nothing; she lay unconscious on the roof, an absurdlypitiful little figure in her ragged dress and pink silk stockings. 

 * * * * *

It was six weeks before 'Mazin' Grace's burns were sufficiently healedfor her to walk. Mr. Tracy, hearing of the fire on his farm, had drivenhome just in time to save the child's life. His porch was completelydestroyed; but the old homestead, with its host of memories andassociations, stood intact--a monument to the faithfulness of a verynaughty little girl. 

Almost the first time 'Mazin' Grace was allowed to go out, she took Nellto the "Christian an' Debil" Society. She limped as she walked, for herfeet were still tender from the recent blisters; but, in spite of thepain, her smile was one of unalloyed bliss. Two pairs of sturdy littlelegs were keeping step in two new pairs of watermelon stockings. 

The "'Gator"

BY CLARENCE B. MOORE

The alligator, or "'gator, " as it is usually called throughout its home, the Southern States, is an object of great curiosity at the North. Everywinter many tourists visit Florida and carry back baby alligators, together with more or less magnified accounts of the creature's doingsand habits, and their stories are probably the cause of this verywidespread interest. 

Though the alligator is rapidly disappearing from the banks of the lowerSt. John's River, in Lake Washington and in the Saw Grass Lake (wherethat river has its source), and in waters still farther south, they arestill to be found in almost undiminished numbers, and are hunted for aliving by native hunters. They are commonly sought at night, bytorch-light, for in this way they can be approached with the utmostease. 

[Illustration: THE ALLIGATOR HUNTERS IN THEIR CAMP. ]

A rifle-ball will readily penetrate an alligator's hide, although thereexists an unfounded belief to the contrary. The creatures will "stand adeal of killing, " however, and frequently roll off a bank and are losteven after being shot through and through. 

The alligator builds a nest of mud and grass, and lays a large number ofoblong white eggs, but the little ones when hatched often serve as lunchfor their unnatural papa, and this cannibalism, more than the rifle, prevents their numbers from increasing. The alligator is not particularas to diet. I once found the stomach of a ten-footer to be literallyfilled with pine chips from some tree which had been felled near theriver's bank! They are fond of wallowing in marshes, and many a man outsnipe shooting has taken an involuntary bath by stumbling into theirwallows. In dry seasons alligators will traverse long distances overlandto reach water, and travelers have come suddenly upon alligatorscrawling amid prairies or woods, in the most unexpected manner. Thealligator as a rule is very wary, but at times sleeps quite soundly. Isaw one struck twice with an oar before it woke. 

[Illustration: The Haunt of the "Gator". ]

There is a very prevalent impression that the alligator differs from thecrocodile in that one moves the upper jaw and the other the lower. Such, however, is not the case. Both animals move the lower jaw, though theraising of the head as the mouth opens sometimes gives the appearanceof moving the upper jaw only. But alligators and crocodiles differ inthe arrangement of the teeth, and the snout of the crocodile is moresharply pointed. 

The hides are salted to preserve them and are shipped to dealers inJacksonville, where those less than six feet long are worth a dollar, while for those which exceed this length twenty-five cents extra isallowed. A fair estimate of the number of alligators killed for sale inFlorida alone, and not counting those shot by tourists, would be tenthousand annually. One hears very conflicting reports as to the lengthof large alligators. A prominent dealer in Jacksonville said that out often thousand hides handled by him none were over twelve feet long. I amtold that at the Centennial, side by side with a crocodile from theNile, there was shown an alligator from Florida sixteen feet in length. 

Years ago near a place called Enterprise, on a point jumping into LakeMonroe, during all bright days a certain big alligator used to liebasking in the sun. He was well known to the whole neighborhood. Theentire coterie of sportsmen at the only hotel used to call him "BigBen, " and proud hunters would talk, and even dream, of the time when awell-aimed rifle-shot would end his long career. But Big Ben was ascunning as a serpent, and whenever any one, afoot or afloat, cameunpleasantly near, he would slide off into the water, --which meant"good-by" for the rest of the day. 

One fine morning one of these sportsmen, paddling up the lake, luckilywith his rifle in his canoe, came upon Big Ben so sound asleep that hestole up within range and put a bullet through the alligator's brain. What to do next was a problem. He could not tow the monster all the wayto Enterprise with his small canoe. A bright idea struck him. He put hisvisiting-card in the beast's mouth and paddled swiftly back. A number ofhunters were at the wharf, and the slayer of Big Ben hastened to informthem with apparent sincerity that while out paddling he had come withineasy range of the "'gator, " who was, no doubt, still lying motionless onthe point. A flotilla of boats and canoes, manned by an army withrifles, instantly started for the point. To avoid confusion it wasunanimously agreed that all should go down together, and that the entireparty, if they were lucky enough to find Big Ben still there, shouldfire a volley at the word of command. As they approached the point, the hearts of all beat quickly; and when, with straining eyes, they sawBig Ben apparently asleep and motionless upon the bank, even the coolestcould scarcely control his feelings. The boats were silently drawn upwithin easy shot, and the word was given. Bang, bang! went a score ofrifles and Big Ben, riddled with bullets, lay motionless upon the point!With a cheer of triumph the excited sportsmen leaped ashore, andfastening a rope around the dead alligator, speedily towed him toEnterprise. There the original slayer awaited them upon the wharf. WhenBig Ben was laid upon the shore, opening the animal's mighty jaws hedisclosed his visiting-card, and thanked them most politely for theirkindness in bringing his 'gator home for him. 

[Illustration: A QUIET NAP ON THE RIVER BANK. ]

I once met with a curious adventure. Man is rarely attacked byalligators in Florida, except by the female alligator called upon todefend her young. Some years ago, in a small steamer chartered for thepurpose, I had gone up a branch of the St. John's beyond Salt Lake untilwe could proceed no farther, because the top of the river had becomesolid with floating vegetation under which the water flowed. We tied upfor the night, and shortly after were boarded by two men who saidthat their camp was near by and that they shot alligators andplume-birds for a living. One of the men carried his rifle, amuzzle-loader, and from its barrel projected the ramrod, which hadbecome fast immediately above the ball while loading. He intended todraw it out after they should return to camp. 

[Illustration: CATCHING AN ALLIGATOR ASLEEP. ]

We went ashore with these men to look at an alligator's nest near by, and were filling our pockets with baby-alligators, when we heard agrunting sound and saw an alligator eight or nine feet long comingdirectly at us. With the exception of the man already referred to, wewere all unarmed and affairs began to look a little unpleasant, for thecreature evidently meant mischief. When it was within a few feet, theman with the rifle, knowing that he alone had a weapon, took deliberateaim and fired bullet, ramrod, and all down the 'gator's throat. Theanimal turned over twice, and rolling off the bank, sank out of sight. 

The alligators of the Amazon River in South America are very numerous, and owing to scarcity of hunters attain a very great size. In the upperwaters apparently they are entirely unaccustomed to the report offirearms, and if not actually hit will lie still while shot after shotis fired. The largest I ever killed and measured was thirteen feet andfour inches in length; but this was much smaller than many which I shotfrom dugouts and canoes too far away from shore to tow them in. 

Buried an inch deep in one of these dead alligators I once found apirańa, that troublesome fish which makes swimming in some parts of theAmazon a risky matter. It bores into flesh very much after the manner ofa circular punch, and when it starts, its habit is to go to the bone. The pirańa of course could not penetrate the hide of the alligator, butentering by the bullet-hole it had turned to one side and partiallyburied itself in the flesh. I have seen men bearing very ugly scars, theresults of wounds inflicted by the pirańa while they were bathing. Ifthis fish is cut open after having bored its way into an animal a solidround mass of flesh will be found inside corresponding to the hole ithas made, showing that the fish really bores its way in. 

[Illustration: ONE OF THE "BIG FELLOWS. "]

It is said that the alligator of the Amazon is more likely to attack manthan its brother of our Southern States. The captain of a small steamerrunning between Iquitos and Para, told me that on the preceding triphe had carried to a doctor a boy who had lost his arm from the bite ofan alligator, while allowing his arm to hang in the water from a raft. The same captain, however, also informed me that he had been treed byone of these animals and compelled to remain "up a tree" for some time;so that I have some hesitation in quoting him as an authority upon thenature and habits of these alligators. The flesh of young alligators isconsidered a delicacy in Brazil and is regularly sold in the markets. 

THE EARTHQUAKE AT CHARLESTON

BY EWING GIBSON

On Tuesday, the 31st of August, 1886, every one in Charleston, SouthCarolina, complained of the severe heat and sultriness of the air. Not abreath cooled the atmosphere, parched by the burning summer sun's rays. In the afternoon the usual sea breeze failed to appear, and there was norelief from the intense closeness and almost overpowering warmth. Thesky was clear, but with a misty, steamy appearance which reminded onestrongly of glowing, tropical countries. 

As the night came on, the absence of the glare of the sun was the onlyrelief to the parched and panting population. Seated in the parlor of alarge three-storied brick house in the central portion of the city, Ispent the evening after tea conversing with two friends who had calledto see me. After a few hours of pleasant conversation, one of my friendssaid it was time to leave. Taking out his watch, he continued, "Sixminutes of ten, and--_what is that?_" A low, deep rumbling noise as ofthunder, only beneath instead of above us, coming from afar andapproaching us nearer and nearer, muttering and groaning, and everincreasing in volume, --it was upon us in an instant. 

The massive brick house we were in began to sway from side toside--gently at first with a rhythmical motion, then graduallyincreasing in force, until, springing to our feet, we seized one anotherby the hand and gazed with blanched and awe-struck faces at thetottering walls around us. We felt the floor beneath our feet heavinglike the deck of a storm-tossed vessel, and heard the crashing of thefalling masonry and ruins on every side. With almost stilled hearts werealized that we were in the power of an earthquake. The motion of thehouse, never ceasing, became now vertical. Up and down it went as thoughsome monstrous giant had taken it in his hands as a plaything and weretossing it like a ball for his amusement. Recalling our dazed senses, and staggering to our feet as best we could, with one accord we rusheddown the steps leading to the front door, and, grasping the handle, turned it. In vain--the door was jammed, and we were compelled to waitlike rats in a trap until the shock had passed!

Concentrating its energies into one final, convulsive effort, the hugeearth-wave passed and left the earth palpitating and heaving like atired animal. There came crashing down into our garden-plot the chimneysfrom the house in front of ours. Fortunately the falling bricks injurednone of us. Making another trial, we succeeded in opening the door andrushed into the street. 

Now there came upon us an overpowering, suffocating odor of sulphur andbrimstone, which filled the whole atmosphere. We were surrounded by acrowd of neighbors--men, women, and children--who had rushed out oftheir houses, as we had done, and who stood with us in the middle of thestreet, awaiting they knew not what. 

Suddenly there came again to our ears the now dreaded rumbling sound. Like some fierce animal, growling and seeking its victim, it approached, and we all prepared ourselves for the worst. The shock came, and for amoment the crowd was awed into silence. Fortunately this shock was notnearly so severe as the first. The earth became still once more, and theroaring died away in the distance. 

[Illustration: STREET SCENE DURING THE CHARLESTON EARTHQUAKE. ]

How the people shunned their houses and spent that and succeeding nightsin the streets, private gardens, and on public squares, is well knownfrom the many accounts given in the daily and illustrated papers at thetime. 

So perfectly still and calm was the air during the night, that a lamp, which was taken out in the open air burnt as steadily as thoughprotected in a room, and no flickering revealed the presence of a breathof wind. 

Again, some strong and powerful buildings in certain portions of thecity were wrecked completely, while others older and undoubtedly weakerpassed through the shock unharmed. A house on one corner was perfectlyshattered, while, just a few hundred feet away, the house on theopposite corner was not damaged in the slightest except that a littleplastering was shaken down. 

Knowing that a city with a population of sixty thousand had been wreckedin every direction by an earthquake, one would expect the death-list tobe enormous; but not more than about forty were killed outright, and buta few more were wounded. Had the shock occurred in the daytime, when thestreets were thronged, the loss of life must have been terrible. 

HIDING PLACES IN WAR TIMES

BY J. H. GORE

For some years after the close of our Civil War, the attention of ourpeople was chiefly occupied with a study and recital of the mostprominent battles, the decisive events, and the acts of famous officers. But when these bolder features of the war panorama had been examined anddiscussed, more time was taken to look at some of the details, to callup the minor incidents, to bestow meed of praise upon privates, or torecord the littles that made up the much. 

The sacrifices of the women and children at home have been repeatedlyreferred to in general, but seldom do we see mention made of their dailyprivations, the petty but continual annoyances to which they weresubjected, and the struggle they made to sow and reap, as well as thedifficulties they met in saving the harvested crops. 

The hiding-places here described were all in _one_ house. This house wasin Virginia, near a town which changed hands, under fire, eighty-twotimes during the war--a town whose hotel register shows on the same pagethe names of officers of both armies, a town where there are two largecities of the fallen soldiers, each embellished by the saddest of allepitaphs--"To the unknown dead. " Out from this battered town run anumber of turnpikes, and standing as close to one of these as a cityhouse stands to the street was the house referred to--the home of awidow, three small children, a single domestic, and, for part of thetime, an invalid cousin, whose ingenuity and skill fashioned the secretplaces, one of which was on several occasions his place of refuge. 

With fall came the "fattening time" for the hogs. They were then broughtin from the distant fields, where they had passed the summer, and put ina pen by the side of the road. And although within ten feet of thesoldiers as they marched by, they were never seen, for the pen wascompletely covered by the winter's wood-pile, except at the back, wherethere was a board fence through whose cracks the corn was thrown in. Whenever the passing advance-guard told us that an army was approaching, the hogs were hurriedly fed, so that the army might go by while theywere taking their after-dinner nap, and thus not reveal their presenceby an escaped grunt or squeal. Fortunately, the house was situated in anarrow valley, where the opportunities for bushwhacking were so greatthat the soldiers did not tarry long enough to search unsuspectedwood-piles. On one occasion we thought the hogs were doomed. A wagonbroke down near the house, and a soldier went to the wood-pile for apole to be used in mending the break. Luckily, he found a stick to hisliking without tearing the pile to pieces. This suggested that somenice, straight pieces be always left conveniently near for such anemergency, in case it should occur again. 

The house had a cellar with a door opening directly out upon the "bigroad, " and never did a troop, large or small, pass by without countlesssoldiers seeking something eatable in this convenient cellar. It wasnever empty, but nothing was ever found. A partition had been run acrossabout three feet from the back wall, so near that even a closeinspection would not suggest a space back of it; and being without adoor, no one would think there was a room beyond. The only access tothis back cellar was through a trapdoor in the floor of the room above. This door was always kept covered by a carpet, and in case any dangerwas imminent, a lounge was put over this, and one of the boys, feigningillness, was there "put to bed. " In this cellar apples, preserves, pickled pork, etc. , were kept, and its existence was not known to anyone outside of the family. 

The two garrets of the house had false ends, with narrow spaces beyond, where winter clothing, flour, and corn were safely stored. The partitionin each was of weather-boarding, and nailed on from the inner side so asto appear like the true ends, and, being in blind gables, there was nosuspicion aroused by the absence of windows. The entrance to theselittle attics was through small doors that were a part of the partition, and, as usual in country houses, the clothesline stretched across theend from rafter to rafter held enough old carpets and useless stuff tosilence any question of secret doors. Several closets also were providedwith false backs, where the surplus linen of the household found a safehiding-place. 

In such an exposed place a company of scouts, or even a regiment, couldappear so unexpectedly that it was necessary to keep everything out ofsight. Even the provisions for the next meal had to be put away, orbefore the meal could be prepared a party of marauders might drop in andcarry off the entire supply. In the kitchen a wood-box of large sizestood by the stove. It had a false bottom. In the upper part was "wooddirt, " a plentiful supply of chips, and so much stove-wood that theimpression would be conveyed that at least there was a good stock offuel always on hand. The box was made of tongued and grooved boards, andone of these in the front could be slipped out, thus forming a door. Into this box all the food and silverware were put. No little ingenuitywas needed in making this contrivance. The nails that were drawn out tolet this board slip back and forth left tell-tale nail-holes, but thesewere filled up with heads of nails, so that all the boards looked justalike. I remember once a soldier was sitting on this box while motherwas cooking for him what seemed to be the last slice of bacon in thehouse. She was so afraid that he would drum on the box with his heels, as boys frequently do, and find that the box was hollow, that shecontinually asked him to get up while she took a piece of wood for thefire. It was necessary to disturb him a number of times before he foundit advisable to take the proffered chair, and in the meantime a hotterfire had been made than the small piece of meat required. 

Of course it was advisable to have at least scraps of food lyingaround--their absence at any time would have aroused suspicion andstarted a search that might have disclosed all. The large loaves ofbread were put in an unused bed in the place of bolsters; money, whenthere was any on hand, was rolled up in a strip of cotton which was tiedas a string around a bunch of hoarhound that hung on a nail in thekitchen ceiling; the chickens were reared in a thicket some distancefrom the house, and, being fed there, seldom left it. 

Although this house was searched repeatedly, by day and by night, byregulars and by guerrillas, by soldiers of the North and of the South, the only loss sustained were a few eggs, and this loss was not serious, for the eggs were stale. 

ST. AUGUSTINE

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON

The city of St. Augustine, on the eastern coast of Florida, stands inone respect preeminent among all the cities of the United States--it istruly an old city. It has many other claims to consideration, but theseare shared with other cities. But in regard to age it is the one memberof its class. 

Compared with the cities of the Old World, St. Augustine would be calledyoung; but in the United States a city whose buildings and monumentsconnect the Middle Ages with the present time, may be considered to havea good claim to be called ancient. 

After visiting some of our great towns, where the noise and bustle oftraffic, the fire and din of manufactures, the long lines of buildingsstretching out in every direction, with all the other evidences ofactive enterprise, proclaim these cities creations of the present dayand hour, it is refreshing and restful to go down to quiet St. Augustine, where one may gaze into the dry moat of a fort of medievalarchitecture, walk over its drawbridges, pass under its portcullis, andgo down into its dungeons; and where in soft semi-tropical air thevisitor may wander through narrow streets resembling those of Spain andItaly, where the houses on each side lean over toward one another sothat neighbors might almost shake hands from their upper windows, andare surrounded by orange-groves and rose-gardens which blossom all theyear. 

St. Augustine was founded in 1565 by Pedro Menendez de Aviles, who wasthen Governor of Florida. Here he built a wooden fort which wasafterward replaced by the massive edifice which still exists. St. Augustine needed defenses, for she passed through long periods of war, and many battles were fought for her possession. At first there werewars in Florida between the Spanish and the French; and when the townwas just twenty-one years old, Sir Francis Drake captured the fort, carrying off two thousand pounds in money, and burned half the buildingsin the town. Then the Indians frequently attacked the place andcommitted many atrocities; and, half a century after Drake, thecelebrated English buccaneer Captain John Davis captured and plunderedthe town. 

Much later, General Moore, Governor of South Carolina, took the town andheld it for three months, but was never able to take the fort. In 1740General Oglethorpe, Governor of Georgia, attacked St. Augustine, planting batteries on the island opposite, and maintaining a siege forforty days; but he was obliged to withdraw. Three years later he madeanother attack, but succeeded no better. Even now one can see the dentsand holes made in the fort by the cannon-balls fired in these sieges. 

In 1819 Florida was ceded to our Government, and St. Augustine became acity of the United States. 

Approaching St. Augustine from the sea, the town looks as if it might bea port on the Mediterranean coast. The light-colored walls of its housesand gardens, masses of rich green foliage cropping up everywhere in thetown and about it, the stern old fortress to the north of it, and thewhite and glittering sands of the island which separates its harbor fromthe sea, make it very unlike the ordinary idea of an American town. 

In the center of the city is a large open square called the Plaza de laConstitucion, surrounded by beautiful live-oaks and pride-of-Indiatrees, with their long, hanging-mosses and sweet-smelling blossoms. 

Most of the streets are narrow, without sidewalks, and from thehigh-walled gardens comes the smell of orange-blossoms, while roses andother flowers bloom everywhere and all the time. 

At the southern end of the town stands the old Convent of St. Francis, which is now used as barracks for United States soldiers. 

The old palace of the governor still stands, but now contains thepost-office and other public buildings. There was once a wall around thetown, and one of the gates of this still remains. There is a tower oneach side of the gateway, and the sentry-boxes, and loopholes throughwhich the guards used to look out for Indians and other enemies, arestill there. Along the harbor edge of the town is a wall nearly a milelong, built at great expense by the United States Government as adefense against the encroachments of the sea. This is called the seawall, and its smooth top, four feet wide, is a favorite promenade. Walking northward on this wall, or on the street beside it, if you likethat better, we reach, a little outside of the town, what I consider themost interesting feature of St. Augustine. This is the old fort of SanMarco, which, since it came into the possession of our government, hasbeen renamed Fort Marion. 

[Illustration: THE SPANISH COAT-OF-ARMS. ]

The old fort is not a ruin, but is one of the best-preserved specimensof the style of fortification of the Middle Ages. We cross the moat andthe drawbridge, and over the stone door-way we see the Spanishcoat-of-arms, and under it an inscription stating that the fort wasbuilt during the reign of King Ferdinand VI of Spain, with the names andtitles of the dons who superintended the work. It took sixty years tobuild the fort, and nearly all the work was done by Indians who werecaptured and made slaves for the purpose. Passing through the solemnentrance, we come to an open square surrounded by the buildings andwalls of the fort, which, in all, cover about an acre of ground. On theright is an inclined plane which serves as a stairway to reach theramparts where the cannon were placed. The _terre-plein_, or wide, flatsurface of the ramparts, makes a fine walk around the four sides of thefort from which we can have views of land and sea. At each corner was awatch-tower, three of which remain; and into these one can mount, andthrough the narrow slits of windows get a view of what is going onoutside without being seen himself. At one end of the fort is the oldSpanish chapel, and all around the square are the rooms that used to beoccupied by the officers and the soldiers. Into the chapel the condemnedprisoners used to be taken to hear their last mass before being marchedup to the north rampart and shot. 

Down in the foundations of the fort are dungeons into which no ray ofsunlight can enter. After the fort came into the possession of ourgovernment, a human skeleton was found in one of the dungeons, chainedto a staple in the wall; and in another dungeon, without door or windowand completely walled up, there were discovered two iron cages which hadhung from the walls, each containing a human skeleton. The supports ofone of the cages had rusted away, and it had fallen down, but the otherwas still in its place. A great many romantic stories were told aboutthese skeletons, and by some persons it was supposed that they were theremains of certain heirs to the Spanish throne whose existence it wasdesirable utterly to blot out. One of the skeletons was that of a womanor girl. The cages and skeletons have been removed, but we can go intothe dungeons if we take a lantern. Anything darker or blacker than theseunderground cells cannot be imagined. I have seen dungeons in Europe, but none of them were so hopelessly awful as these. 

In another part of the fort is a cell in which Osceola, the celebratedIndian chief, was once imprisoned, in company with another chief namedWild Cat. There is a little window near the top of the cell, protectedby several iron bars; and it is said that Wild Cat starved himself untilhe was thin enough to squeeze between two of the bars, having firstmounted on the shoulders of Osceola in order to reach them. Whether thestarving part of the story is true or not, it is certain that he escapedthrough the window. 

When I last visited San Marco, it was full of Indian prisoners who hadbeen captured in the far West. Some of them were notorious for theircruelties and crimes, but in the fort they were all peaceable enough. Itwas one of these Indians, a big, ugly fellow, who lighted me into thedungeon of the skeleton-cages. 

This fort, which is in many respects like a great castle, is not builtof ordinary stone, but of coquina, a substance formed by theaccumulation of sea-shells which, in the course of ages, have unitedinto a mass like solid rock. On Anastasia Island, opposite St. Augustine, there are great quarries from which the coquina stone istaken, and of this material nearly the whole town is built. It isinteresting to visit one of these quarries, and observe how in theupper strata the shells are quite distinct, while the lower we look downthe more and more solid and stone-like the masses become. 

The harbor of St. Augustine is a portion of the sea cut off by AnastasiaIsland. Southward, the Matanzas River extends from the harbor; and inall these waters there is fine fishing. On the sea-beaches there is goodbathing, for the water is not too cold even in winter. St. Augustine isan attractive place at all seasons of the year, and its three superbhotels--the Ponce de Leon, the Alcazar, and the Cordova--are among themost celebrated in America. In winter people come down from the Northbecause its air is so warm and pleasant, and in summer people from theSouthern States visit it because its sea-breezes are so cool andrefreshing. It is a favorable resort for yachts, and in its wide, smoothharbor may often be seen some of the most beautiful vessels of thisclass. 

St. Augustine is not only a delightful place in which to stay, but it iseasy to reach from there some points which are of great interest totravelers. The great St. John's River is only fourteen miles away, andis connected with the town by a little railroad. At Tocoi, the riverterminus of the railroad, people who wish to penetrate into the heart ofFlorida, with its great forests and lakes and beautiful streams, cantake a steamer and sail up the St. John's, which, by the way, flowsnorthward some two hundred miles. In some parts the river is six mileswide, resembling a lake, and in its narrow portions the shores are verybeautiful. 

About forty miles above Tocoi the Ocklawaha River runs into the St. John's, and there are few visitors to St. Augustine who do not desire totake a trip up the little river which is in many respects the mostromantic and beautiful stream in the world. At Tocoi we take a smallsteamboat which looks like a very narrow two-story house mounted upon alittle canal-boat, and in this we go up the St. John's until we see onthe right an opening in the tree-covered banks. This is the mouth of theOcklawaha, and, entering it, we steam directly into the heart of one ofthe great forests of Florida. The stream is very narrow, and full ofturns and bends. Indeed, its name, which is Indian, signifies "crookedwater"; and sometimes the bow of the boat has even to be pushed aroundby men with long poles. Of course we go slowly, but no one objects tothat, for we do not wish to hurry through such scenery as this. On eachside we see green trees with their thick evergreen foliage, with vinesand moss hanging from many of them, and the ground beneath covered withthe luxuriant shrubbery which grows in these warm regions. 

Sometimes we can see through the trees into the distant recesses of theforest, and then again we are shut in by walls of foliage. Now and thenwe may see an alligator sunning himself on a log, and as our boatapproaches he rolls over into the water and plumps out of sight. Water-turkeys, whose bodies are concealed in the bushes, run out theirlong necks to look at us, presenting the appearance of snakes dartingfrom between the leaves; while curlews, herons, and many other birds areseen on the banks and flying across the river. In some places the streamwidens, and in the shallower portions near the banks grow many kinds oflilies, beautiful reeds, and other water-plants. For long distancesthere is no solid ground on either side of the river, the waterpenetrating far into the forest and forming swamps. Near the edge of theriver we frequently see myriads of tree-roots bent almost at rightangles, giving the trees the appearance of standing on spider-legs inthe water. 

Sometimes the forest opens overhead, but nearly all the way we arecovered by a roof of green, and at every turn appear new scenes ofbeauty and luxuriance. Occasionally the banks are moderately high, andwe see long stretches of solid ground covered with verdure. There is onespot where two large trees stand, one on each bank, close to the water, and the distance between the two is so small that as our boat glidesthrough this natural gateway there is scarcely a foot of room to spareon either side. 

Although the river is such a little one that we are apt to think all thetime we are sailing on it that we must soon come to the end of itsnavigation, we go on more than a hundred miles before we come to theplace where we stop and turn back. The trip up the Ocklawaha requiresall the hours of a day and a great part of a night; and this night tripis like a journey through fairyland. On the highest part of the boat isa great iron basket, into which, as soon as it becomes dark, are thrownquantities of pine-knots. These are lighted in order that the pilot maysee how to steer. The blazing of the resinous fuel lights up the forestfor long distances in every direction, and, as may easily be imagined, the effect is wonderfully beautiful. When the fire blazes high the sceneis like an illuminated lacework of tree-trunks, vines, leaves, andtwigs, the smallest tendril shining out bright and distinct; whilethrough it all the river gleams like a band of glittering silver. Then, as the pine-knots gradually burn out, the illumination fades and fadesaway until we think the whole glorious scene is about to melt intonothing, when more sticks are thrown on, the light blazes up again, andwe have before us a new scene with different combinations of illuminatedfoliage and water. 

It often happens that during the night our little steamer crowds itselfto one side of the river and stops. Then we may expect to see a splendidsight. Out of the dark depths of the forest comes a glowing, radiantapparition, small at first, but getting larger and larger until it movesdown upon us like a tangle of moon and stars drifting through the trees. 

This is nothing but another little steamboat coming down the river withits lighted windows and decks, and its blazing basket of pine-knots. There is just room enough for her to squeeze past us, and then herradiance gradually fades away in the darkness behind us. 

[Illustration: FORT MARION--VIEW FROM WATER-BATTERY. ]

We travel thus, night and day, until we reach Silver Springs, which isthe end of our journey. This is a small lake so transparent that we cansee down to the very bottom of it, and watch the turtles and fishes asthey swim about. A silver coin or any small object thrown into the watermay be distinctly seen lying on the white sand far beneath us. The landis high and dry about Silver Springs, and the passengers generally go onshore and stroll through the woods for an hour or two. Then we reėmbarkand return to St. Augustine as we came. 

It must not be supposed that St. Augustine contains nothing butbuildings of the olden time. Although many parts of the town are thesame as they were in the old Spanish days, and although we may even findthe descendants of the Minorcans who were once its principal citizens, the city now contains many handsome modern dwellings and hotels, some ofwhich are exceptionally large and grand. Hundreds of people from theNorth have come down to this city of orange-scented air, eternalverdure, and invigorating sea-breezes, and have built handsome houses;and during the winter there is a great deal of bustle and life in thenarrow streets, in the Plaza, and on the sunny front of the town. Manyof the shops are of a kind only to be found in semi-tropical towns bythe sea, and have for sale bright-colored sea-beans, ornaments made offish-scales of every variety of hue, corals, dried sea-ferns, and everso many curiosities of the kind. We may even buy, if we choose, somelittle black alligators, alive and brisk and about a foot long. As tofruit, we can get here the best oranges in the world, which come fromthe Indian River in the southern part of Florida, and many sorts oftropical fruits that are seldom brought to Northern cities. 

If St. Augustine were like most American cities, and had been built byus or by our immediate ancestors, and presented an air of newness andprogress and business prosperity, its delightful climate and its naturalbeauties would make it a most charming place to visit. But if we add tothese attractions the fact that here alone we can see a bit of the oldworld without leaving our young Republic, and that in two or three daysfrom the newness and busy din of New York or Chicago we may sit upon theramparts of a medieval fort, and study the history of those olden dayswhen the history of Spain, England, and France was also the history ofthis portion of our own land, --we cannot fail to admit that this littletown of coquina walls and evergreen foliage and traditions of old-worldantiquity occupies a position which is unique in the United States. 

CATCHING TERRAPIN

BY ALFRED KAPPES

In the shoal waters along the coast south of Cape Henlopen, terrapin arecaught in various ways. Dredges dragged along in the wake of a sailingvessel pick them up. Nets stretched across some narrow arm of river orbay entangle the feet of any stray terrapin in their meshes; but theserequire the constant attendance of the fisherman to save the catch fromdrowning. In the winter, in the deeper water, the terrapin rise fromtheir muddy quarters on mild sunny days and crawl along the bottom. Theyare then taken by tongs, their whereabouts being often betrayed bybubbles. 

The method shown in the drawing is resorted to only in the spring and inwater not over a foot or two in depth. Turtles will rise at any noise, and usually the fisherman only claps his hands, though each hunter hashis own way of attracting the terrapin. One hunter whom I saw when Imade the drawing uttered a queer guttural noise that seemed to rise fromhis boots. 

[Illustration: CATCHING TERRAPIN IN THE SPRING. ]

Whatever the noise, all turtles within hearing--whether terrapin or"snapper"--will put their heads above water. Both are welcome and arequickly sold to the market-men. The snapper slowly appears anddisappears, leaving scarcely a ripple; and the hunter cautiouslyapproaching usually takes him by the tail. The terrapin, on thecontrary, is quick, and will descend in an oblique direction, so that ahand-net is needed unless he happens to come up near by. If he is nearenough the man jumps for him. The time for hunting is the still hour ateither sunrise or sunset. 

"LOCOED"

(_A story of a Texan girl. _)

BY EDWARD MARSHALL

John Fredding had laughingly taken his sister Martha as a partner in hisTexas saddle store. She made a good partner although she was onlythirteen years old. There were other women on the ranch (the saddlestore was only an adjunct of the big cattle-ranch itself), but thegrandmother was very old, and the servant-girl was Welsh and would notlearn to speak more English than was required in the daily routine ofhousework. 

Not far away was the town of Amarilla (pronounced Ah-ma-ree-ah). Therewere plenty of women and girls there, but Martha knew none of them wellexcept the preacher's daughter, Scylla. Martha and Scylla were greatfriends. They saw each other as often as Martha could get time andpermission to ride in to Amarilla. Scylla could seldom visit the ranch, for she was an invalid. When she had been a very little girl, a horsehad kicked her. She was ill for many weeks, and after the doctor hadtold her parents that she would live, he had added that she might neverhave full use of her right side again. It was partially paralyzed. 

But Martha was seldom lonely. For in the daytime there was alwayssomething to do around the ranch or store. She had her pet calf toattend to, for one thing. He was given to her by a cow-boy who bought asaddle from her brother one day, and who cried that evening when Marthaplayed "Home, Sweet Home" for him on her guitar. The calf was in severalrespects remarkable. In the first place, he was almost black--an unusualthing among Texas cattle. In the second place, he was not quite black, for he had a white spot on his forehead shaped almost exactly likeMartha's guitar. That was why they called him "Gitter. " In the thirdplace, Martha had taught him several tricks. He had learned to low threetimes when he was thirsty, and twice when he was hungry; he would standon his hind legs and paw the air with his front legs for a moment whenMartha cried, "Up, Gitter!" and he would lie down and roll over on thegrass when she commanded "Down, Gitter!" She had a cat that would climbup on her shoulder whenever he got the chance, and a clever dog thatliked the cat. She had two horses, also. One of them was an ordinary"cow-pony, " but the other was a big black Spanish horse who seemed tolove Martha as well as she loved him. When she was on his back he nevervaried his long, swinging, graceful gallop by jumping or shying, but ifany one else rode him, he was apt to make them hold fast when he wentaround corners. His name was "Dan. " Martha thought almost as much of thecow-pony, though, as she did of Dan, and called him "Texas, " after thegreat State she lived in. 

Her brother, too, did many things to make her happy. In the long winterevenings he often read to her for hours, or taught her new airs on theguitar, of which he was a master; and sometimes, when summer came, theytook long rides off on the prairie together. These occurred when therewas a band of cow-boys camped near by, and John generally combinedbusiness with pleasure by talking with them about cattle and saddles. But that did not detract at all from Martha's enjoyment of the rides. She always carried her guitar swung over her shoulder by a strap whenshe went out with her brother to see the cow-boys. 

[Illustration: "SOMETIMES WHEN SUMMER CAME THEY TOOK LONG RIDES ON THEPRAIRIE TOGETHER. "]

The little girl's life was a queer one, but then, she was a queer littlegirl and among queer people. For instance, there was "Mister Jim, " whocame up to the store every few weeks to lay in supplies. Mister Jim wasone of the men who were hired to keep wild animals out of the Cańon. TheCańon was a favorite place for Amarilla's excursions and picnics, andwas very beautiful; but it communicated with other cańons into whichpicnics could never penetrate, and in which there were wild beasts ofmany kinds. To prevent these unpleasant visitors from wandering wherethey were not wanted, men were stationed at various places to shootthem. Mister Jim was the one nearest to Martha's home, and he wasMartha's stanch friend. He never went to the ranch without some gift forher--the soft pelt of an animal he had shot, the gay wings of a strangebird, or some crystal or stone he had found in his explorations of theCańon. Martha returned his admiration. He lived in a cave, and thatinterested her--she thought she might like to try it herself some time. She considered his clothes very grand and impressive. In the Cańon hewore a leather suit; but when he visited the ranch he was alwaysdressed in black velvet trimmed with gold braid, and wore a high, pointed hat wound with red ribbons like those of the seldom-appearingMexican cow-boys, only much finer. 

But the "loco men" were Martha's favorites. There were three ofthem--Big Billy, Little Billy, and One-eyed Saylo. Why Saylo was called"one-eyed" was a mystery, for he had two of the very best eyes forspying the hated loco-weed ever known in that region. Loco-weed grows, when unmolested, to a height of sixteen or eighteen inches, and itsqueer leaves shine and sparkle in the sunlight like silver and crystals. Its effects on horses or cattle that happen to eat it are worse thandeadly. One good, big meal of loco-weed will ruin an animal forever. 

A locoed horse, once locoed, is locoed until he dies. Apparently he mayrecover wholly, but he is not a safe animal to ride, for at any momenthe may stagger and fall, or go suddenly mad. A locoed horse is almostcertain to show it when he becomes heated by rapid traveling or hardwork. The great danger from locoed cattle is, that they will begin totumble around in the midst of a herd and frighten their fellows into astampede. 

As it can work such ruin, in order to avoid the danger of having theiranimals locoed, the ranchmen, in those regions where the weed isplentiful, hire men to search for it, cut it down, and destroy it. Ofthese men who make their living in searching for the dreaded loco-weedand destroying it wherever found were Big Billy, Little Billy, andOne-eyed Saylo. 

One summer night John told Martha to get her guitar, while he saddledTexas and his own pony for a ride. In a few moments they were gallopingover the prairie on their way to a cow-boy camp about three miles away. When they reached it, they found all the five men, but one, rolled upfrom top to toe in their tarpaulins, and asleep on the prairie. The onewho was awake welcomed them in effusive cow-boy style, and then with a"Wake up, you-uns! Yar's John Fredding an' 'is little woman!" kickedeach of his sleeping companions into consciousness with his foot. Theywere all glad to see John and Martha, for they knew them of old. 

In the twinkling of an eye the smoldering fire was livened into a cheeryblaze, the visitors' ponies were picketed, and the men were groupedaround Martha and the fire. For a little while John talked businesswith them; but, before long, one of the men arose and, deferentiallytaking off his broad hat to Martha, asked her if she wouldn't give thema "chune. " The music of her guitar was indescribably sweet, there in thelittle oasis of light in the prairie's desert of darkness, and for atime the men sat silently, with their hands clasped about their knees, enjoying it. Then she struck into a rollicking cow-boy song, and theyjoined in shouting it out. It is a favorite among the cow-boys ofsouthern Texas, and begins thus:

 I'd rather hear a rattler rattle, I'd rather do a Greaser battle, I'd rather buck stampeding cattle, Than Than to Than to fight Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans. 

 I'd rather eat a pan of dope, I'd rather ride without a rope, I'd rather from this country lope, Than Than to Than to fight Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans. 

After that came "I'm Gwine Back to Dixie, " and "'Way Down Upon theSuwanee River, " and then John said it was time to start home again. Loudwere the protests of the cow-boys, and when John and Martha went, thewhole party went with them except one man, who was left to watch thecattle. They were "full of sing, " as one of them put it, and it was ajolly ride back to the ranch. When it was finally reached, the cow-boysgave them a "send-off" that could have been heard a mile away. Theyshouted and yelled like the wild "In-ji-ans" they had sung about, and asthey wheeled around to gallop back to camp, they fired all the chargesin their revolvers into the air as a parting courtesy. Then there was amad scamper of horses' hoofs, the yells grew fainter, and the cow-boyswere gone. 

When John went into the house he found two letters which had beenbrought up by some passing friend from Amarilla. One of them was from anold schoolmate of his, who had become a professor in a Northern college, asking for some loco-weed, to be added to the college botanicalcollection. The other was from Scylla's father, saying that if it wouldbe convenient he would bring his little daughter out to the ranch in afew days for a long-promised visit to Martha. This second letter sentMartha to bed a very happy little girl. 

Several days passed before Scylla arrived at the ranch; but when she didcome there was great rejoicing. After she was comfortably ensconced inher wheeled chair on the porch, she held a mimic reception. John andMartha did the honors, and every human being within call was introducedto the little invalid. In the store there were a dozen leather-deckedcow-boys, and Scylla felt quite like a queen as each one scrambled up toher, and with his broad sombrero in one hand took her tiny fingers inthe other as he turned red and tried to say something polite. Nor didher impromptu court end with that. After the introductions were over, all the visitors sat down on the porch or the grass before it, whileMartha exhibited her pets to her friend. Gitter, the calf, was putthrough all his tricks, the cat was placed in Scylla's poor little arms, where he purred contentedly, and the dog chased sticks thrown by whoevercould find any to throw. After Gitter had been led away, Martha came upfrom the stables with her two horses--Texas and Dan. Big black Dan wasinclined to frisk a bit and jump about at the unusual scene; butlittle Texas worked his way right into Scylla's heart by marchingsteadily and straight up to her, despite Martha's laughing pulls on thelariat looped about his neck. With ears pricked forward, he madefriendly overtures to the new-comer on the spot. He poked his nose intoher lap and rubbed it against her hands and ate sugar from her fingers. 

[Illustration: MARTHA RIDES DAN OVER THE HURDLE. ]

"Oh, I wish I could ride him!" said Scylla. 

"He never was so cordial before, not even with me, " said Martha. 

Then she suddenly thought of something, and after intrusting her horsesto one of the cow-boys, went and talked it over in whispers with herbrother, Scylla's father, and the doctor, who had been discussingpolitics together on one end of the porch. After this mysteriousconversation had lasted a little while, Martha danced back to Scylla, sohappy that she "just _had_ to hop. "

"Oh, Scylla!" she exclaimed, "you _can_ ride him. Your papa says so andthe doctor says so and Brother says so. John is going to fix up one ofmy saddles for you with an extra strap to keep you from falling, andTexas likes you so much he will be gentle and careful as he can be, Iknow. And the doctor says he thinks it will do you good, if John and Ikeep close by you all the time, so there won't be any danger. "

The following days at the ranch were very pleasant ones for Martha andher visitor. In the morning after the work was done--Martha always didsome of the light house duties--they would watch with never-flagginginterest the great herds of cattle as they were driven on their way forshipment from Amarilla, and gossip as girls do. Sometimes the cattlepassed quite near to the house, but oftener they were half a mile ormore away on the prairie--sometimes so far that the great herds seemedto be mere black blots moving over the dun brown of the Texas grass. 

Every afternoon the two girls went riding, escorted either by John orone of the men employed about the ranch. John had fixed one of Martha'ssaddles so that poor little Scylla could not fall, and Texas seemed tobear his tiny burden with more than ordinary care. At first they rodevery slowly, and for only a few moments at a time; but Scylla gainedstrength daily, and by the end of the second week had improved so muchthat she could ride for an hour without great fatigue, and Texas wasoccasionally allowed to start his gentle gallop. 

It was as they were returning from one of these rides that Scylla'ssharp eyes spied the figure of a horseman rushing out to them from theranch. He waved his hat and yelled, firing his revolver between whoopsand generally conducted himself like a madman. Martha recognized him atonce. 

"It's One-eyed Saylo, " she said. "He always acts like that--he thinks itwouldn't be showing proper respect to a lady unless he wasted half adozen cartridges and showed off his horsemanship. "

Saylo acknowledged his introduction to Scylla with great ceremony, andthen told John that he had come to bring the loco-weed for the collegeprofessor. By dint of much searching and hard riding he had gathered agunny-sack full of it. 

Then, as they rode slowly toward the ranch, he told John how the cattlein the whole region seemed to be getting "panicky. " All the cow-boys hehad met had had the same story to tell. It was only by the most carefulhandling that they were able to keep their herds from stampeding. 

By this time the little cavalcade had reached the ranch. After Scyllahad been lifted from the saddle and carried to her seat on the porch, Martha, full of the irrepressible good spirits of a healthy girl, had along frolic with her big black horse. She took his saddle off, and lethim enjoy the luxury of a long roll on the grass, and then she made himdo all his tricks. First he shook hands with great dignity--"just toshow that this was friendly fun, " Martha said. Then she replaced thesaddle, clambered to its easy seat, and put him through his paces. Hewalked, slow and stately, with much self-consciousness, as a realSpanish horse should; he trotted, he loped, he paced, and wentsingle-foot, greatly to the admiration of the three spectators. Marthakept her seat with perfect ease and grace. 

Two posts near the house Martha had turned into the uprights of ajumping-hurdle with bars which could be placed at various heights. Overthese bars that afternoon, Dan, with Martha sticking to his back like aburr, jumped many times, surpassing, to the delight of both girls, hisprevious best record. 

John, in the meantime, was busy in the shop, where One-eyed Saylo hadfollowed him to gossip with the workmen about the all-absorbing topic ofsaddles and bridles. Martha had finished her fun, led Dan away andpicketed him, and was sitting by Scylla's side talking about that happyday when health and strength should have come back to the preacher'slittle daughter, when the men came out again. The gunny-sack ofloco-weed was lying at the side of the porch, and both girls watchedJohn and Saylo with interest as they shook out and examined itscontents. 

"So they all want some of this stuff to look at an' study, up No'th, dothey?" said Saylo, and added: "I reckon we-all wouldn't be soover-flowin' with grief ef they'd take all th' loco thar is in th' Stateo' Texas. "

Just then the Welsh servant blew loud and long on a great tin horn, andthey all went in to supper. Saylo and John had picketed their ponies, Saylo intending to ride in to Amarilla that night, and John having inview a visit to the camp of cow-boys four or five miles away. Martha hadtethered Texas near the other ponies, because he was "such a sociablelittle beast. "

It was nearing sundown when supper was over. One-eyed Saylo vaulted intohis saddle after elaborate good-bys and went off toward Amarilla in awild canter, and John prepared to start off on his saddle mission to thecow-boys. His pony and Texas stood with heads hanging dejectedly down, close together, as far away from the house as their long lariats wouldlet them go, when John, carrying on his arm a new saddle that he wantedto try, went toward them. As he walked away from the house he calledcheerily: "Come, Mattie, --want to go along?"

"Oh, no; I'll stay here with Scylla to-night, " she answered. 

"Why can't she go too?--it's too nice an evening to stay at home. I'llride as slow as you like, and it isn't far. "

Both girls were delighted at this. 

"Isn't he good to poor little me!" Scylla exclaimed to Martha as Johnfixed her on Texas's back. 

Martha ran around, brought Dan, and in a very few moments they wereriding leisurely toward the setting sun. 

 * * * * *

The evening was perfect. As the great, clean-cut disk of the sun droppedslowly below the far-off edge of the prairie, the breeze that had beenbusy all day rustling the prairie-grass died away, and the silence wasso complete that they all stopped involuntarily "to listen to it. " Theyhad ridden until they were three or four miles from the ranch, whenthey paused again, this time to hear the crooning of far-away cow-boys. They were between two great herds of cattle. One, on the left, was halfa mile away; and the moon, which now shed a great white light over theprairie showed it only as a black mass. Those cattle had been "bedded"for the night--that is, two cow-boys had ridden around and around themdriving them closer together so that they would be easy to watch, andmuch less likely to be restless. The other herd was a little nearer, andthe cow-boys were bedding it as the trio from the ranch approached. Thecamp-fire flickered between the riders and the herd, and its flaringlight seemed to make the cow-boys and cattle nearest it lurch back andforward in and out of the gloom while their changing shadows dancedfantastically over the prairie. Here the three riders paused again tolisten. Closer by, the cow-boys' crooning would have sounded harsh andunmusical, but at this distance it shaped itself into a plaintive, minormelody that was very pleasing. For many moments they waited and enjoyedit in silence. Then suddenly a quick gust of wind and a low, mutteringrumble of thunder made them turn quickly and look at the sky behindthem. 

A bank of dead black clouds was rising on the eastern horizon. 

John stopped, gazed at it ruefully for a moment, and said:

"There's a big thunder-storm coming; but we can get home all rightbefore it strikes us. You girls ride slowly back. I'll rush to the campand tell the boys to stop in in the morning. I'll overtake you beforeyou've gone far. "

With that he was off at a brisk canter toward the herd. 

Martha and Scylla did as he told them. The rising but still distantclouds, lighted on their edges by the moon, added greatly to the beautyof the night, and both the girls appreciated the sight. They walkedtheir horses and talked girlish nonsense. John had promised to takeMartha to the North the next winter, and she told Scylla some of thewonderful things she had heard about the great cities and the curiousthings to be seen up there. 

Suddenly Scylla interrupted her with:

"Martha, I believe there's something the matter with Texas--he'strembling all over. "

"Oh, I guess not, " said Martha; "he's just tired. Texas has had apretty hard day of it. But yet, he doesn't often get tired. "

She rode up close to Scylla and put her hand on Texas's neck. It was wetwith sweat, although he had hardly gone faster than a walk since he hadleft the ranch. 

And, sure enough, he _was_ trembling slightly. 

"There is something the matter with him, I know, " said Scylla. 

"Stop a minute and take my reins; I'll get off and see what it is, " saidMartha. "You're right. Texas is trembling like a leaf. Perhaps we'dbetter wait here for John. "

There was an anxious little quaver in her voice as she dismounted and, going in front of Texas, took his head between her hands. There was nolonger any doubt that the horse was sick, and very sick. His eyes closedsleepily, and his head dropped low. Then he suddenly began to sway andtotter on his feet. 

"Oh, Martha, I'm afraid!" cried Scylla. 

Martha was badly frightened, too, but she acted instead of sayinganything. She rushed to Scylla's side and hastily unbuckled the strapsthat held the weak little body in the saddle. 

"Quick, jump into my arms!" she commanded as the last buckle felljinglingly downward and Texas gave another alarming sidewise lurch. Withmore strength than she supposed she had, she half lifted, half pulledScylla out of the saddle and eased her, almost fainting, to the ground. It was none too soon, for in an instant more Texas had fallen with agroan and lay quiet on the prairie. 

This lasted only for a few seconds; then with an unsteady stagger thelittle horse scrambled to his feet. For another instant he stood quiet;then he began to tremble again and looked around toward the girls. Butthe pony's eyes had changed; they were wild and blood-shot. With a madsnort he started off on a wild run into the gloom. 

For a moment the girls were too surprised to speak. Scylla wassobbing on the ground, and Martha stood by her. She had the reinsof Dan's bridle in her hand, and gazed dumfounded after therapidly-disappearing Texas. Finally she turned to her companion:

"Oh, Scylla, " she said, "I'm so glad I got you off his back!"

"What do you think is the matter with him?" Scylla asked. 

"I can't imagine, unless--yes, that's it--he's locoed! Oh, my poorlittle Texas! My dear, gentle little pony! You ate that loco-weed Saylobrought for the college professor!"

Now Martha was crying, too, for she knew that her pony was lost to her. 

"They--they left it lying by the porch, " she went on, "and--you ate itwhile we were at supper. Oh, my little Texas!"

Martha had forgotten everything but her grief, but soon she rememberedthat there was a storm coming and that Scylla must be taken home in someway. At first she tried to lift her to Dan's high back, but she was notstrong enough. Then she thought of his education, and commanded him tolie down. He was nervous and excited and did not, at first, obey her, but finally she coaxed him into getting down on his knees. Then, withgreat pains and trouble, she pulled and lifted Scylla into the saddle. As Dan struggled to his feet again, it was hard work to keep the littleinvalid from falling, but it was done. Then Martha led him slowly towardthe ranch. The exciting events that had just passed had made hernervous, and for the first time in a long while she felt afraid. 

"Oh, I wish John would hurry and catch up with us!" she exclaimed. "Please don't fall, Scylla--hang on to the pommel tight. "

Scylla, who had stopped crying, told Martha not to worry, that she wouldnot fall; and the slow journey over the prairie continued silently for aminute or two. Every once in a while Martha turned back and lookedtoward the flickering camp-fire of the cow-boys. An exclamation ofsurprise was drawn from her when she failed to see it shining in thedistance, and she stopped. Then, faintly, she heard shouts and thethumping of racing hoofs on the prairie. 

"John is coming at last, " she said. 

But then she realized that more than one animal's hoofs were drummingdesperately on the turf. While she stood wondering if some of thecow-boys were coming home with John, she heard the hoof-beats merge intoa steady roar. Even the shouts of the men which she had just heard weredrowned in this dull, threatening rumble. For just an instant shethought it was thunder, and then her quick reasoning told her the truth. 

The herd had stampeded!

That she and Scylla were directly in its path she was certain, for thecamp-fire had, a moment before, been between them and the herd andwas now invisible. It had either been trampled out or was hidden by theadvancing mass of cattle. 

[Illustration: "JUST THEN ANOTHER FLASH CAME AND SHOWED A COW-BOYLEANING FAR OVER THE NECK OF HIS PONY, RIDING FOR HIS LIFE. "]

Martha well knew what it meant to be in the path of a stampede; but, strangely enough, all her fear left her. She was puzzled, that was all. Had she been alone, she could easily have escaped by jumping on Dan'sback and riding hard. Dan could have distanced the cattle, even whenthey were stampeding. But now she had helpless Scylla to take care of. 

The advancing thunder-clouds had wholly hidden the moon and put theprairie in inky darkness. At first Martha thought of starting Dan awaywith Scylla and trusting to Providence to keep the little invalid on hisback, while she remained to face the danger alone; then she thought oftrying to ride with her. But she knew Scylla could not possibly keep herplace in the saddle of the horse while he ran, even if she herselfshould mount him too and try to hold Scylla on. 

She stepped back to Scylla's side. There was a deathly doubt in herheart as to whether she was doing the right thing; but she had made adesperate resolve. Scylla had heard the thunder of the approaching herdtoo, and was too frightened to speak. Martha held her arms up towardher just as the first flash of lightning came. 

"Come, Scylla, " she said, "slide off into my arms. The herd hasstampeded and is coming toward us, but I will try to save us both. "

Without a word Scylla did as she was told, and in a few seconds was halfkneeling, half lying on the ground. 

Then Martha struck Dan as hard as she could with her flat hand. 

"Hey up, Dan!" said she, "run! run! _You_ needn't stay here, too!"

The horse galloped off into the darkness. 

Just then another lighting-flash came and showed a cow-boy leaning farover the neck of his pony, riding for his life. He passed only a dozenyards from them, but did not see them. Behind him Martha could dimly seetwo or three other riders coming toward them at desperate speed, whilestill beyond she caught a glimpse of the tossing horns and lurchingheads of the cattle. 

Without a moment for thought, and as coolly as if she had nothing in theworld to fear, she bent over trembling Scylla, unfastened the waistbandof her dress-skirt and pulled it deftly from under her. Then she quicklyremoved her own and took one of the bright-colored garments in eachhand. 

Just then the storm broke furiously. The night was suddenly lighted bylightning-flashes that followed one another so closely they seemed tomake one long, lasting flare. The cow-boys had all passed, and Marthasaw that the herd was scarcely two hundred yards away. 

She stepped directly in front of Scylla's prostrate form and raised theskirts. 

"Scream, Scylla, scream!" she cried. 

Then, while the driving rain fell in torrents, and the lightning madethe prairie as light as day, she stood straight up and waved thoseskirts wildly about her head, and shouted at the top of her voice. 

She was dimly conscious that her shouts shaped themselves into a prayerthat her brother was safe, and that the herd might divide and pass them. Her face was as pale as paper. Her long hair was tossed about by thewind, and by her own violent motions. 

The foremost of the cattle was only a hundred yards away now. She couldsee the lightning shining on his horns and in his red, rolling eyes. Hewas coming straight toward her. Louder she shouted and more wildly sheswung the skirts. Would he crush her, or would he turn aside? She feltan almost overpowering impulse to turn and run away, but that would meancertain death. Her only hope was to keep her position firmly, and toswing her skirts and scream. If the first steer swerved and passed her, his followers might do so too. 

He seemed of mammoth proportions as he lurched toward her. His head waslowered, and his great hoofs pounded the ground like trip-hammers. Closer! Closer! He was not twenty feet away. His big, crazy eyes seemedto look straight into hers. Closer! Closer!--Then he changed his coursea trifle. In an instant he had passed her like a great fury. Others wereonly a few feet behind him, and back of them was the compact mass of theherd. She screamed louder and redoubled her waving. The thunder in theheavens, and the thunder of the hoofs, drowned her voice so that shecould not even hear it herself. A dozen cattle passed her. Fifty cattlepassed her. She was in the midst of the herd which seemed to make asolid, living wall on each side of her. The earth trembled beneath thehammering of the hoofs. Her throat seemed ready to burst, and she wascertain that no sound came from her lips. It seemed a long time sincethat first one had plunged toward her, but still the maddened beastsadvanced with lowered heads and lunging bodies. They did not seem toturn aside, and each instant she expected to be struck down and trampledunder their feet. She could not even try to scream any longer, but stillshe waved the skirts. 

At last, slowly, she saw that the herd was thinning. Short gaps began toappear between the animals. She knew that the herd had nearly passed. Then the living walls on each side melted away behind her, and onlystragglers were left. Then these, too, were gone. The stampeding herdhad passed her, and she was still alive. 

She turned dizzily toward Scylla. 

The little invalid--the cripple--was standing straight up, close behindher. For a second Martha doubted her eyes. The storm still raged, andshe thought it was a vagary of the lightning. She held her hands out, though, and convinced herself that it was true. Scylla was standing onher feet, for the first time in many years. The two girls threw theirarms around each other, and sank to their knees on the prairie. As theysaid a prayer of thanks together, the uneven glare of the lightning, which had kept up almost uninterruptedly ever since a few seconds beforethe cattle reached them, died away. One or two feeble flashes followed, and then the storm had passed. 

Martha took Scylla's face between her hands and kissed her. Then shesaid:

"Wasn't it awful?"

"Oh, Martha, " Scylla answered, "I thought every second that we'd bekilled, but there you stood as brave as a lion, and waved those dressesright in the faces of the cattle. You saved both our lives. I lay hereon the ground for a minute after you took my skirt, and then I got up. "

"You _got up_, Scylla! How could you, all alone?"

"I don't know, Martha, but I felt as if I _must_. I tried to rise once, and fell back. Then the cattle came and I tried again, and all theweakness seemed to be gone, and I stood right up behind you and stayedthere while the herd went by. I don't feel as I used to--I feel as ifthe paralysis had all gone. See, I can get up again, --don't helpme, --all alone. "

And, sure enough, Scylla scrambled to her feet. She stood a littleunsteadily on them, but she stood. They were so glad it was true thatthey did not try to understand it. 

After Scylla's new-found strength had been rejoiced over for a moment, they began to wonder how they could get home. They knew that they couldnot walk--Martha was terribly tired, and Scylla, even if she could standup, was not equal to the long tramp back to the ranch, of course. Theywere dripping wet. The elation that followed their escape, and thediscovery of Scylla's great good fortune, was followed by a nervousbreakdown on the part of both girls, and they cuddled in each other'sarms on the wet grass, sobbing and frightened, to wait for morning tocome. 

Hardly half an hour had passed before they heard horses. Martha stood upand saw the shadowy form of a rider away off to the right. She tried toscream, but her overstrained voice was hoarse and husky. Scylla calledout as well as she could, but the horseman rode on. By and by theychanged their course, however, and came near enough for the girls tomake their presence known. 

As the horses approached, Martha recognized in the foremost one the bigblack form of Dan. Her brother John was on his back, and with him weremen from the ranch. 

There were tears in the eyes of the big men as they lifted the girls intheir arms, and started home. They had not expected to find them alive. 

Before they went to sleep, the thrilling story of Martha's bravery hadbeen fully told, and to it had been added the news of Scylla's strangerecovery. 

The next day the doctor was called in to see about it. He gravely shookhis head, and said it was strange, but that such things had happenedbefore. The great mental excitement of the stampede had wrought whatseemed a miracle. 

Her recovery after that was rapid. When John and Martha went North thenext winter, Scylla went with them, and was able to walk about almost aseasily as Martha herself. 

A few days after the stampede, the bruised body of poor Texas was foundwhere he had been trampled to death by the herd. What was left of theloco-weed that had wrought his ruin was burned, and the Northern collegeprofessor is still without his specimens. 

A DIVIDED DUTY

BY M. A. CASSIDY

The Magill residence was situated near the highways connecting Knoxvilleand Chattanooga. Encamping armies had burned every splinter of fencing, and so the cleared space was thrown into one great field, encircled by agigantic hedge of oak and pine. Near the center of the cleared land, ona little eminence, was a farm-house. It was a long, one-story building, running back some distance, its several additions having beenconstructed as the family required more room. A little to the right, andextending the full length of the house, was a row of negro cabins--therebeing a passway between the two as wide as an ordinary road. The yardsloped gently to the roadway and railroad; near the latter, another risebegan, which extended back to the woodland and commanded an extensiveview of the surrounding country. 

One afternoon, early in the autumn of 1864, Mrs. Magill and her sonHarry, a comely lad of thirteen, sat on the front veranda, and talked ofwhat a happy reunion there would be when their loved ones should returnfrom the war. And on this glorious autumnal afternoon the hearts of thewidow and her son were happy in anticipation. 

Mrs. Magill had two sons in the war. One wore the Blue, the other theGray. John, the eldest of three boys, had enlisted in Wheeler'sConfederate cavalry, in the second year of the war; and, a year later, Thomas had joined the Federals under General Burnside at Knoxville. Bothwere known as brave and dashing soldiers, and both had been promoted, for gallantry, to captaincies. This family division was a source ofgreat grief to Mrs. Magill. Dearer to her than Union or Confederacy wereher children; and from their youth she had trained them in the ways ofpeace. And now, in their manhood, two of them, under different flags, were arrayed against each other in a deadly and unnatural strife. Sheoften heard from both her soldier boys, and their inquiries after thewelfare of each other were full of tenderness. Harry, as is usual withyounger brothers, fairly worshiped both of them. He was no less troubledthan his mother when they went away to fight on opposite sides. Theircontrary action left him in doubt as to which side he should take. Everyboy of his acquaintance was ardent in espousing one side or the other. But what could he do, since he had a brother in each army? Should hebecome a rebel, Thomas might be displeased; and he loved Tom too well towillfully incur his displeasure. Should he decide to remain loyal to theUnion, John might resent it; and he could not think of offending onewhom he held in such high esteem. "What shall I do?" he asked himself agreat many times a day. The war spirit in him was becoming rampant, andmust have scope. He at length took the perplexing question to hismother. She promptly advised him to remain neutral. But somehow Harrygot it into his head that neutrality was something very different frommanliness. So he made up his mind to be one thing or the other, or--happy thought!--why not be both? And, after puzzling over thequestion a long time, he settled on the novel idea of making himselfhalf "Rebel" and half "Yankee. " In pursuance of this plan, he persuadedhis mother to make him a uniform, half of which should be blue, and theother half gray. She made it of a Federal and a Confederate overcoat;and Harry was a queer-looking little fellow as he went about thecountry, clad in his blue-gray uniform, the U. S. A. Buttons on oneside, and the C. S. A. On the other. The boys called him a "mongrel";and neither the Federal nor Confederate commands of boy soldiery wouldallow him in their ranks. This was a source of great mortification toHarry; but he was seriously in earnest, and fully resolved to carry outhis campaign of impartial affection. His being cut by the other boys, who could afford to take a decided stand because they did not have abrother on each side, reduced him to the necessity of playing "war"(about the only game indulged in by Southern boys at this time) alone. When he put up his lines of corn-stalk soldiers, to play battle, it wasobserved, by his mother, that both sides always won an equal number ofvictories. Harry was not sure that the war could ever end at this rateof even fighting; but arrayed as he was, in the colors of both armies, his inclination was to be true to both. There were generally tears inhis mother's eyes, when she saw that two of the corn-stalk soldiers, thetallest and straightest of them all, representing John and Thomas, werealways left standing, even after the most furious of contests, in whichall the others had fallen. 

Harry had left off playing quite early, on the afternoon of which Iwrite, and had joined his mother on the veranda. They had not been longtogether when something unusual attracted their attention. 

A short distance down the railroad a body of cavalrymen had dismounted, and soon they were as busy as ants, tearing up the track. One squadpreceded the others and loosened the rails by drawing the spikes; thencame another squad that placed the ties in great heaps; after this camea third that kindled fires beneath them. The ties were rotten and dry, and, in a very few moments, there were scores of bright, hot fires. Soonthe rails were at a red heat near the center, the ends beingcomparatively cool. While in this state a number of men would take therails and bend them around telegraph poles or any solid objects thatwere near. The soldiers twisted the rails into fantastic shapes; andwhen they were through with their work of destruction, they seemedperfectly satisfied that none of the old material could be used inreconstructing the road. Harry and his mother had observed theoperations of these men with much interest for some time, when suddenlythey saw one of them mount his horse, and ride toward the house. 

"He is a rebel!" exclaimed Harry, who stood watching the approachinghorseman. 

"Surely you are mistaken, Harry. There can be no Confederates here, "said Mrs. Magill, "the Federals are too near. "

While yet the soldier was some distance from the house, the boy's facelighted up with joy, as he exclaimed:

"Oh, mother, I do believe it's John!"

"John? Where is he?" asked his mother, running to where the boy stood. 

"Why, there, on the horse! He's coming home! He's coming home!" And thusexclaiming, Harry danced around the veranda like an Indian lad in afirst war-dance. Then he ran to meet his brother in gray. Mrs. Magillwas thrilled with sensations of joy and fear: joy, because she wasabout to see again her eldest son, after a painful separation of twoyears; fear, because of the nearness of the Federals. When within ashort distance of his brother, Harry stopped and waited there, preparedto give the military salute due one of his brother's rank. But thatsalute was never given; for almost at the same instant that Harrystopped, Captain John Magill reined up his horse quite suddenly, drew apistol from its holster, and looked suspiciously toward a clump of treeson the hill-top. Harry turned his eyes to learn what had startled hisbrother. He beheld a score or more of men in blue uniforms, partlyconcealed by the clump of trees; and it was evident that these were thevanguard of a larger body of Federals. Captain John Magill wheeled assuddenly as he had halted, and galloped back to the Confederates engagedin demolishing the railroad. As fast as he could run, Harry followed. Mrs. Magill comprehended the situation; and, spell-bound, she stood onthe veranda, with arms outstretched, a statue of anguish and expectancy. 

When Captain John Magill reached his comrades, he gave the alarm, and"there was mounting in hot haste. " The two hundred raiders had timeonly to form an irregular line of battle, when twice as many Federalsappeared on the hill-top. It was evident that there was going to be alively skirmish. Harry singled out John, who rode up and down the linegiving commands, and running to him, he clasped him around a leg withboth arms, enthusiastically exclaiming:

"Howdy, John! Don't you know me?"

The young captain looked down at the joy-beaming face of his littlebrother, but, as he had never seen the little fellow in his fantasticuniform, for a moment failed to recognize him. 

A shade of disappointment flitted over Harry's face as he said:

"I am your little brother Harry; and I'm just as much Rebel as Yankee. "

Captain John Magill laughed as he leaned over and grasped Harry's hand. 

"Why, Harry! What on earth are you doing here? Get up behind me, and Iwill gallop home with you before the firing begins, " said John, evidently alarmed for the boy's safety. Placing his foot on that of hisbrother, Harry clambered up behind. By this time the lines were in rangeof each other, and a lively fusillade at once began. Harry behavedmanfully under fire, and entreated his brother to allow him to stayuntil the fight was over. But the elder brother was intent on taking himto a place of safety, so putting spurs to his horse he rode swiftlytoward the house. His plan was to return the boy to his mother, and thenrejoin his comrades. But the Confederates did not know his intentions;and seeing their Captain making his way rapidly to the rear, with thisstrangely-clad boy behind him, they of course thought him retreating, and they followed pell-mell. 

Captain John Magill saw the effect of his movement, and, halting, madean effort to rally his men. But the Confederates were thoroughlystampeded, and they dashed madly away. The shouting Federals were now atclose range, and the bee-like song of the bullets could be heard onevery side. Hastily placing Harry in front of him, to shield him as muchas possible from the enemy's fire, he followed his men, now somedistance in advance. When they reached the house, Mrs. Magill stood paleand motionless, expecting every moment to see her children fall. Glancing back, Captain John Magill saw that a moment's delay would makehim a prisoner; so as he dashed past his mother he cried out, "Don't beuneasy. I'll take care of Harry"; and then he was gone like the wind, his pursuers not a hundred yards behind him. Then a complete change cameover Mrs. Magill. Impelled by the great love of a mother, she ran intothe yard, and stood calmly in the way of the advancing Federals, whosecourse lay between the cabins and the house--as if to stop, with herfrail form, the impetuous charge. 

On they came like a hurricane. The mother did not move. Her eyes wereclosed and her lips compressed. Very near her sounded the hoof-beats. Amoment more and she expected to be trampled to death beneath thosehurrying feet; but she hoped--yea, and prayed--that her death mightsomehow delay the Federals until her sons should escape. 

"Halt! Halt!" The command was in thunder tones, and was echoed andre-echoed along the charging line. The soldiers pulled with all theirmight on the bits, and many a horse was thrown back on his haunches. Opening her eyes Mrs. Magill saw that the Federal captain, bending overher from his saddle, was her son Thomas. 

"Oh, Thomas!--would you kill John and Harry!" she exclaimed, and thenfell fainting in his arms. Laying her tenderly on the veranda, hedirected a surgeon to attend her, and mounting his horse, rode rapidlyin the direction taken by his brothers. Soon he saw them a quarter of amile ahead. Taking a white handkerchief he held it aloft, and diggingthe spurs deep into his horse's flanks, he rode with increased speed, all the time hallooing at the top of his strong voice. John heard; but, thinking it a summons to surrender, he urged his horse forward, hopingto gain the sheltering wood. But the horse, in attempting to jump acrossa washout, stumbled and fell; and John found himself rolling on theground with Harry in his arms. Rising, he placed Harry behind him, anddrew his sword, determined to sell their lives dearly. Imagine hissurprise when he beheld but one pursuer, and that one holding on high anemblem of peace. In a moment more, he recognized his brother. Theirmeeting was affectionate. Harry was beside himself with joy. He hadreally been under fire, with "sure-enough bullets" singing about hisears! This was something of which none of the boys who had scorned hisblue-gray uniform could boast!

"Our brother is a brave little fellow. He did not once flinch when yourbullets were singing around us, " he heard John say to Thomas, and thispraise elated the boy very much. 

"Let us return to mother. She is very anxious, " said Thomas. 

John gazed inquiringly at his brother in blue. 

"You need have no fear, " said Thomas. "I will be responsible for yoursafety. "

So the two soldier brothers, leading their horses, and each holding oneof Harry's hands, walked up to the house. 

"I see you wear the gray, Harry; that's right, " said John, with amalicious glance at Thomas. 

"He is true blue on this side, " said Thomas, laughing heartily, as theludicrousness of Harry's uniform dawned upon him. 

An affecting meeting was that between mother and sons; and something onthe cheeks of the brave men who were present "washed off the stains ofpowder. "

When parting time came, the sun rested, like a great ruby, above thecircling wood of crimson and gold; and when the brother in blue stoodhand in hand with the brother in gray, all nature seemed to smile inanticipation of the time when a fraternal grasp should reunite the Northand South. 

This day was the turning-point in Harry's life. Thenceforth all hisinclinations were to become a soldier. After the war, he was educated byJohn and Thomas; and, passing his examination triumphantly over three ofthe boys who had derided him, he was appointed to West Point. He is nowLieutenant Henry Magill, U. S. A. 

His brothers still treasure the little blue-gray uniform as the mementoof a "divided duty. "

THE "WALKING-BEAM BOY. "

BY L. E. STOFIEL

In 1836 the steam-whistle had not yet been introduced on the boats ofthe western rivers. Upon approaching towns and cities in those days, vessels resorted to all manner of schemes and contrivances to attractattention. They were compelled to do so in order to secure their shareof freight and passengers, so spirited was the competition betweensteamboats from 1836 to 1840. There were no railroads in the West(indeed there were but one or two in the East), and all traffic was bywater. Consequently steamboat-men had all they could do to handle thecrowds of passengers and the tons of merchandise offered them. 

Shippers and passengers had their favorite packets. The former hadtheir huge piles of freight stacked upon the wharves, and needed theearliest possible intelligence of the approach of the packet so thatthey might promptly summon clerks and carriers to the shore. Thepassengers, loitering in neighboring hotels, demanded some system ofwarning of a favorite steamer's coming, that they might avoid thedisagreeable alternative of pacing the muddy levees for hours at a time, or running the risk of being left behind. 

Without a whistle, how was a boat to let the people know it was coming, especially if some of those sharp bends for which the Ohio River isfamous intervened to deaden the splashing stroke of its hugepaddle-wheels, or the regular puff, puff, puff, puff, of its steamexhaust-pipes?

The necessity originated several crude signs, chief among which was thenoise created by a sudden escapement of steam either from the rarelyused boiler waste-pipes close to the surface of the river, or throughthe safety-valve above. By letting the steam thus rush out at differentpressures, each boat acquired a sound peculiarly its own, which could beheard a considerable distance, though it was as the tone of amouth-organ against a brass-band, when compared with the ear-splittingroar of our modern steamboat-whistle. Townspeople of Cincinnati andelsewhere became so proficient in distinguishing these sounds of steamescapement that they could foretell the name of any craft on the riverat night or before it appeared in sight. 

It was reserved for the steamboat _Champion_ to carry this idea a littlefurther. It purposed to catch the eye of the patron as well as his ear. The _Champion_ was one of the best known vessels plying on theMississippi in 1836. It was propelled by a walking-beam engine. Thisstyle of steam-engine is still common on tide-water boats of the East, but has long since disappeared from the inland navigation of the West. To successfully steam a vessel up those streams against the remarkablyswift currents, high-pressure engines had to be adopted generally. Inthat year, however, there were still a number of boats on theMississippi and Ohio which, like the _Champion_, had low-pressureengines and the grotesque walking-beams. 

One day it was discovered that the _Champion's_ escapement-tubes werebroken, and no signal could be given to a landing-place not far ahead. A rival steamboat was just a little in advance, and bade fair to capturethe large amount of freight known to be at the landing. 

"I'll make them see us, sir!" cried a bright boy, who seemed to be aboutfourteen years old. He stood on the deck close to where the captain wasbewailing his misfortune. 

Without another word, the lad climbed up over the roof of theforecastle, and, fearlessly catching hold of the end of the walking-beamwhen it inclined toward him with the next oscillation of the engine, swung himself lithely on top of the machinery. It was with somedifficulty that he maintained his balance, but he succeeded in stickingthere for fifteen minutes. He had taken off his coat, and he wasswinging it to and fro. 

The plan succeeded. Although the other boat beat the _Champion_ intoport, the crowd there had seen the odd spectacle of a person mounted onthe walking-beam of the second vessel, and, wondering over the cause, paid no attention to the landing of the first boat, but awaited thearrival of the other. 

The incident gave the master of the _Champion_ an idea. He took the boyas a permanent member of the crew, and assigned him to the post of"walking-beam boy, " buying for him a large and beautiful flag. Everafterward, when within a mile of any town, the daring lad was to be seenclimbing up to his difficult perch, pausing on the roof of theforecastle to get his flag from a box that had been built there for it. By and by he made his lofty position easier and more picturesque bystraddling the walking-beam, well down toward the end, just as he wouldhave sat upon a horse. 

This made a pretty spectacle for those upon shore who awaited the boat'sarrival. They saw a boy bounding up and down with the great seesawingbeam. For a second he would sink from view, but up he bobbed suddenly, and, like a clear-cut silhouette, he waved the Stars and Stripes high inthe air with only the vast expanse of sky for a background. The visionwas only for an instant, for both flag and boy would disappear, and--upagain they came, before the spectator's eye could change to anotherdirection! This sight was novel--it was thrilling!

"I used to think if I could ever be in that young fellow's place, Iwould be the biggest man on earth, " remarked a veteran river-man. Likethousands of others along the Mississippi and Ohio, he remembered thatwhen a child he could recognize the _Champion_ a mile distant by thisunique signal. 

[Illustration: "HE WAVED THE STARS AND STRIPES HIGH IN THE AIR. "]

After a while, though, other steamboats operating low-pressure enginescopied the idea, and there were several "walking-beam boys" employed onthe rivers, and their flags were remodeled to have some distinctivefeature each. It was a perilous situation to be employed in, but I amunable to find the record of any "walking-beam boy" being killed orinjured in the machinery. On the other hand, the very hazard of theirduty, and the conspicuous position it gave them, made them popular withpassengers and shippers, and so they pocketed many fees fromKentuckians, confections from Cincinnati folks, bonbons from New OrleansCreoles, and tips from Pittsburgers. 

But at length, in 1844, the steam-whistle was introduced, and the"walking-beam boys" were left without occupation. 

THE CREATURE WITH NO CLAWS

BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"W'en you git a leetle bit older dan w'at you is, honey, " said UncleRemus to the little boy, "you'll know lots mo' dan you does now. "

The old man had a pile of white oak splits by his side and these he wasweaving into a chair-bottom. He was an expert in the art of "bottomingchairs, " and he earned many a silver quarter in this way. The little boyseemed to be much interested in the process. 

"Hit 's des like I tell you, " the old man went on; "I done had despeunce un it. I done got so now dat I don't b'lieve w'at I see, muchless w'at I year. It got ter be whar I kin put my han' on it en fumblewid it. Folks kin fool deyse'f lots wuss dan yuther folks kin fool um, en ef you don't b'lieve w'at I 'm a-tellin' un you, you kin des ax BrerWolf de nex' time you meet 'im in de big road. "

"What about Brother Wolf, Uncle Remus?" the little boy asked, as theold man paused to refill his pipe. 

"Well, honey, 't ain't no great long rigamarole; hit's des one er dezeyer tales w'at goes in a gallop twel it gits ter de jumpin'-off place. 

"One time Brer Wolf wuz gwine 'long de big road feelin' mighty proud enhigh-strung. He wuz a mighty high-up man in dem days, Brer Wolf wuz, en'mos' all de yuther creeturs wuz feared un 'im. Well, he wuz gwine 'longlickin' his chops en walkin' sorter stiff-kneed, w'en he happen ter lookdown 'pon de groun' en dar he seed a track in de san'. Brer Wolf stop, he did, en look at it, en den he 'low:

"'Heyo! w'at kind er creetur dish yer? Brer Dog ain't make dat track, enneeder is Brer Fox. Hit's one er deze yer kind er creeturs w'at ain'tgot no claws. I'll des 'bout foller 'im up, en ef I ketch 'im he'llsholy be my meat. '

"Dat de way Brer Wolf talk. He followed 'long atter de track, he did, enhe look at it close, but he ain't see no print er no claw. Bimeby detrack tuck 'n tu'n out de road en go up a dreen whar de rain done washout. De track wuz plain dar in de wet san', but Brer Wolf ain't see nosign er no claws. 

[Illustration: "BRER WOLF MAKE LIKE HE GWINE TER HIT DE CREETUR, ENDEN----. "]

"He foller en foller, Brer Wolf did, en de track git fresher en fresher, but still he ain't see no print er no claw. Bimeby he come in sight erde creetur, en Brer Wolf stop, he did, en look at 'im. He stopstock-still and look. De creetur wuz mighty quare-lookin, ' en he wuzcuttin' up some mighty quare capers. He had big head, sharp nose, en bobtail; en he wuz walkin' roun' en roun' a big dog-wood tree, rubbin' hissides ag'in it. Brer Wolf watch 'im a right smart while, he act soquare, en den he 'low:

"'Shoo! dat creetur done bin in a fight en los' de bes' part er he tail;en w'at make he scratch hisse'f dat away? I lay I'll let 'im know whohe foolin' 'long wid. '

"Atter 'while, Brer Wolf went up a leetle nigher de creetur, en hollerout:

"'Heyo, dar! w'at you doin' scratchin' yo' scaly hide on my tree, entryin' fer ter break hit down?'

"De creetur ain't make no answer. He des walk 'roun' en 'roun' de treescratchin' he sides en back. Brer Wolf holler out:

"'I lay I'll make you year me ef I hatter come dar whar you is!'

"De creetur des walk roun' en roun' de tree, en ain't make no answer. Den Brer Wolf hail 'im ag'in, en talk like he mighty mad:

"'Ain't you gwine ter min' me, you imperdent scoundul? Ain't you gwineter mozey outer my woods en let my tree 'lone?'

"Wid dat, Brer Wolf march todes de creetur des like he gwine ter squ'sh'im in de groun'. De creetur rub hisse'f ag'in de tree en look like hefeel mighty good. Brer Wolf keep on gwine todes 'im, en bimeby w'en hegit sorter close de creetur tuck 'n sot up on his behime legs des likeyou see squir'ls do. Den Brer Wolf, he 'low, he did:

"'Ah-yi! you beggin', is you? But 't ain't gwine ter do you no good. Imout er let you off ef you 'd a-minded me w'en I fus holler atter you, but I ain't gwine ter let you off now. I'm a-gwine ter l'arn you alesson dat 'll stick by you. '

"Den de creetur sorter wrinkle up he face en mouf, en Brer Wolf 'low:

"'Oh, you nee'n'ter swell up en cry, you 'ceitful vilyun. I'm a-gwineter gi' you a frailin' dat I boun' you won't forgit. '

[Illustration: "WELL, SUH, DAT CREETUR DES FOTCH ONE SWIPE DIS AWAY, EN'N'ER SWIPE DAT AWAY. "]

"Brer Wolf make like he gwine ter hit de creetur, en den----"

Here Uncle Remus paused and looked all around the room and up at therafters. When he began again his voice was very solemn. 

--"Well, suh, dat creetur des fotch one swipe dis away, en 'n'er swipedat away, en mos' 'fo' you can wink yo' eyeballs, Brer Wolf hide wuzmighty nigh teetotally tor'd off 'n 'im. Atter dat de creetur sa'nteredoff in de woods, en 'gun ter rub hisse'f on 'n'er tree. "

"What kind of a creature was it, Uncle Remus?" asked the little boy. 

"Well, honey, " replied the old man in a confidential whisper, "hit wantnobody on de topside er de yeth but ole Brer Wildcat. "

 * * * * *

GEOGRAPHICAL STORIES RETOLD FROM ST. NICHOLAS MAGAZINE

IN SIX VOLUMES

A Series of Books of Adventure, Travel and Description, chiefly in theGreat Sections of the United States

 WESTERN FRONTIER STORIES Stories of the early West, full of adventure. 

 STORIES OF THE GREAT LAKES Niagara and our great chain of Inland Seas. 

 ISLAND STORIES Stories of our island dependencies and of many other islands. 

 STORIES OF STRANGE SIGHTS Descriptions of natural wonders, curious places and unusual sights. 

 SEA STORIES Tales of shipwreck and adventures at sea. 

 SOUTHERN STORIES Pictures, scenes and stories of our Sunny South. 

Each about 200 pages. 50 illustrations. Full cloth, 12mo. 

THE CENTURY CO.