Chapter I: Front Matter

Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 5, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 862. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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TOMMY TEN CANOES.

BY HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

There once lived in New York an Indian warrior by the name of Peter Twenty Canoes. Tommy Ten Canoes lived at Pokanoket, near Mount Hope, on an arm of the Mount Hope Bay.

He was not a warrior, but a runner; not a great naval hero, as his picturesque name might suggest, but a news agent, as it were; he used his nimble feet and his ten canoes to bear messages to the Indians of the villages of Pokanoket and to the Narragansetts, and, it may be, to other friendly tribes.

Pokanoket? You may have read Irving's sketch of Philip of Pokanoket, but we doubt if you have in mind any clear idea of this once beautiful region, from whose clustering wigwams the curling smoke once rose from the giant oaks over the many waterways. The place of it on the map is now covered by Bristol and Warren (Rhode Island) and Swansea (Massachusetts). It is a place of bays and rivers, which were once rich fishing-grounds; of shores full of shells and shell-fish; of cool springs and wild-grape vines; of bowery hills; and of meadows that were once yellow with maize.

Tommy Ten Canoes was a great man in his day. As a news agent in peace he was held in high honor, but as a scout in war and a runner for the great chiefs he became a heroic figure. There were great ospreys' nests all about the shores of old Pokanoket on the ancient decayed trees, and Tommy made a crown of osprey feathers, and crowned himself, with the approval of the great Indian chiefs.

Once when swimming with this crown of feathers on his head, he had been shot at by an Englishman, who thought him some new and remarkable bird. But while his crown was shattered, it was not the crown of his head. He was very careful of both his crowns after that alarming event.

Tommy Ten Canoes was a brave man. He was ready to face any ordinary danger for his old chief Massasoit, and for that chief's two sons, Wamsutta (Alexander) and Pomebacen (Philip). He would cross the Mount Hope or the Narragansett bay in tempestuous weather. He used to convey the beautiful Queen Weetamoc from Pocassett to Mount Hope to attend Philip's war-dances under the summer moons, and when the old Indian war began he offered his two swift legs and all of his ten canoes to the service of his chief.

"Nipanset"--for this was his Indian name--"Nipanset's bosom is his chiefs, and it knows not fear. Nipanset fears not the storm or the foe, or the gun of the pale-face. Call, call, O ye chiefs; in the hour of danger call for Nipanset. Nipanset fears not death."

So Tommy Ten Canoes boasted at the great council under the moss-covered cliff at Mount Hope.

He was honest; but there was one thing that Nipanset, or Tommy Ten Canoes, did fear. It was enchantment. He would have faced torture or death without a word, but everything mysterious filled him with terror. If he had thought that a bush contained a hidden enemy and flintlock, he would have been very brave, but had he thought that the same bush was stirred by a spirit, or was enchanted, he would have run.

Tommy Ten Canoes had been friendly to the white people who had settled in Pokanoket. There was a family by the name of Brown, who lived on Cole's River, that he especially liked, and he became a companion of one of the sons named James. The two were so often together that the people used to speak of those who were very intimate as being "as _thick_ as little James Brown and old Tommy Ten Canoes," or rather as "Jemmie Brown" and our young hero of the many birch boats.

The two hunted and fished together; they made long journeys together; in fact, they did everything in common, except work. Tommy did not work, at least in the field, while James did at times, when he was not with Tommy.

When the Indian war began, King Philip sent word to the Brown family, and also to the Cole family, who lived near them, both of whom had treated him justly and generously, that he would do all in his power to protect them, but that he might not be able to restrain his braves.

Tommy Ten Canoes brought a like friendly message to Jemmie Brown.

"I will always be true to you," he said; "true as the north wind to the river, the west wind to the sea, and the south wind to the flowers. Nipanset's heart is true to his friends. Our hearts will see each other again."

The Indian torch swept the settlements. One of the bravest scouts in these dark scenes was Tommy Ten Canoes. He flew from place to place like the wind, carrying news and spying out the enemy.

Tommy grew proud over his title of "Ten Canoes." He felt like ten Tommies. He wore his crown of osprey feathers like a royal king. His ten canoes ferried the painted Indians at night, and carried the chiefs hither and thither.

There was a grizzly old Boston Captain, who had done hard service on the sea, named Moseley. He wore a wig, a thing that the Indians had never seen, and of whose use they knew nothing at all.

Tommy Ten Canoes had never feared the white man nor the latter's death-dealing weapons. He had never retreated; he had always been found in front of the stealthy bands as they pursued the forest trails. But his courage was at last put to a test of which he had never dreamed.

Old Captain Moseley had led a company of trained soldiers against the Indians from Boston. Tommy Ten Canoes had discovered the movement, and had prepared the Indians to meet it. Captain Moseley's company, which consisted of one hundred men, had first marched to a place called Myles Bridge in Swansea. Here was a garrison house in which lived Rev. John Myles. The church was called Baptist, but people of all faiths were welcome to it; among the latter, Thomas Willet, who afterwards became the first Mayor of New York. It was the first church of the kind in Massachusetts, and it still exists in Swansea.

Over the glimmering waterways walled with dark oak woods came Tommy Ten Canoes, with five of his famous boats, and landed at a place near the thrifty Baptist colony, so that his little navy might be at the ready service of Philip. It was the last days of June. There had been an eclipse of the moon on the night that Tommy Ten Canoes had glided up the Sowans River towards Myles Bridge. He thought the eclipse was meant for him and his little boats, and he was a very proud and happy man.

"The moon went out in the clear sky when we left the bay," said he; "so shall our enemies be extinguished. The moon shone again on the calm river. For whom did the moon shine again? For Nipanset."

Poor Tommy Ten Canoes! He was not the first hero of modern times who has thought that the moon and stars were made for him, and shone for him on special occasions.

In old Captain Moseley's company was a Jamaica pilot who had visited Pokanoket and been presented to Tommy, and told that the latter was a very renowned Indian.

"_What_ are you?" asked the Pilot.

"I am Tommy One Canoe."

"Ah!"

"I am Tommy Two Canoes."

"Indeed! Ah!"

"I am Tommy Three Canoes."

"Oh! Ah! Indeed!"

"I am Tommy Four Canoes, _and_ I am Tommy Five Canoes, _and_ I am Tommy Six Canoes, _and_ I am Tommy Ten Canoes."

"Well, Tommy Ten Canoes," answered the Pilot, "don't you ever get into any trouble with the white people, because you might find yourself merely Tommy No Canoes."

Tommy was offended at the answer. He had no fears of such a fall from power, however.

The old Jamaica pilot had taken a boat and drifted down the Sowans River one long June day, when he chanced to discover Tommy and his five canoes. The canoes were hauled up on the shore under the cool trees which over-shadowed the water. The Pilot, who had with him three men, rowed boldly to the shore and surprised Tommy Ten Canoes, who had gone into the wood, leaving his weapons in one of his canoes.

The Pilot seized the canoe with the weapons and drew it from the shore.

Tommy Ten Canoes beheld the movement with astonishment. He called to the old Pilot, "I am Tommy Ten Canoes!"

"No, no," answered the Pilot. "You are Tommy Nine Canoes."

Presently the Pilot drew from the shore another canoe. Tommy called again:

"Don't you know me? I am--"

"Tommy Eight Canoes," said the Pilot.

Another boat was removed in like manner, and the Pilot shouted, "And now you are Tommy Seven Canoes." Another, and the Pilot called again, "Now you are Tommy Six Canoes." Another. "Good-by, Tommy Five Canoes," said the Pilot, and he and his men drew all of the light canoes after them up the river.

Xerxes at Salamis could hardly have felt more crushed in heart than Tommy Ten Canoes. But hope revived; he was Tommy Five Canoes still. He was not quite so sure now, however, that the moon on that still June night had been eclipsed expressly for him.

The scene of the war now changed to the western border, as the towns of Hadley and Deerfield were called, for these towns in that day were the "great West," as afterwards was the Ohio Reserve. Tommy having lost five of his canoes, now used his swift feet as a messenger. He still had hopes of doing great deeds, else why had the moon been eclipsed on that beautiful June night?

But an event followed the loss of his five canoes that quite changed his opinion. As a messenger or runner he had hurried to the scene of the brutal conflicts on the border, and had there discovered that Captain Moseley, the old Jamaica pirate, was subject to some spell of enchantment; that he had _two_ heads.

"Ugh! ugh! him no good!" said one of the Indians to Tommy; "he take off his head, and put him in his pocket. It is no use to fight him. Spell set on him--enchanted."

Tommy Ten Canoes' fear of the man with two heads, one of which he sometimes took off and put in his pocket, spread among the Indians. One day in a skirmish Tommy saw Moseley take off one of his enchanted heads and hang it on a blueberry-bush. Other Indians saw it. "No scalp him," said they. "Run!" And run they did, not from the open foe, but from the supposed head on the bush. Moseley did not dream at the time that it was his wig that had given him the victory.

Across the Mount Hope Bay, among the sunny headlands of Pocassett, there was an immense cedar swamp, cool and dark, and in summer full of fire-flies. Tommy Ten Canoes called it the swamp of the fire-flies. It was directly opposite Pokanoket, across the placid water. A band of Indians gathered here, and covered their bodies with bushes, so that they might not be discovered on the shore.

One moonlight night in September Tommy went to visit these masked Indians in four of his canoes. He rowed one of the canoes, and three squaws the others. On reaching the fire-fly cedar swamp the party met the masked Indians, and late at night retired to rest, the three Indian squaws sleeping on the shore under their three canoes.

Captain Moseley had sent the old Jamaica pilot to try to discover the hiding-place of this mysterious band of Indians. The Pilot had seen the four canoes crossing the bay from Pokanoket under the low September moon, and had hurried with a dozen men to the place of landing. He surprised the party early the next morning, when they were disarmed and asleep.

The crack of his musket rang out in the clear air over the bay. A naked Indian was seen to leap up.

"Stop! I am Tommy Ten Canoes."

"No, Tommy Five Canoes," answered the old Pilot; "and now you are only Tommy Four Canoes." Saying which, the Pilot seized the _sixth_ canoe.

A shriek followed; another, and another. Three canoes hidden in the river-weeds were overturned, and three Indian squaws were seen running into the dark swamp.

"And now you are Tommy Three Canoes," said the Pilot, seizing the seventh canoe. "And now Tommy Two Canoes," seizing the eighth.

"And only Tommy One Canoe," taking possession of the ninth canoe. "And now you are Tommy No Canoes, as I told you you would be if you went to war," said the Pilot, taking according to this odd reckoning the Indian's last canoe.

But Tommy had one canoe left, notwithstanding the dark Pilot had taken his _tenth_. He was glad that it was not here. It would have been his _eleventh_ canoe, although he had but ten. He knew that the Pilot was one of Moseley's men, the Captain who put his head at times in his pocket or hung it upon a bush. Poor Tommy Ten Canoes! He uttered a shriek, like the fugitive squaws, and fled.

"Don't shoot at him," said the old Pilot to his men. "I have taken from him all of his ten canoes; let him go."

Tommy had not a mathematical mind or education, but he knew that somehow he had no eleventh canoe, and that one of his ten canoes yet remained. And even the old Pilot must have at last seen that his count often was only nine. Tommy fled to a point on the Titicut River at which he could swim across, and then made his solitary way back to the shores of Pokanoket and to his remaining canoe, which did not belong to mathematics.

One morning late in September Tommy Ten Canoes turned his solitary canoe towards Cole's River, near which lived his boy friend, James Brown. He paddled slowly, and late in the dreamy afternoon reached the shore opposite the Brown farm. He landed and tied his one canoe to Jemmie Brown's boat, in which the two had spent many happy hours before the war.

The canoe was found there the next day; but Tommy Ten Canoes? He was never seen again; he probably sought a grave in the waters of the bay.

But he had fulfilled his promise. He had been true in his heart as "the north wind to the river, the west wind to the sea, and the south wind to the flowers."

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

XIV.--FROM BOB TO JACK.

PARIS.

DEAR JACK,--_Bon joor!_ That's French for how are you. It's
wonderful how quick you get the hang of a language. We haven't been
here more than a week, and I find myself thinking in French. When I
waked up this morning the first thing I said was _voilà_, and when
I got down to breakfast and the waiter brought me a chop with
mushrooms on it, without having to think at all I said
_kerskersay_, which is French for what on earth's that. What's
more, I dream in French. I drempt the other night that Napoleon
came back to life again and asked me to take dinner with him, and I
went and kept up a conversation all through the evening with him in
his own language. He kept calling me Mussoo Bobbee and I'd call him
M. le General. He told me all about his battles, how he ran across
the bridge of Lody with bullets just raining all about him, and
lots of awful funny things about himself that made me roar with
laughter. But the queer part of it all is that while I understood
him perfectly well while I was asleep, the minute I waked up I
couldn't translate a thing he'd said to me. That's the worst of
dreams, but I'm glad I had that one, because I really feel now as
if I'd met Napoleon.

I tell you, Jack, he was a great man that Napoleon. He wasn't big,
but he covered the ground. Pop says he was the greatest man that
ever lived except me and George Washington. He wasn't a Frenchman
at all, only a Corsican. And he was a fighter right from the start.
He used to make snow forts at school, and when it came to a
snowball fight, Pop says he wasn't out of it a minute. He was
fearfully brave, and if it hadn't been for the weather he'd never
have been beaten at Waterloo. Somehow or other he couldn't fight in
the wet, and every time he had the elements against him he got
beaten. When he got to Moscow the Russians set fire to the town,
and that beat him, and on the way back the snow just regularly
froze him out, and then it rained at Waterloo, and that finished
him.

They keep his memory very green here though, which I am glad of
because he deserved it. He's got a tomb that's worth dying for to
get. It's out back of the Hotel des Invalides under a great big
dome, and it's so arranged that when the sun shines through two big
stained yellow glass windows at the back it looks as if great
rivers of glory were being poured on it; and all around it are the
battle flags with cannon-ball holes in them, and altogether it
makes you feel as if little chills were playing tag up and down
your back.

Jules says it was a pity he didn't have two or three boys like me.
That was all he needed, he said, to make France the biggest nation
in the world. He says I'm very much like Napoleon in several ways.
One is I wasn't born in France, another is that I don't seem to be
able to keep still two minutes in succession, and always want to be
doing something, but I guess he was only trying to be complimentary
and make me feel good.

After we'd seen the tomb of Napoleon we went up the Eiffel Tower.
It's a funny-looking thing, and I'd hate to have it fall while I
was on top of it, because it's a thousand feet high, which is no
fun if you're tumbling. Pop says it wasn't built according to
rules. The rule is that there's plenty of room at the top, but with
the Eiffel Tower there's hardly any; but, my, what a view you get!
It was awful funny to look down on the city of Paris from that
fearful height. The people looked like lady-bugs crawling along
the sidewalk, and the one-horse fakirs looked for all the world
like beetles, and it's given me a very different idea about birds
from what I used to have. I used to wonder why birds were such
fraid-cats, but I know now why it is. It must scare a bird like
everything to be soring way up there in the sky and think he sees a
nice fat luscious beetle for breakfast crawling along the street,
and then pounce down on it and find out it's a horse and wagon
worth fifty cents an hour. It really takes an eagle to stand a
surprise like that. Pop bought some souvenirs on top of the tower,
and I'll bring you home one of 'em when I come. It's a brass medal
with a picture of the tower on it, and it cost two dollars. Pop
says that's two cents for the medal and the rest for souvenir. When
I asked him to buy it he said isn't that rather expensive? Not for
me if you buy it, I said, and that made a man laugh, and he said to
Pop that's a bright boy of yours, and Pop felt so proud he bought
two of 'em. There was an artist on the first floor of the tower
that drew your picture while you waited, for five francs. Pop had
him make one of me, and it's fine. Aunt Sarah says there isn't much
art in it, but Pop thinks differently. He says it's really a
wonderful picture, it's so like somebody else considering I sat for
it.

The elevators in the Eiffel Tower are wonderful. They run right up
its legs, the way ants do us at picnics, only inside, and glorious
to say they were made not only in the United States, but in
Yonkers, where I was born, and going up in 'em makes you feel as if
you were at sea, because they can't go up straight, the legs being
bandy. At one time you'd have thought I was lying on the floor when
I was only standing up straight, it got off the perpendicular so
far. Pop asked why it was they didn't have a sign up telling people
that these elevators came from Yonkers, and a man that knew all
about it said it wouldn't do any good because the French people
didn't know where Yonkers was, and besides they were exciteable,
and wouldn't ride in a machine they thought wasn't French. "Let 'em
walk then," said Pop. "It's too high up," said the man. "Well,"
said Pop, "as a walk it may be high up, but as a trick it's low
down." And the man agreed with him, but he said: "It isn't my
fault. Mr. Eiffel built the tower, I didn't. I'm only a
green-grocer at Leamington." And then we all laughed, but Pop's
kind of mad about it yet, because he's proud of Yonkers, and thinks
people that do things ought to get credit for 'em.

After we came down from the tower I wanted Pop to take me up in a
balloon they had flying about a mile away, but he wouldn't. He
thought we'd had high living enough for one day, and, besides,
Jules advised us not to go. He said every once in a while the
balloon broke loose and landed in the desert of Sahara, which is
very awkward to those who can't go a week without water and don't
eat sand. And the walking is bad, so we didn't go.

To-morrow we are going out to the palace at Versailles in a big
coach, and if I see anything worth telling about I'll drop you
another line.

Yours ever
BOB.

PRACTICAL GOLF.

BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.

(_In Five Papers._)

II.--DRIVING.

All golf is divided into three parts--driving, approaching, and holing out--and of these three, driving, or free hitting, either with wood or iron, is by far the most pleasing. It is a delightful sensation to feel the ball slip away almost by itself as the club head swings through, and then to watch it describing its graceful curve of, say, one hundred and fifty yards through the air, or skimming like a swallow, straight and low over that dreaded bunker. Without driving, indeed, there would be very little golf, and happy is the man who may always count upon being both far and sure.

Now although style cannot drive a ball, there is still a right and a wrong way of going at the problem, and the first thing is to clearly understand the conditions of that problem. Let the player imagine himself at the centre of a circle, the radius of which is the length of his arms plus the club shaft, and upon whose circumference is resting the ball that is to be swept away. Remember, too, that it is to be a swing and not a hit, that the club head should be treated as though it were a bit of lead attached to a string, and consequently dependent for its effectiveness on speed and not on weight. Obviously, if the circle in which it swings is not perfect, if at any point the string is suddenly lengthened or shortened, the ball will either be missed altogether or the force will be imperfectly applied, resulting in a loss of power. Take a piece of lead and a bit of string, and try the experiment for yourself. It will at least show you how clearly distinct the golf swing is from the hit of a baseball bat, and how speed may become equivalent to weight.

It is customary to advise beginners to use clubs with very stiff shafts, but I am inclined to think that the reformed baseball-player will do better with a springy driver. With a very stiff club there is an irresistible inclination to _hit_ at the ball, and this is exactly what you must not do. You must be able to feel the club head swinging at the end of the shaft, as though it were really the bit of lead on a string. The instant that you attempt to hurry that swing you throw it out of time and true, and the result is failure. Weight and brute strength may drive a baseball, but for the golf-ball it is speed and accuracy that are needed.

Having determined, then, that the stroke shall lie a swing and not a jerk nor a hit, the first thing is to take up our position to the ball, technically called "addressing" it. Clubs are all about the same length, but they may vary in their "lie" or in the angle made by the club head and the shaft. Generally speaking, a tall player will need a more upright club than his shorter brother, in order that the sole of the club head may rest flatly on the ground.

It is a rough-and-ready rule that when the club is placed with its _heel_ behind the ball the end of the handle should just touch the left knee of the player standing upright. Other authorities say that the club should be grounded with its _centre_ and not its _heel_ opposite to the ball. As a matter of fact, the difference of the inch involved amounts to nothing. You want to be far enough away to get in all the power of your swing and yet keep steady on your feet. No one can measure that distance for you; you must accustom yourself to take it without thinking about it.

As for the position of the ball, it should be just in advance of the imaginary line drawn from the left eye over the hands and down the shaft to the face of the club head. In other words, let left eye, hands, club shaft, and the striking face of the head be in the same plane, with the ball a quarter of an inch in front. This, again, should be arrived at instinctively. If you try to measure it by a foot-rule you will be wrong.

The proper position of the feet, or the "stance," is a question about which the doctors disagree. According to one authority, you should stand squarely opposite the ball, with both feet equally distant from the line of fire. Another teacher advises that the right foot should be slightly advanced in the old or "open" style. According to the modern school, the right foot should be drawn _back_ two or three inches. Which is right?

As a matter of fact, good golf is possible in all three styles, but it is generally acknowledged that the last-named position is the most commanding of the three, and it is the one generally adopted by the modern school and the majority of professionals. But it should not be exaggerated, or the power will be gained at the expense of accuracy. The most important thing is that the "stance" should be absolutely firm. The "straddle" should be taken naturally, with the feet neither too far apart nor too close together.

The proper grip was illustrated in last week's paper. It is not the natural position for the hands _when at rest_, but experience has decided that it is the best for the swing. In particular the left hand should be well over the club, or freedom of motion is impossible. Get your grip by grasping the club as though you were about to strike a blow straight down upon an anvil, and then swing gently two or three times directly over the ball, describing a flourish that shall resemble an elongated eight. This is called the "waggle," and its purpose is to assist the hands to settle into position. Finally ground the club close behind the ball for an instant, and then swing back for the real business of the stroke. About an inch of the shaft should be left above the grip to give greater command over the club. The thumb may lie along the shaft or be wrapped around it, or one thumb may be around and the other along the handle. In any case the grip of the left hand must be absolutely firm and close so that there may be no possibility of the club turning at the moment of impact. The right hand may be comparatively loose, but, generally speaking, that hand will take care of itself. Finally, keep the left wrist as taut as possible, and remember that every inch that separates your hands on the shaft takes off yards from the length of the drive. Let the arms be naturally bent, and keep your hands low. The end of the shaft should point well below the waistcoat.

Coming now to the swing proper, it is a safe rule not to attempt too much at first. If you watch a professional making a full drive, you will see his body turn and his left heel come well off the ground, while the club will appear to wind completely around him. But if you attempt to imitate him you will soon find yourself in difficulty. Instead of turning your body, you will be inclined to sway it over the right leg; rising on the left toe will throw you off your balance, and you will only be able to get a long swing back by bending your wrists. Now all these things are wrong, and tend to inaccuracy and feebleness. The thing for you to do is to take a short or half-swing back, and trust to practice to lengthen it. It is very important that your up swing should be slow, so that the arms may go freely out from the body. "Slow back," as it is called, is a cardinal principle. Otherwise you are sure to make the swing too straight up and down. Let the swing finish itself out, as the fly fisherman does when casting, and let the return be swift and even. Keep your shoulders loose and your body firm, and as your swing lengthens your body will turn to accommodate it. But it must turn on its own axis, as does a rudder-post, and not sway from side to side after the fashion of a boom. And all the time you must have your eyes fixed upon the ball or you will never hit it cleanly.

It is a poor practice to make one or two false swings, pulling up short just before reaching the ball. It is certain to get you in the bad habit of "nipping," or not following through after the ball. This after-swing is fully as important as the first part, although no one knows exactly why. Let the club swing through and with the arms freely flung out from the body.

Make your tees low. There is no advantage in perching the ball upon a pyramid of sand that resembles a chicken croquette, and it will incline you to "top" (hitting the ball above the centre instead of below it) from the ordinary lies of the green.

You will say that it is impossible to remember all these things, and you are right. But if you will read over what I have said with attention, it will help you to understand the few absolutely indispensable conditions upon which good driving depends. Here they are:

1. Stand firm.

2. Don't sway your body.

3. Keep the left wrist taut, and grip hard with that hand.

4. Ground your club close behind the ball before swinging.

5. Swing back slowly, letting your arms well out.

6. Follow through freely, and _keep your eye on the ball_.

FOR KATY'S BIRTHDAY.

BY CELIA CURRIER.

As I walked down the garden path
In the pleasant bright May weather,
I saw two busy robins
A-hopping there together.

They were talking low, with heads quite close,
But still I heard one say--
Mr. Redbreast to his mate--
"Katy's ten years old to-day."

"Dear me! ten years! how very old!
How wise the child must be!
I suppose, now, she could build a nest
Just as well as we.

"You know it isn't much to do,
As you and I have found;
Just lay the sticks, and weave the hairs,
And make it nice and round."

"She build a nest? you silly wife!
I'm astonished at your words!
She couldn't even catch a worm
To feed the little birds!

"She knows arithmetic and grammar,
Can read and write and sing,
But as for building nests like ours,
She isn't worth a thing."

Then the bees set up a humming
In the apple-tree close by,
And I watched them very closely
To see what I could spy.

And I listened, too, to hear,
If I could, what they would say,
And they said, just like the robins,
"Katy's ten years old to-day."

And then they seemed so very pleased,
They said, still buzzing gladly,
"So much to do in this great world,
We need her help so badly.

"We wonder which she would prefer,
To store the sweets or gather;
Because, you know, we'll let her do
Exactly what she'd rather."

Then up spoke Madam Queen Bee,
Clad in velvet, black, and gold--
Her dress was very charming,
But she was cross and old--

"She can knit and sew, I dare say,
And she knows the use of money,
But I'd rather have the smallest bee
When it comes to making honey."

So I left them buzzing earnestly;
They couldn't quite agree
Whether Katy was as useful
As the very smallest bee.

And I walked back to the door,
Where, upon the braided mat,
Sleeping soundly in the sunshine,
Lay the gray old pussy-cat.

Then, tearing round the corner,
Came the kittens, one, two, three--
Black Bess, and Star, and Dicky--
Tumbling headlong in their glee.

"Oh Mamma Cat, wake up!" they cried,
"Hear what we've got to say.
We know you'll be astonished,
Katy's ten years old to-day."

The old cat yawned and blinked,
Stretched herself upon the mat,
Sweetly smiled on Star and Dicky,
Gave Bess a gentle pat,

Said, "She sweeps and dusts the parlor,
And that is very nice,
But she isn't worth as much as you;
You know she can't catch mice."

I laughed a little softly;
It really seemed absurd
That, because she couldn't do their work,
The cat, the bee, the bird,

Should think her worth so little,
When her friends all join to say
They wouldn't part with Katy
For millions such as they.

So, ten happy years behind her,
Six times ten, we trust, to come,
We leave our little maiden
To make sunshine in her home.

That, I'm sure, is better far
(It can't be bought for money)
Than catching mice, or building nests,
Or even making honey.

AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]

[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857.

BY MARION HARLAND.