Chapter III (1)

"I think sometimes that I can't stand it another day, Cynthia. It makes me miserable to sit at the table with her, and I have grown to fairly dread meal-times. When she takes her soup she sucks it from the spoon; she drinks her tea with long sips that set my nerves on edge. She drums on the table with her fingers, wipes her mouth on a corner of the table-cloth, and puts her fingers into the bowl of loaf-sugar. I actually saw her once use her thumb to take a fly out of the bowl of honey."

"Anything else?" asked Cynthia, dryly, her brown eyes looking very steadily on her sister's face.

"Yes, dozens of other things. But what is the use of enumerating them? It can't help matters. I only know that I have actually _suffered_ every day of the two weeks I have been here," and Ida sighed heavily as she resumed her sewing. She was making a dainty little fichu of chiffon and some scraps of old lace. Aunt Patty had found the lace in an old chest of odds and ends of the finery of her early youth, and had at once given it all to Ida.

The two girls were alone in the pleasant sitting-room. Aunt Patty had gone to call upon a sick neighbor, carrying a glass of her golden apple jelly. She was not expected back until supper-time.

"You girls can have a nice, long, pleasant afternoon together," she said on leaving.

But it didn't prove a pleasant afternoon to either Ida or Cynthia, for as usual, when they were out of Aunt Patty's hearing, Ida began to talk of the many things which made her present home unpleasant to her.

"No," said Cynthia, after a long pause, during which she had steadily darned stockings; "talking can't help matters, and you'd better learn as soon as you can to make the best of things, Ida. Aunt Patty is too old now to be made over. It is a pity you could not have gone to Europe with Aunt Stina."

"It was more than a pity, it was a shame," said Ida, flushing. "But while I hoped she'd offer to take me, I did not expect it. Aunt Stina is refined to the last degree, and has elegant manners, but she is not generous. During the six years I was with her she kept scrupulously to her bargain; she gave me a home, and paid my school bills--nothing more."

"Never any presents?" asked Cynthia.

"Nothing, except finery and old clothes for which she had no further use herself. It was pretty hard sometimes; there were so many things I wanted. But I never hinted nor asked for any thing. In the first place, I was too proud, and then I knew it would be useless. She never cared to spend her money on any one except herself, and often complained bitterly at having to pay such heavy school bills."

"It must have made you feel dreadfully," said Cynthia. "Now Aunt Patty hasn't a stingy bone in her body."

"No; she's very generous," admitted Ida.

"You'd say that more heartily if you knew how she used to pinch and contrive in order to send you a little extra money, Ida. She was always making little plans for you, and was _so_ proud whenever you wrote that you'd taken a prize."

"She has her good qualities, of course, Cynthia; I admit that. But I do wish she understood a little about table etiquette. I don't wonder now that Aunt Stina used to shrug her shoulders and smile whenever Aunt Patty's name was mentioned. She often used to say that I didn't realize from what a depth she had rescued me."

A little spark of indignation burned in Cynthia's brown eyes as she looked up quietly.

"It was unkind of her to say that," she exclaimed. "And why was she willing to send you back to such an uncivilized place?"

"Because she found it convenient to do so," answered Ida, coolly. "Self first, always, with Aunt Stina."

"And it is _never_ self with Aunt Patty." Cynthia's tone was warm. "What do her little peculiarities matter? If you made up your mind not to let them annoy you, Ida, you would soon cease to notice them."

Ida shook her head and smiled incredulously. "They would always annoy me," she said. "I pity you, Cynthia, for having had to live with her all these years."

"You needn't; I have never pitied myself."

"Well, you are used to her, and of course that makes a great difference. You probably don't notice things that drive me nearly wild."

"There you are mistaken, Ida. But when I think how Aunt Patty took us in when we were troublesome little children, homeless and penniless, and how many sacrifices she has made for us, I feel that I can't do enough to show my love and gratitude. And I believe the day will come when you will appreciate her just as I do, and be heartily sorry that you ever allowed yourself to be ashamed of her, or to utter one word to her discredit."

"Well, I declare, Cynthia, you have read me quite a lecture." Ida laughed as she spoke. She did not seem at all offended. "You are a quaint, old-fashioned little soul, Cynthia. I suppose you don't realize it, though. I wonder if I would have been like you if Aunt Stina had left me here?"

Tears stood thickly in Cynthia's eyes. She wiped them away with the stocking she was darning. She could not trust herself to say another word.

"Have I offended you by calling you quaint and old-fashioned?" asked Ida. "Well, then, you must forgive me, Cynthia, for I didn't intend to be unkind."

Cynthia, who loved her sister dearly in spite of her faults, could not resist the kiss Ida laid lightly on her cheek. She smiled through her tears. "I must try not to be so sensitive," she said. "Of course I know I must strike you as peculiar; I'm so different from the other girls you have known. That Angela Leverton, for instance, to whom you are always writing."

"Oh, Angela is not perfection by any means," said Ida. "But she is very refined, and nothing she does is ever out of taste. We were inseparable, and I miss her dreadfully now."

"Why not have her come to spend a few weeks with us this summer?" asked Cynthia. "I know Aunt Patty--" She stopped suddenly, then added, in a changed tone: "But, of course, it wouldn't do; you'd be ashamed to have her see how you're living now."

"No, I wouldn't care to have her come," said Ida, frankly. "She wouldn't enjoy a visit of even a few days. What could I do to amuse her? Take her to the store to get weighed, I suppose, and to the meetings of your little Band of Hope Circle."

Cynthia laughed. "It isn't very gay here, that's a fact," she said.

Ida had finished the fichu, and was now trying its effect upon herself before the little mirror between the two windows. Suddenly she gave a little start. "There's Mrs. Lennox's carriage coming down the road," she said. "Cynthia, I do believe it is going to stop here. Yes, it _has_ stopped, and Mrs. Lennox is getting out. Where shall we receive her? That dreadfully stuffy parlor--"

"Go out and meet her on the front porch," said Cynthia. "She can sit down there. It is you she wants to see, of course. If she asks for me, you can let me know."

Ida was so graceful in her air of taking it as a matter of course that Mrs. Lennox would prefer a seat on the vine-clad porch, that it did not occur to that lady to wonder why she was not asked into the parlor.

Mrs. Lennox, moreover, was no stickler for ceremony. She was a gentle, refined woman, whose heart was overflowing with good-will toward every one. She found her greatest happiness in making others happy, and it was with the object of contributing a little toward the pleasure of Mrs. Patty Dean's two nieces that she had come to call upon them.

She lived in a handsome house, a mile from the village, and entertained a great deal during the summer, spending the winter months in the South.

"I have noticed you at church," she said to Ida, "and I have been intending every day to call upon you, but I have had a houseful of company. You have been here about a fortnight, I think, and of course you have had a very happy time with your dear aunt and sister; but I hope you will not object to a little dissipation now, for I want you and Cynthia to come to a lawn party I expect to give next Tuesday."

"How delightful! And how kind of you to think of us!" said Ida.

"Ah! but I need all the young girls I can muster, and I expect several from town," rejoined Mrs. Lennox. "One of them, Angela Leverton, writes me that she is a particular friend of yours."

"Angela! coming to Brookville!" exclaimed Ida. There was consternation as well as surprise in her voice.

"Yes; she will make me a visit of a week or ten days. I expect her on Saturday. Now can I depend on having you and Cynthia for my lawn party?"

"Yes, I--I think so," answered Ida, whose heart was beating very fast. "It is so good of you to want us, Mrs. Lennox."

When, a few minutes later, Mrs. Lennox went away, Ida accompanied her to the gate, and stood there after the carriage had disappeared from view. She stared straight before her, a little frown on her smooth white brow. She was trying to make up her mind to do something which her conscience, that infallible monitor, told her was both mean and unkind. She started and colored when Cynthia's voice fell suddenly on her ear.

"I thought you were never coming in, Ida," she said. "What did Mrs. Lennox want?"

"She wanted to invite me to a garden party," answered Ida, without looking at her sister. "But of course I can't go. I have nothing fit to wear."

"Not go!" exclaimed Cynthia. "Oh, Ida, you _must_! It will be perfectly delightful. She gave one last year, and had a band of music, fireworks, refreshments served in tents, colored lanterns on the trees, and everything else you can imagine. She told me all about it herself, when she called one day soon after to see Aunt Patty, and she promised that if she ever gave another I should be invited. I suppose, however, she forgot it, or perhaps she thinks I'm too young. Anyhow, I'm glad she asked _you_."

"Yes; it was very nice of her," rejoined Ida, in a stiff tone. "But I really have nothing suitable for such an occasion, and I am sure _you_ have no party dress, Cynthia."

"No; but if she had invited me I could have worn my pink organdie."

"That faded, forlorn thing!"

"Well, what would it matter? No one would pay any attention to me at such a place. I would enjoy myself just looking on. But I wasn't invited, so there is no use talking about it," and she turned around and walked back to the house, a look of disappointment on her face.

Ida leaned over the gate again.

"I suppose I've done a mean thing," she thought. "But it is too late now to alter matters. Moral courage isn't my specialty, I imagine," and she sighed heavily.

Just then a quaint figure, waving an old green silk parasol, came into sight around a bend in the road. It was Aunt Patty. Her face fairly beamed as she saw Ida.

"Watching for me, dearie?" she called out, as she drew within speaking-distance. "Bless your tender heart! Well, I've something grand to tell you girls. Such good news. Where's Cynthia?"

THE IMP OF THE TELEPHONE.

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.

IV.--THE LIBRARY.

The Imp opened a small door upon the right of the room, and through it Jimmieboy saw another apartment, the walls of which were lined with books, and as he entered he saw that to each book was attached a small wire, and that at the end of the library was a square piece of snow-white canvas stretched across a small wooden frame.

"Magic lantern?" he queried, as his eye rested upon the canvas.

"Kind of that way," said the Imp, "though, not exactly. You see, these books about here are worked by electricity, like everything else here. You never have to take the books off the shelf. All you have to do is to fasten the wire connected with the book you want to read with the battery, turn on the current, and the book reads itself to you aloud. Then if there are pictures in it, as you come to them they are thrown by means of an electric light upon that canvas."

"Well, if this isn't the most--" began Jimmieboy, but he was soon stopped, for some book or other off in the corner had begun to read itself aloud.

"And it happened," said the book, "that upon that very night the Princess Tollywillikens passed through the wood alone, and on approaching the enchanted tree threw herself down upon the soft grass beside it and wept."

Here the book ceased speaking.

"That's the story of Pixyweevil and Princess Tollywillikens," said the Imp. "You remember it, don't you?--how the wicked fairy ran away with Pixyweevil, when he and the Princess were playing in the King's gardens, and how she had mourned for him many years, never knowing what had become of him? How the fairy had taken Pixyweevil and turned him into an oak sapling, which grew as the years passed by to be the most beautiful tree in the forest?"

"Oh yes," said Jimmieboy. "I know. And there was a good fairy who couldn't tell Princess Tollywillikens where the tree was, or anything at all about Pixyweevil, but did remark to the brook that if the Princess should ever water the roots of that tree with her tears, the spell would be broken, and Pixyweevil restored to her--handsomer than ever, and as brave as a lion."

"That's it," said the Imp. "You've got it; and how the brook said to the Princess, 'Follow me, and we'll find Pixyweevil,' and how she followed and followed until she was tired to death, and--"

"Full of despair threw herself down at the foot of that very oak and cried like a baby," continued Jimmieboy, ecstatically, for this was one of his favorite stories.

"Yes, that's all there; and then you remember how it winds up? How the tree shuddered as her tears fell to the ground, and how she thought it was the breeze blowing through the branches that made it shudder?" said the Imp.

"And how the brook laughed at her thinking such a thing!" put in Jimmieboy.

"And how she cried some more, until finally every root of the tree was wet with her tears, and how the tree then gave a fearful shake, and--"

"Turned into Pixyweevil!" roared Jimmieboy. "Yes, I remember that; but I never really understood whether Pixyweevil ever became King? My book says, 'And so they were married, and were happy ever afterwards'; but doesn't say that he finally became a great potteringtate, and ruled over the people forever."

"I guess you mean potentate, don't you?" said the Imp, with a laugh--potteringtate seemed such a funny word.

"I guess so," said Jimmieboy. "Did he ever become one of those?"

"No, he didn't," said the Imp. "He couldn't, and live happy ever afterwards, for Kings don't get much happiness in this world, you know."

"Why, I thought they did," returned Jimmieboy, surprised to hear what the Imp had said. "My idea of a King was that he was a man who could eat between meals, and go to the circus whenever he wanted to, and always had plenty of money to spend, and a beautiful Queen."

"Oh no," returned the Imp. "It isn't so at all. Kings really have a very hard time. They have to be dressed up all the time in their best clothes, and never get a chance, as you do, for instance, to play in the snow or in summer in the sand at the seashore. They can eat between meals if they want to, but they can't have the nice things you have. It would never do for a King to like ginger-snaps and cookies, because the people would murmur and say, 'Here--he is not of royal birth, for even we, the common people, eat ginger-snaps and cookies between meals; were he the true King he would call for green peas in winter-time, and boned turkey, and other rich stuffs that cost much money, and are hard to get; he is an impostor; come, let us overthrow him.' That's the hard part of it, you see. He has to eat things that make him ill just to keep the people thinking he is royal and not like them."

"Then what did Pixyweevil become?" asked Jimmieboy.

"A poet," said the Imp. "He became the poet of every-day things, and of course that made him a great poet. He'd write about plain and ordinary good-natured puppy-dogs, and snow-shovels, and other things like that, instead of trying to get the whole moon into a four-line poem, or to describe some mysterious thing that he didn't know much about in a ten-page poem that made it more mysterious than ever, and showed how little he really did know about it."

"I wish I could have heard some of Pixyweevil's poems," said Jimmieboy. "I liked him, and sometimes I like poems."

"Well, sit down there before the fire, and I'll see if we can't find a button to press that will enable you to hear them. They're most of 'em nonsense poems, but as they are perfect nonsense they're good nonsense."

"It is some time since I've used the library," said the Imp, gazing about him as if in search of some particular object. "For that reason I have forgotten where everything is. However, we can hunt for what we want until we find it. Perhaps this is it," he added, grasping a wire and fastening it to the battery. "I'll turn on the current and let her go."

The crank was turned, and the two little fellows listened very intently, but there came no sound whatever.

"That's very strange," said the Imp, "I don't hear a thing."

"Neither do I," observed Jimmieboy, in a tone of disappointment. "Perhaps the library is out of order, or the battery may be."

"I'll have to take the wire and follow it along until I come to the book it is attached to," said the Imp, stopping the current and loosening the wire. "If the library is out of order it's going to be a very serious matter getting it all right again, because we have all the books in the world here, and that's a good many, you know--more'n a hundred by several millions. Ah! Here is the book this wire worked. Now let's see what was the matter."

In a moment the whole room rang with the Imp's laughter.

"No wonder it wouldn't say anything," he cried. "What do you suppose the book was?"

"I don't know," said Jimmieboy. "What?"

"An old copy-book with nothing in it. That's pretty good!"

At this moment the telephone bell rang, and he had to go see what was wanted.

"Excuse me for a moment, Jimmieboy," the Imp said, as he started to leave the room. "I've got to send a message for somebody. I'll turn on one of the picture-books, so that while I am gone you will have something to look at."

The Imp then fastened a wire to the battery, turned on the current, and directing Jimmieboy's attention to the sheet of white canvas at the end of the library, left the room.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

GIRLS AND CHAFING-DISHES.

BY CHRISTINE TERHUNE HERRICK.

Never before was the chafing-dish so popular as now. And yet, in spite of the books that have been written directing how it is to be used, and the classes that have been formed for learning its capabilities, there is still a very general impression that its chief function is to cook Welsh-rarebit. As there is a prejudice against these as unwholesome, it is not strange, perhaps, that young girls and lads have had little practice with the chafing-dish. It has been rather reserved for their seniors, whose digestions may be supposed to have become case-hardened. But there are many other delicious dishes besides Welsh-rarebit which may be cooked over an alcohol flame. Even this much-abused compound, if properly prepared, and eaten at a reasonable hour, need not cause dyspepsia. It has gained a bad name because it is usually devoured late at night, and not followed by the vigorous exercise that is necessary if one would digest cheese comfortably.

The chafing-dish, however, is a really valuable aid in teaching young people something about cookery, and that in an easy, pleasant fashion. A chafing-dish is a charming possession for a young girls' club in which light and inexpensive refreshments are served. It is not always easy for the cook to prepare eatables for a club that meets every week or fortnight; and yet all girls--and boys--know how the sociability of any little gathering of this sort is heightened if there is something to eat. Girls who cannot have the "spread" prepared in the kitchen generally regale themselves with cream-puffs or éclairs, chocolate creams or caramels. And the boys--what do the boys eat? Peanuts, apples, pop-corn balls, varied by chewing-gum, and occasionally a cigarette "on the sly." Surely none of these are as good or as wholesome as some hot dainty prepared in a chafing-dish. The constant nibbling at sweets is very likely to prove injurious in the long-run, and to cost as much as the chafing-dish cookery.

But, some one may ask, what is there that can be cooked in a chafing-dish that will not give trouble to prepare in advance? There is no sense in planning for dishes that will keep the cook at work for an hour or so beforehand.

Certainly not. The right sort of chafing-dish cookery can all be done, at a pinch, in a chafing-dish. This ceases to be useful when it makes demands upon the kitchen stove, the cook, and every-day pots and pans.

There are many delicacies that the little cook can prepare with no help except that of her own clear head and her deft hands. It is not worth while to rehearse all of the dainties she has at her command, but here are a few of them: Scrambled eggs, eggs with cheese, eggs with curry, poached eggs, eggs with tomatoes, eggs with ham, curried eggs, creamed salmon, grilled sardines, panned oysters, broiled oysters, stewed and creamed oysters or clams, barbecued ham, fricasseed dried beef, creamed tomatoes, and cheese _fondu_.

For none of these need the cook's services be required, nor call be made upon the larder for any but uncooked provisions, except in the dishes where ham is used. And in these days, when cold boiled ham may be bought at every delicatessen shop and many groceries, it is no more trouble to supply one's self with that than with fresh eggs.

The girl who wishes to provide a feast for the little club or circle to which she belongs, should first make out a list of all the utensils and materials she will need. Then she may collect them and arrange them upon the table where she means to do her cookery. The chafing-dish must stand on a tray; close at hand should be a half-pint measuring-cup, a small wooden spoon for stirring, a couple of teaspoons, a table-spoon, and a knife. If eggs are to be cooked there must be a small bowl to beat them in and a fork. The ingredients must be arranged in the order in which the cook will have to use them.

All this may be done before the guests are met. The lamp under the dish must be filled and matches laid near. Then, when the cooking is to be done, all the girl will have to do will be to pin a napkin on in apron fashion, to protect the front of her gown from possible splashing, take her place behind the chafing-dish, and set to work. If she has been wise enough to try over the recipe beforehand, and will keep a steady head and avoid flurry, she may be sure of a happy result.

Let us suppose that she means to cook eggs with ham. If there are eight girls to be present, she will need six eggs, a quarter of a pound of cold boiled ham sliced thin and cut into squares, a table-spoonful of butter, a teaspoonful of minced onion, a salt-spoonful of mustard, and as much white pepper.

The butter goes into the blazer as soon as the lamp is lighted. (The blazer is the pan that is used directly over the flame, when there is no need to cook over hot water.) As soon as the butter melts the onion is put in and fried for a minute, and then the ham goes in. The chafing-dish may now be covered and left to take care of itself while the eggs are beaten. They are broken into a bowl, without separating the whites from the yolks, and whipped with a fork until they are well blended--say for a minute and a half. By this time the ham should have begun to crisp nicely. If it has not reached this stage, it may be allowed to cook a little longer. Then it may be sprinkled with the mustard and pepper and the eggs turned into it. After this the stirring must be continuous. The eggs are very likely to stick unless they are kept constantly scraped from the bottom; but there is no danger of burning unless the dish is neglected. As soon as the eggs are firm the dish is ready, and the lamp may be extinguished. A pile of plates or saucers, with spoons or forks, should be in readiness, and a plate of crackers may be passed with the eggs.

Another excellent dish easily prepared is curried eggs. For these there will be required six hard-boiled eggs, shelled and cut into thick slices, a table-spoonful of butter, a table-spoonful of flour, half a pint of milk, a teaspoonful of minced onion, and a scant teaspoonful each of salt and curry-powder. This dish, too, is cooked in the blazer. The butter goes in first, with the onion, and when the butter is melted, the flour and curry-powder are stirred in quickly. As soon as these and the butter are well blended and begin to bubble, and before they have a chance to stick, the milk is poured in. After about two minutes' steady stirring the sauce begins to thicken. It should come to a boil, and then the eggs may be put in, the salt added, and all simmered about a minute and a half more before the lamp is put out.

A pleasant and profitable little entertainment may be given with a chafing-dish for any pet charity or mission. There is probably not a church in the country which does not contain one or more societies or guilds of young girls who are interested in some especial work. They may be "King's Daughters," or "Christian Endeavorers," or "Willing Workers," or anything else. Their object is always a worthy one, and their great desire is to secure funds for it. It is very easy, with a couple of good-sized chafing-dishes, to cook enough supper for from thirty to sixty people, when the hot dishes are supplemented by sandwiches, rolls, coffee, and cake. Each guest pays a fixed sum for his supper, and this secures him a portion of the product of the chafing-dish. If the cookery is done in the sight of the guests, and the recipes given at the same time, there is little chance that the entertainment will prove uninteresting.

If such a dish as eggs and ham be prepared, a dozen eggs and half a pound of ham can be readily cooked in one chafing-dish, and this, judiciously served, should supply fifteen people. As soon as the eggs are cooked they can be turned out upon a platter, the chafing-dish can be washed, and a second instalment prepared. Creamed oysters or salmon or panned oysters are quick dishes for such an occasion. Panned oysters are unusual, simple, and very good. To prepare them, melt two table-spoonfuls of butter in the blazer, lay in twenty-five oysters, and cook these, turning them once or twice, until they grow plump and the edges begin to curl. Season them with pepper and salt, and serve upon toast, or, if this is not convenient, upon crackers or Graham-bread.

As a matter of course, four chafing-dishes are better than two at such an affair, if there is a numerous assembly, unless the dishes are unusually large. The audience on these occasions is, as a rule, good-natured, and quite willing to wait for the second or even the third relay of refreshments.

A pretty home lunch given by a young girl may have the principal items prepared in the chafing-dish. The lunch might begin with bouillon, served in cups. This, of course, should have been made in the kitchen. The first dish cooked on the table may be panned oysters or clams, served on toast. After this, the young hostess may broil lamb chops, or cook a dish of lobster or of creamed chicken, and with this a vegetable should be served. Should she desire, there may be a chafing-dish at each end of the table, and while she prepares the meat dish, her _vis-à-vis_ may curry tomatoes, or cream potatoes, or _sauté_ green peas.

After this may come a cheese _fondu_. This is a mild and comparatively harmless form of Welsh-rarebit, and is cooked in the inner vessel of the chafing-dish over boiling water. To make it, put in a cupful of milk, a table-spoonful of butter, a _scant_ cupful of fresh bread-crumbs, and two cupfuls of soft American cheese, grated. Add salt to taste, and a pinch of red pepper. Let all cook together, stirring often, until the cheese is melted, and the ingredients well blended. Have ready two eggs beaten light, and stir these in very slowly. Cook two minutes after they go in, and serve.

The salad which follows the cheese dish may be of lettuce with a French dressing, or of tomatoes with mayonnaise, and the making of the dressing may in either case devolve upon one of the guests or the hostess.

The final course may be fruit, or, if it is desirous to have one more chafing-dish dainty, it is easy to prepare a simple dessert. Open a can of preserved peaches or apricots. Split six stale lady-fingers or small sponge-cakes, melt two table-spoonfuls of butter in the chafing-dish, and in this brown the halved cakes on each side. Take them out, arrange them on a hot plate, and on each piece lay a half of a peach or apricot. Add a teaspoonful of cornstarch to the butter in the chafing-dish, blend well, and when the mixture bubbles add to it a scant half-pint of the liquor from the preserve. Stir this until it thickens, pour it over the cake and preserves, and serve. It is good with cream.

A chafing-dish need not be an expensive luxury. Those made of nickel are excellent, and cost from three to five dollars apiece. Still, cheaper dishes are made of agate iron and of block tin, and serve their purpose well.

BAGGED IN MIDSTREAM.

BY J. MACDONALD OXLEY.

"What do you say to a paddle down to Oka this afternoon, Ray?" asked Jack Vipond of his chum, Ray Hodgson. "I don't think there's too much wind for the canoe."

"All right, Jack," assented Ray. "Shall we take your canoe or mine?"

"We'd better take yours, I guess," replied Jack. "It's safer in rough water, and we may have white-caps to face on our way back."

So they started out in Jack's white-cedar canoe, a beautiful craft, capable of a good rate of speed, and yet in competent hands wellnigh as seaworthy as a row-boat.

Ray took with him his air-gun, which was something more than a plaything, for it could send a heavy buckshot forty yards with sufficient force to kill a bird or squirrel, and at shorter distances was really an effective weapon for larger game.

They had a lively paddle down the river, for the breeze blew strongly astern, and good management was necessary to prevent the canoe shipping an occasional sea.

Landing at Oka, they spent some hours wandering about the Indian village, purchasing candy and getting drinks of cool spruce beer at a little French shop, and lying on the soft sward in the shade of the huge maples that fronted the big Catholic church.

They were in no hurry to return, because the longer they lingered the less wind and sea they would have to reckon with, and it was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons when even sturdy boys still in their teens do not hanker after any extra exertion.

It was accordingly well towards sundown before they again launched their canoe, and by this time only a gentle breeze ruffled the surface of the river.

Paddling straight up the middle of the broad stream, which at this place was really a lake, so widely did it expand, they had got about half-way home, when Ray, who was in the bow of the canoe, pointing to a dark object on the water a couple of hundred yards ahead, exclaimed, "Say, Jack, what do you make of that?"

Looking intently in the direction indicated, Jack, after a moment's hesitation, said, doubtfully: "I can't make out what it is. Could it be a young deer?"

"Perhaps it is," responded Ray, eagerly. "Let's paddle after it and see;" and he dug his blade deep into the water, making it bend like a bow with the sudden strain.

Nothing loath, Jack vigorously seconded his companion's efforts, and the canoe cut through the water at a rate that promised to quickly bring it close to the unknown creature ahead.

At first the animal took no notice, or was unconscious of the approach of the canoe, but by the time the latter had covered half the distance separating them, it suddenly awoke to a sense of danger, and put forth a spurt that greatly increased its rate of progress.

"Hit her up, Jack! hit her up!" cried Ray, multiplying his strokes. "The beggar's trying to get away from us."

"No fear of that," panted Jack, who was straining every nerve and steering a faultless course. "We're too fast for it any day."

As they gained upon their quarry it soon became clear that it was nothing of the deer kind, but some sort of a wild-cat, the fur being very thick, and of a brownish-gray color. The ears were long and pointed, and had a curious little plume of coarse hairs at the top. Neither of the boys had ever seen an animal like this one before.

Had not their blood been warmed by the exertions of the chase, it is probable that when the character of the animal was more fully disclosed they would have deemed discretion the better part of valor, and allowed it to go on its way unchallenged.

But they were both greatly excited, and the presence of each other acted as a stimulant to their courage, so that they were bound to see the end of the matter.

"Give him a shot with your air-gun, Ray," shouted Jack when the canoe was within ten yards of the creature.

Ray at once laid down his paddle and took up the gun, which happened to be ready for action. Aiming as carefully as he could, seeing that every pulse was throbbing and nerve tingling with excitement, Ray pulled the trigger, and the loud snap of the gun was instantly followed by a startling yell of pain from the animal, which commenced to thrash around in the water furiously.

By a lucky chance, rather than by any good marksmanship, Ray's buckshot had taken effect in the right eye, completely destroying that optic, and inflicting intolerable pain.

Quick to make the most of their advantage, the boys sent the canoe close up to the struggling animal, fully determined to secure their prize, although they had no clear idea as to how they would accomplish it.

"Give him another shot, Ray," cried Jack, anxiously, for he was beginning to feel nervous lest the violent motions of the animal might imperil the stability of the canoe.

Ray hastened to comply; but being greatly flurried, went too hurriedly about getting the air-gun again ready for action, with the result that he disarranged its machinery, and rendered it unfit for further use.

"I've broken something, Jack!" he exclaimed, in a tone of keen regret, "and I can't fire it again."

"Then hit the brute over the head with the butt," suggested Jack, eagerly.

Excited as he was, Ray had too much regard for his gun to risk smashing it beyond all repair by turning it into a club. Instead of so doing he flung it into the bottom of the canoe and seized his paddle. It had a broad heavy blade, sharp at the edges, and being made of the best white maple, could be relied upon not to break easily. Swinging it high over his head, he brought it down with all his might upon the animal. His intention had been that the blow should fall just behind the ears, and if his aim had been true the struggle would have been at once ended. But the combined motion of the canoe and the plunging creature threw him out altogether, and the paddle, instead of inflicting a fatal stroke, came down on the side of the furry head, and glanced off without even stunning its intended victim.

"Botheration!" cried Ray, disgustedly; and he was about to swing the paddle up for another attempt, when the animal suddenly changed its tactics.

Hitherto it had acted entirely on the defensive; but now, doubly enraged, no doubt, by the stinging blow of the sharp-edged paddle, it rushed to the attack. Flinging itself upon the canoe, it got both paws over the gunwale and buried its teeth in the thin wood, growling horribly, and glaring at Ray with its one remaining eye in a most terrifying manner.

Jack thought that it was now full time for him to take a hand in the conflict. "Keep the canoe steady, Ray," he shouted. "I'll fix the beast."

So saying, he rose from his seat and put all his strength into a swing of his paddle, that had it taken effect would surely have decapitated the animal.

But he was fated to have no better fortune with his blow than his companion, for just as he stood up the weight of the creature clinging to the gunwale proved too much for the equilibrium of the canoe, and over it went, pitching both boys into the water with a tremendous splash.

They were expert swimmers, and had nothing to fear in the way of drowning; but the first thought in the minds of both as they rose to the surface and wiped the water from their eyes was, "Where is the wild-cat? Is it near me?"

To their great surprise the animal had disappeared. There was the canoe calmly floating bottom up, but nothing else was visible.

"What's become of the thing?" cried Ray, looking anxiously around.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when strange, muffled sounds coming through the bottom of their up-turned craft supplied the answer.

The canoe had turned over on top of the animal, which was now imprisoned beneath it.

"It's under the canoe," shouted Jack. "Let's keep it there until it's drowned."

The idea was an excellent one, and not an instant was lost in putting it into execution.

One taking the bow, and the other the stern, the boys kept the light vessel in its position until the sounds and struggling of the creature desperately fighting for its life had entirely ceased.

They even waited some minutes longer so as to make assurance doubly sure, for they desired no renewal of the conflict.

"He must be dead as a door-nail now," said Jack at length. "Let's right the canoe and see. I hope the body won't sink, after all the trouble we've had."

Moving with great circumspection, they turned the canoe over right side up, and to their great delight the body of the animal floated out as lifeless as the paddles that were beside it.

"Hurrah!" cried Ray. "We've got him right enough. Now, then, let's bale out the canoe and make for shore as quick as we can."

For such expert canoeists this was not a matter of much difficulty, and in a little while they were underway again, with their furry victim safely stowed amidships.

They were naturally very jubilant over what they had done, and exhibited their prize with much pride.

It proved to be a fine specimen of the Canadian lynx, an animal very rare in that part of the country. In fact, none had been seen there for many years.

On the advice of their parents the boys presented the lynx to the Natural History Society, by whom it was carefully mounted and placed in a prominent position, with a card at its feet giving the credit to the donors.

Since then Ray and Jack are always eager to take friends and visitors to the museum, and to make sure that they do not miss the section in which the big lynx stands so well to the front.

LEAVES AT PLAY.

BY FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

Scamper, little leaves, about
In the autumn sun;
I can hear the old Wind shout,
Laughing as you run,
And I haven't any doubt
That he likes the fun.

When you've run a month or so,
Very tired you'll get;
But the same old Wind, I know,
Will be laughing yet
When he kicks you in your snow-
Downy coverlet.

So, run on and have your play,
Romp with all your might;
Dance across the autumn day,
While the sun is bright.
Soon you'll hear the old Wind say,
"Little leaves, Good-night!"

WHERE THE CANARIES COME FROM.

A great many of our finest singers have come from Italy and France, but until we read it in an English newspaper some days ago we never knew that Germany carries on a very large trade in the rearing and exporting of canaries, and that the largest establishment in the world for the breeding of these creatures is situated within the domains of that empire, away up among the Hartz Mountains of Prussia. From this and the few surrounding but much smaller nurseries no fewer than 130,000 birds are despatched every year to the United States and Canada; while in the same time at least 3000 go to Great Britain, and about 2000 go to Russia.

IRVING'S STORY OF KING ARTHUR AND THE ROUND TABLE.

BY JOHN RUSSELL DAVIDSON.

Many of the wide-awake Knights and Ladies of the ROUND TABLE read the daily newspapers, and by this time know that Sir Henry Irving, the great English actor, has been treating the people of New York to a magnificent production of a play that deals directly with the ancient founder of the Order of the Round Table.

Mr. J. Comyns Carr, the writer of this beautiful and sadly picturesque drama, does not give us many glimpses into the lives of the great company of valiant knights that bound Merlin's table with a hand of steel, but there is much in the stage pictures to interest and instruct those who have fed upon the legends of Tennyson. In the prologue we find the young King Arthur by the Magic Mere or Magic Lake, receiving from the spirit of the lake the mighty sword Excalibur, and with it predictions of great power for the future of this warrior knight who was to rule over a kingdom that should rule the sea. The old sage Merlin is standing by, telling Arthur that the blade is of such a temper that no man can withstand its stroke, and that the scabbard is worthier than the sword.

As the play progresses a band of one hundred knights of the Round Table are seen gathered together in the great Hall of Camelot, kneeling before the King, and begging his permission to leave the court to search for the sacred cup of Christ's, known throughout the world as the Holy Grail. This Holy Grail, the legend tells us, was a cup filled at the cross with the Saviour's blood and brought to the British Isle by Joseph. Some unknown hand had stolen it away, and the burning desire of many a brave knight in those days was to seek, and, happily finding the holy treasure, to restore it to its proper place.

Our illustration of this scene pictures the spokesmen for the departing company of knights craving the King's blessing on their quest. As they rise to go, Sir Lancelot enters and kneels before the throne; he is encased in full armor, and carries a great sword on his left arm. This youth, possessing so many of the graces and traits that were necessary to add lustre to the fame of an English knight in the olden time, had endeared himself to the good Arthur and all his court, and so great was the King's love for Lancelot that he refused to grant the earnest prayer of the gallant knight that he might be permitted to take his departure from his sovereign's side, and join his companions in their wellnigh hopeless search for the Holy Grail.

The next act brings us to a beautiful nook in a vast forest. It is the Queen's Maying, and the great old trees and the blooming flowers tremble with the glad music of Guinevere's laugh and the joyful songs of her ladies-in-waiting.

Sir Lancelot remains at Arthur's court, and being ever near the gracious Queen, his love for her grows deeper and dangerous, until at last it becomes known to the King, who banishes the unhappy young knight and condemns the Queen to imprisonment. From the moment when Sir Lancelot enters Camelot the play deals with that which is sad and fateful--the love of Arthur for Guinevere, the mutual love of this lovely Queen and Sir Lancelot, and the traitorous acts of Arthur's trusted Sir Mordred that finally end in the King's death by Sir Mordred's hand.

Merlin had told Mordred that he, being born on the May day, was the only man whose power could prevail against the mystic charm of Arthur's sword.

In King Arthur's life the great sword Excalibur plays a prominent part; it is ever present and exerting vast influence in his victories and rapid rise to mighty power. Morgan le Fay, the mother of Sir Mordred and active partner in his schemes to overthrow their master, enters the King's chamber at night, steals the scabbard, and throws it into the lake from which it came; and as Arthur is dying he charges his faithful follower Sir Bedevere to take the blade to the forest and cast it back into the depths of the Magic Mere. At Arthur's death Queen Guinevere is condemned to be burned, but is saved from the flames by the faithful Sir Lancelot, who in turn slays the false Sir Mordred. This latter knight had usurped the throne some time before the dying moments of King Arthur.

"And after he was dead Arthur was borne by the three Queens of Night to that sweet isle of sleep which is called Avalon."

We read books, we idly turn the pictured page of history; but here we have before us a scene painted in colors deeper than the artist's brush can know--a picture infused with the vitality of living humanity clothed with the garments of the Middle Ages. All this, stirred with the gleam of spear, the clink of mail, and the thrust of sword, bathes our dream of the early mother-land with an interest that is alive, and a reality that otherwise we could never know.

To be noble then was to be a man of war; to be noble now is to be a man of peace.

The formation of a National Interscholastic Athletic Association, that shall be for the schools of this country what the I.C.A.A.A. is for the colleges, seems now assured. At a meeting of the New York I.S.A.A. two weeks ago it was decided to invite all the interscholastic associations whose names and addresses could be obtained to send delegates to a convention to be held in this city on or about December 28th. At this convention the New York association will propose the formation of a national association, and the plans for organization will be discussed, and officers will doubtless be elected. This is probably the most important step ever taken by the schools for the welfare of scholastic athletics, and it should be encouraged in every way possible by all who are interested in matters interscholastic. The legislators will no doubt find a number of difficulties to overcome at first, and they should not hesitate to seek the best advice obtainable, or assistance, whenever required, from older sportsmen.

Such an association of schools cannot fail to benefit track and field sports. It will simplify the schedule of events, and officially recognize those that are distinctly athletic; it will raise the standard of performance; it will bring the best material of American schools together; and it will establish definite figures in records, which up to this time have, in many cases, been subject to doubt. The question as to when and where the first field meeting should be held is just now a matter of secondary importance, but one that the prospective delegates to the convention will do well to keep in mind. The questions to consider at present are the best methods for organizing the association, and the best means of putting it upon a firm basis. It should be remembered that no business enterprise can be run on any but a business basis; and whereas the proposed association will not in its foremost features be a business enterprise, there will be many business transactions in connection with its management that must be attended to in a businesslike manner.

Above all things, the association should be kept free from politics. Politics is enough to ruin the best-regulated enterprise. The offices should not be looked upon as spoils, and divided among the several component associations. Elect those men to the offices who are the best qualified to carry out the work and to fulfil the duties entrusted to them. In almost every school, or association of schools, there is one man who is recognized as a "worker," one man whose interest in whatever he undertakes is such that it helps him to perform his duties better than others could. Such a man--such men, indeed, are needed to take charge of and conduct the affairs of the National Association. If such men are put into office, the organization cannot fail to be prosperous, and to reflect credit upon all the institutions that are members of it.

The Thanksgiving day game between Berkeley and St. Paul's, the first of a series of annual contests, should attract a large crowd. Both teams are in prime condition, and good football may be expected. Berkeley will undoubtedly win, and St. Paul's will score if her men get the ball in the first half. On the other hand, if St. Paul's kicks off, and the ball goes into Berkeley's hands, the New-Yorkers will have things all their own way should they score in the first ten minutes of play. St. Paul's is weak in defensive work, and her men seem to lose heart if scored against early in the game. I can not quite account for this in a team that has had such good training, but it is a characteristic particularly noticeable this year. Their offensive play is good, and the men put up a fast and strong game in both halves--when they don't lose heart. The centre and guards are weak, but the other positions are pretty well taken care of.

Hall. Loraine. Goldsborough. Cluet. Gardiner. Symons.

ST. PAUL'S, GARDEN CITY, FOOTBALL TEAM.]