Chapter V (1)

"We have a right to enter any of your vessels without your leave to seek for suspected deserters from our navy, and to take them away when found," said the British government to the Americans again after the war with the Barbary States.

"By so doing you insult our flag. _Beware!_" replied the Americans.

There was no power in that "Beware!" for our little navy, which had performed such valiant deeds, had, under the pretext of "public economy," been transformed into a swarm of gun-boats--a "mosquito fleet"--that was ridiculed at home and despised abroad. British cruisers patrolled American waters, and insulted our flag whenever they pleased. They became legalized plunderers, and no American merchant vessel leaving port was safe from their depredations.

In 1807 a British squadron lay in a bay on the coast of Virginia. The American frigate _Chesapeake_ put to sea from Hampton Roads, when the _Leopard_, one of the English ships, stopped her, and demanded the delivery of three or four alleged deserters on board of her. When the demand was refused, the _Leopard_ sent no less than twenty round-shot through the surprised and unprepared _Chesapeake_, and British officers boarded her, and carried away the men. This outrage excited a hot war spirit among the Americans. The government ordered all armed British vessels to leave American waters immediately. Did they do it? No. There was no power back of the order to enforce it. The ridiculous gun-boat fleet was laughed at, and the government was placed in the position of a weak blusterer. British cruisers continued to patrol American waters. The people demanded more war ships. The government heeded the demand. The gun-boats retired, and in 1810 the Americans had four frigates and eight smaller armed vessels afloat.

In the spring of 1811 a British frigate was seen prowling along our coasts. Commodore Rodgers went in search of her in the frigate _President_, and on a pleasant May evening he gave chase to a vessel which he supposed to be the one he was searching for. As he drew near he asked, through his trumpet, "What sail is that?" The stranger repeated the question. Rodgers again asked, "What sail is that?" and was answered by a cannon-ball, which lodged in the main-mast of the _President_. Rodgers opened a broadside upon the surly stranger, and after a short combat silenced her guns. At daylight she was seen several miles away. She was the British sloop-of-war _Little Belt_.

This affair created great excitement, and from that time until the summer of 1812 the American war vessels were kept actively cruising along our coasts. Meanwhile, navy-yards had been built, the moral tone of the navy had been greatly improved, and its discipline was efficient. It was almost unconsciously preparing for a great conflict, in which it was to gain imperishable renown.

Insult after insult caused the Americans to declare war against England in the summer of 1812. Measures were taken to create an efficient army, but, strange as it may seem, when war was to be waged against a powerful maritime nation there was persistent opposition in Congress to a navy. The Southern members, representing a purely agricultural region, could not sympathize with New Englanders in desires for a navy to protect commerce. In vain it was wisely urged that protection to commerce is protection to agriculture. A South Carolina member declared he would "go further to see a navy burned than to extinguish the flames," and a proposition of a Massachusetts member to build thirty frigates was voted down. And yet, so unprepared for maritime war, the Americans went boldly out on the ocean with a few public vessels and active privateers to defy the royal navy of England. The United States had twenty war vessels, exclusive of one hundred and twenty gun-boats. Great Britain had eight hundred efficient cruisers.

The British had nothing but sneers at and ribald jokes about the American Navy. They laughed in derision at our declaration of war. They spoke of the _Constitution_ frigate, which had performed such gallant deeds in the Mediterranean, as "a bundle of pine boards sailing under a bit of striped bunting," and they declared that "a few broadsides from England's wooden walls" would, "drive the paltry striped bunting from the ocean." They did not heed the injunction, "Let not him that girdeth on his harness boast himself as he that putteth it off."

When war was declared, there was a small American squadron in the harbor of New York under Commodore Rodgers. It immediately went to sea in search of a large fleet of Jamaica merchantmen known to be off the coast. The _President_ frigate was Rodgers's flag-ship. She soon encountered the British frigate _Belvidera_, which, after a sharp combat, was lightened, and, outsailing the _President_, escaped. This was the first battle on sea or land of the war of 1812-15, which is properly called the "Second War for Independence." The _Belvidera_ carried the news of the declaration of war to the British at Halifax.

Captain Broke was sent from Halifax with a squadron to meet the Americans. His flag-ship was the frigate _Shannon_. He soon captured the little brig _Nautilus_, the _first_ vessel taken in that war. She was retaken in the East Indies in 1815, and was the _last_ vessel captured in the war.

The frigate _Constitution_, Captain Isaac Hull, had just returned from Europe. She shipped a new crew, and cruised along the New England coasts. In the middle of July she fell in with Broke's squadron. Perceiving his peril, Hull sought safety in flight; and then began one of the most remarkable naval retreats ever recorded, in which skillful seamanship won the race. There was almost a dead calm. Down went the boats of the _Constitution_, with long lines attached to them, and strong sweeps were used with desperate energy in towing her. A long cannon was placed at the stern on her spar-deck, and two others were pointed out of her cabin windows.

A gentle breeze now sprang up, and the _Shannon_ approached and attacked the _Constitution_ with her bow guns. The breeze died away. The water was shallow, and Hull sent a kedge anchor with ropes attached, in a boat, half a mile ahead. It was cast, and the crew pulled the ship rapidly ahead. For a while Broke was puzzled by her mysterious movement, but discovering the secret he used the same means. Through breezes and calms, and a fierce thunder-storm that swept over the sea, the chase continued sixty-four hours, when Broke gave it up, and the _Constitution_ escaped. A rhymer of the day wrote:

"'Neath Hull's command and a tough band,
And naught beside to back her,
Upon a day, as log-books say,
A fleet bore down to thwack her.
A fleet, you know, is odds or so
Against a single ship, sirs;
So 'cross the tide her legs she tried,
And gave the rogues the slip, sirs."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE "BOSS" FISH.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

"No use, Charley. We might as well go home to breakfast."

"We got here early enough."

"I don't believe there's a trout in the brook."

"If there are any, they don't bite worms early in the morning any more'n they do any other time."

Charley looked mournfully down at his float, as it lopped wearily over on one side. The water of the little pool below the foot-bridge over the trout brook was as smooth as a looking-glass, and the float had not so much as wiggled since he dropped it in.

"I don't care much for trout, Jeff."

"I'd rather have some breakfast."

"And after that we'll take the boat, and go out on the pond. We've dug a pile of worms."

Slowly and grudgingly the line was pulled in, but the faces of both the boys brightened the moment they were turned in the direction of breakfast.

Half an hour later they were stopping for a moment to look at a stout, middle-aged man who was standing on the steps of the little village hotel, talking with the landlord. A strap over one shoulder held up a fishing-basket that swung behind his left hip, and in his right hand he carried, all ready for use, the lightest fishing-rod Charley Morris had ever seen. Even Jeff, who was from the city himself, and had looked at such things in the show windows of the shops, had an idea the stranger must have made a mistake in bringing that plaything into the country.

"It's a trout rod, Charley. If we'd had one like it this morning!"

"'Tisn't much bigger'n a horsewhip."

Just then the landlord was saying, "Thar isn't much in the pond 'cept perch and sunfish, but you may take something in the creek above. Your best show for trout is to work along the trout brook as far as the hill, and then cut across to the creek, and fish down. 'Tain't far to cross. To-morrer you can try the brooks beyond the hill. Some of 'em'll give you a full baskit."

"Hear that, Jeff," whispered Charley. "Just isn't old Galloway a-fooling him! Sending him to fish in that brook! Why, if our cows got at it all at once, they'd drink it dry."

Jeff was looking at the high boots the stranger wore over his trousers, and was just saying, "They're for wading, so he won't wet his feet," when Charley looked right up into the face of the "fancy fisherman" from the city, and asked,

"Mister, do you want any worms?"

"Angle-worms, my lad?"

"And grubs? I know where you can dig lots of 'em. Where Jeff and I got ours this morning."

"No, thank you, my little man. I don't care for any worms. Would you like to see my bait?"

"Guess I would. Look here, Jeff, he's going to show his bait."

The stout stranger chuckled merrily as he drew from one of his great side pockets a sort of little book, with a leather cover and flap.

"Jeff, he carries his worms in a pocket-book."

"Flies, my little man--flies."

"Our fish won't bite at flies, mister; and they won't hide a hook, neither."

Charley's eyes were opening wide, a moment later, as the little book was opened before them.

"Flies? Why, mister, there's pretty much every kind of bug, except bumblebees. All sorts of hooks, too. If you put them pretty things into the water, you'll get 'em wet, and spoil 'em."

Again the fat man chuckled.

"Will I? Well, now, you and I'll run a race. You two boys go ahead, and see which of us'll catch the most fish and the biggest."

"Come on, Jeff," shouted Charley; "we'll beat him!"

But then he suddenly turned again to say:

"Now, mister, you've got your scoop-net along. Minners don't count, do they?"

"No, sonny, minnows won't count. Only fish that are big enough to eat."

Charley had never seen a "landing-net" used in his life, but he knew what minnows were good for.

"If we had some, Jeff," he said, as they hurried along toward the pond, "we could try for some pickerel. There's some of them left. Only they've been fished for so much, they know enough to let a hook alone."

"Big ones?"

"Some of 'em. There's one awful big one. Black Dan--he's the best fisherman round here, only he's lame of one leg--he says it's the boss fish, and he's fished for him a whole day at a time."

"Did he ever get him to bite?"

"No; but he says he's seen that pickerel smell of his bait, and then swim up to the top of the water and wink at him."

"Wish we could catch him."

"If I had that feller's scoop-net, and could get some minners."

But he had no such thing; and in a few minutes more they were in their boat on the pond, while the stranger was walking fast, for a fat man, across the meadow toward the trout brook.

This was a very narrow, crooked affair, pretty deep in many places, and almost hidden by high grass, trees, and bushes.

"We know there are no fish there," said Charley, confidently.

"Not even trout?"

"Well, yes, maybe there's trout. But they won't bite. Not even before breakfast. Anyhow, they won't go for a bare hook, with a feather on it."

That seemed sensible, and Charley's own hook now had a worm on it, and so had Jeff's.

"We'll beat him. I know just where to go. We're in the right spot."

Perhaps he did; but before the morning was over he and Jeff had moved their boat into nearly a dozen more that seemed to be just as good.

The "pond" was a sort of miniature lake, and was nearly half a mile long, although it was nowhere very wide. It was supplied by what Mr. Galloway, the landlord, called the "creek"--a pretty stream of water about ten times as large as the trout brook in the meadow.

There were fish in that pond, and it was a pity the man from the city had not known it, and tried for some of them with angle-worms, instead of wasting his time over there in the meadow.

As it was, Jeff and Charley had it all to themselves, and the latter was half glad his city cousin got the first bite.

"Good for you, Jeff!"

"Bull-head! bull-head!"

"Look out for his horns."

"Ain't he a whopper?"

"I say, Jeff, did you ever read about flying-fish?"

"Course I have."

"Well, shouldn't you think their wings'd get wet under water?"

"Charley! mind your cork; it's gone under."

So it had, and in a moment more he could shout, "I'm even with you. Only mine's a pumpkin-seed."

It looked as if the luck of that morning had settled upon the two boys. It was hard to say which of them came in for the largest share of it. Even before they moved their boat the first time they could count three bull-heads, six perch, twice as many sunfish, or "pumpkin-seed," two shiners, and a sucker. To be sure, none of them were very large fish, but they were all big enough to eat, and would count when they came to compare with the contents of the fat man's basket.

"That was a pretty big fish-basket," said Charley. "Most of 'em are flat little things."

"It's bigger'n he'll need for all the fish he'll find in that brook. Hullo, my bait's off again."

"So's mine. Just a nibble."

"Six prime worms gone hand-running. Jeff, I guess we might as well pull up. The snappin'-turtles have come for us."

"Do they skin a hook that way?"

"That's just what they do. Black Dan says the fish put 'em up to it. Particularly that there boss pickerel."

Charley had more than one story to tell about Black Dan, but he pulled up the big stone that was doing duty as an anchor, and off they went to another "tip-top spot."

It proved so for a while, and there Jeff pulled in his first eel. Then he had a good time, as Charley said, getting the eel off the hook, and untwisting him from the snarl he had got himself into with the fish-line.

"There he goes," said Charley, "all over the bottom of the boat. Black Dan says an eel just loves to travel round."

"They're mean things to catch."

"I've got one. Now I'll show you."

Charley knew how to take an eel off a hook, but that one bothered him, and when he finally got him loose, he said,

"I say, Jeff, this won't do. I'd as lief fish for turtles. Let's move."

"Wait a bit. Maybe there's something else."

So there was, but not for any great length of time; and as the boys were impatient, they made another move.

They would have given one of their eels to know how the fat man from the city was getting along.

Toward noon their frequent changes brought them away up to the head of the pond, near the mouth of the creek; but they had not been anchored ten minutes before a deep-toned cheery voice from the bank hailed them with,

"Hey, boys! Having good luck?"

"Pretty good," said Charley. "Have you caught anything?--anything bigger'n minners?"

"Well, a fish or two. Come ashore and I'll show 'em. Besides, I want you to give me a lift with your boat."

The boys were ready enough to have a look into that fish-basket, and the anchor came up in a hurry.

"See," said the fat man, as he lifted the lid of his basket.

"Why, it's more'n half full."

"All trout too, and some of 'em are big ones."

"Mister," said Charley, "did you bring any of them from the city with you?"

"I guess not," chuckled the fat man. "I got most of 'em in the brook, but I did fairly well along the creek. Now do you see those bushes at the foot of the steep bank just below the mouth of the creek?"

"Yes," said Charley; "there's an awful deep hole right there."

"Well, I want to float over, slow and silent, so I can throw a fly right under those bushes."

"You'll get caught in 'em."

"I'll risk that."

He sat down on the front seat, and Charley rowed him over as if he were afraid of making a ripple on the water. He and Jeff were almost holding their breath with excitement over what their fat friend meant to do.

"That's it. Let her float."

The light graceful rod swung back, a remarkable length of very fine line went floating through the air, and the boys could see something like a small dragon-fly at the end of it.

"No sinker, Jeff," whispered Charley.

"It's just lit on the water."

It was a beautiful cast, and the fly fell at the very edge of the bushes, on a dark and shady spot of water with a small eddy in it.

Splash!

What a plunge that was!

"He jumped clean out of the water," exclaimed Jeff.

"You've lost your hook this time, mister, and your bait too. That's a pickerel, and we call him the boss fish."

"It's a bigger fish than I had reckoned on," said the stranger, "or I'd have brought a heavier rod and tackle."

"He'll snap any line you've got."

"We'll see."

The pickerel had felt the sharp point of that small hook, and he was now darting off toward the mouth of the creek.

The fat man took it coolly, holding his rod with one hand, while the other rested on the large bright brass reel, that was now spinning around as the fish drew the line out.

The tough little rod was bending, but there was no great strain upon it.

"He won't run far. Here he comes back again."

Not far indeed, but there were a hundred yards of fine line out before he could begin to reel it in. Then he cried,

"There he goes, down under the bank. Means to sulk. I'll worry him out of that."

"Why don't you pull him right in?" asked Jeff, excitedly.

"Because he wouldn't come if I did."

It was a good while before there seemed to be any prospect of his coming, and the boys were almost tired of the fun of sitting still to see their stout friend let out his line and reel it in again. But at last the pickerel himself began to get a little tired of pulling and being pulled, and was reeled in closer and closer to the boat, while the trout rod bent nearly double.

"He'll break that line!"

"No, sonny; that's what the landing-net is for."

They saw it darted under the gleaming side of the great fish--a lift, a splash, and the prize was floundering on the bottom of the boat.

"Hurrah, boys! We've got him."

"You've beat us, mister. I'm just going to go home and catch a lot of flies," muttered Charley.

Half an hour later they were all standing on the hotel steps, and Black Dan was holding up the pickerel.

"Dat ar's de boss fish, shuah! And you done cotch him wid a fly and dat ar whipstalk? Was you dar, Charley Morris?"

"I saw him do it, and so did Jeff."

"Well, ef I ain't glad he's done got dat ar pickerel out ob my way. Dat fish has been a soah trial to me!"

And Jeff and Charley had had their own fun, and their first lesson in fly-fishing.

WHY PICKLE GAVE THE GERMAN TEACHER A PRESENT.

BY LAURA F. FITCH.

Pickle had waked in high spirits. That was unlucky, in the first place, for Pickle's high spirits always bubbled over before the day ended into some deed of mischief. Then, Miss Prim had a headache, and could not appear in the school-room. That was unlucky, too, for the new German teacher was to arrive that morning, and she would not be able to introduce him to the girls, and enjoin upon them attention and obedience. To be sure, Miss Meek, the assistant-principal, undertook to perform all necessary ceremonies, but then the girls never minded Miss Meek. In the third place, the new teacher was queer-looking. That was the most unfortunate circumstance of all, and was really to blame for the whole affair.

"What business," Pickle wrathfully demanded of her friend Sally, "has a man, even if he is a German, to come to a girls' boarding-school looking like a guy?"

Sally, who was trying to dispose of two thick slices of bread and butter before recitation, was too much occupied to answer.

But Pickle was not particular about an answer, and continued, nodding her head in the direction of the hall: "Look at him out there, now. Such a great broad-shouldered man. And then see how he blushes. And do just look at that long curly hair, 'way down to his shoulders. Gracious! I should think he'd be ashamed of it."

Pickle evidently resented the teacher's fine curls, which _were_ too long for a man, as a personal insult to herself, it being one of the sorrows of her life that her own thick hair was kept cropped by her mother's orders.

"I know I sha'n't like him," she added to herself, as the unfortunate possessor of the obnoxious curls entered the room.

He was not naturally a nervous man, he thought, but he had never taught girls before, and he found the calm, cool scrutiny to which he was being subjected by every member of the class something formidable. He would rather teach fifty boys, he said to himself, than these fifteen girls.

Pickle, from her desk, watched the new teacher's every movement. She laughed to see him nervously twist his feet around the leg of the chair, while a smile of scorn played over her lips when he ran his fingers through his waving locks.

"Sal," she whispered, "ain't he too funny for anything, though? I hope he speaks English with an accent; that is, if he ever gets the courage to speak at all."

These disrespectful whispers, though inaudible to Herr Müller, were terminated by his speaking at that moment. In the very mildest possible tones he asked, "Vill some young lady haf ze goodness to acquaint me eggsactly how far ze class haf read in ze book?"

"Oh, he's as meek as Moses, and speaks worse than Professor Schultz used to!" was Pickle's murmured comment upon this speech; while Alice Smith rose to say that the class had read as far as the twenty-fourth page, fifteenth line.

"No, we haven't, either," immediately exclaimed Pickle. Then, as Herr Müller looked inquiringly at her, "We only got to the fourteenth line. I just mentioned it," she added, as the girls tittered, "because you wanted to know eggsactly."

Herr Müller frowned, but judged it best to take no notice of this speech, merely saying to the speaker, "Vill you haf ze goodness to read a leetle?"

Pickle knew he was addressing her, but she ignored the request, and gazed blankly before her. Sally nudged her, whispering, "Pickle, he means _you_."

"He must address me by my name, then."

"Why, how can he, when he doesn't know what it is?"

"That's his look-out," was the reply.

Herr Müller, perceiving that every one else in the room knew whom he was addressing, exclaimed, impatiently, "Vill ze young lady wiz ze _very short hair_ please to read?"

Unconscious Herr Müller knew not what mortal offense he had given, as Pickle quickly arose, glibly read as far as desired, and then sat down, boiling with indignation.

"'Very short hair!'" she muttered to Sally. "Maybe it is; but it can grow, I guess; anyway, it's no disgrace. But as for his curls, hair like that is a disgrace to any man."

"Yes, indeed," assented Sally; "his curls are only fit for a girl. They'd look nice, now, on _you_, Pickle."

Pickle replied to this apparently innocent speech with a withering glance. The next moment, however, her face lighted up with an idea.

The door of the class-room opened, and Miss Meek entered to say that some new German books had arrived, and to request Herr Müller to come and look at them. No sooner had the door closed behind the two teachers than Pickle exclaimed aloud, "I've forgotten my translation book," and also left the room. Sally was suspicious of this errand. Pickle often forgot her books, yet seldom took the trouble to go for them, unless sent. But when she came into the class-room again, with several others who had also seized this opportunity of walking out, she seemed hardly to merit her friend's suspicions. She paused a moment by the teacher's desk, and then took her seat.

In a few minutes Herr Müller's step outside caused all the girls to scramble to their seats, so that when he entered they sat as quiet and demure as though they had not stirred during his absence. He took his seat, and opened his book again at the lesson, when the girls saw him suddenly flush up to the roots of his hair, and run his fingers nervously through his long curls. He next removed a small package that had evidently been lying in his book, and laid it on the side of the desk. In so doing, something fell out of the package on to the floor, and showed itself to the wondering girls to be a _hair-pin_. Thereupon some of the girls giggled, others smiled, and all involuntarily fastened their gaze on the teacher's flowing hair.

Sally turned to Pickle. "How could you do it?" she whispered to her companion, whose face, flushed with the effort to restrain her mirth, was alarmingly red.

"What do you mean?" returned Pickle, with an unconscious air.

The next minute Miss Meek again entered, this time with an inkstand for the teacher's desk. In placing it she evidently saw the bundle of hair-pins, for she looked indignantly around the class before leaving the room, while Herr Müller once more flushed a rosy red.

"She'll tell that to Miss Prim, Pickle--see if she don't," whispered Sally, anxiously, to her friend.

"Do you think so?" queried Pickle, hastily; then, with marked indifference, "Yes, I suppose she will. I wonder if she'll find out who did it?"

"Oh, you needn't try to deceive me; as if I didn't know who did it!" returned the other.

"Do you?" was the only reply she got to her attempt at confidence.

This provoked Sally. "Yes, I do; and Miss Prim'll find out, too, without much telling--you can be sure of that."

Miss Prim did find out, but not without any telling. Pickle wisely determined to forestall all investigations. She went privately to the grieved Miss Prim, and announced herself as the culprit.

Although Miss Prim punished Pickle at the time for her disrespect, the kind-hearted girl--for she was kind-hearted in spite of her love of mischief--was much more severely punished by her own conscience when, a few days later, she learned why Herr Müller allowed his curly locks to grow down over his shoulders.

A brave young soldier in the German army, he had, during the siege of Metz, left the shelter of the trenches, and in the face of almost certain death rushed across the open ground where shot, shell, and bullets fell thick as hail, to snatch up and bring safely back in his strong arms a little child. It was a blue-eyed four-year-old girl who, terror-stricken and bewildered by the death of her parents and the awful firing, had wandered from one of the crumbling houses outside the walls of the city. When the soldiers in the trenches first saw her she was standing irresolute but unharmed amid the storm of flying death that swept across the plain.

Just as he reached the trenches with his precious burden the young soldier was hurled to the ground badly wounded, and apparently dead. A fragment of a bursting shell had struck him on the back of the neck. Although he lived and finally recovered, a terrible and unsightly scar remained, and was only hidden from sight by the thick curls that Pickle had so despised.

The brave soldier had adopted the child he had saved, and it was to provide means for her support that he now taught German in Miss Prim's school.

You may be sure that after this the little Elsie and her adopted father had no firmer friend nor warmer admirer than Pickle, who through them had learned a lesson that she never forgot.

A GAME FOR A RAINY DAY.

While every hour of a pleasant day by the sea-side or in the country provides its own amusements, on a rainy day young people are apt to find that time hangs heavily on their hands. So it happened, one day last month, that the girls staying at Sandy Beach Hotel visited Miss Walker in her room, and begged her to suggest some new game for them.

After a moment's hesitation she said that she had thought of a game that might be new to them, though she had played it when a child.

"I shall want one assistant," she said, "to whom the secret of the game will be intrusted; the others will have to try to guess it. I shall remain in the room with the rest of you, and my assistant will go out. During her absence I shall place my hand on the shoulder of some girl, or upon the piano, or on my own shoulder, and when she returns she shall tell you who has been touched."

Nobody seemed to know anything about the game, so Miss Walker chose Alice Milne as her assistant.

The girl went out of the room. Miss Walker laid her hand on the girl nearest to her, who happened to be Clara Lane, and on Alice's return asked, "On whom did my hand rest?"

Alice at once replied, "On Clara."

"Right," was the answer.

But the girls, thinking they had found out the game, said, "You touch the girl nearest to you, Miss Walker."

"I certainly did on this occasion; but the position of the girl has nothing to do with the secret."

"I think I know it, but I shall see," said Bertha, and several girls expressed a similar opinion.

Again Alice went out. Miss Walker touched Nellie, and Alice, as promptly as before, named the right person on her return to the room.

The girls were at fault, and again failed to discover any look or gesture that could help them.

"You must have heard, Alice," said one.

"But Miss Walker did not speak."

"She placed her hand in a particular position."

"Alice may come in blindfolded if you like," said Miss Walker.

One of the girls went out with Alice, brought her in backward, so that she might not see Miss Walker, held her hands, and did everything but find out the secret.

At last they said: "We give it up, Miss Walker. Do tell us the secret."

"Well," said Miss Walker, "if you really can not guess it, I will tell you. As a rule, I placed my hand on the shoulder of the girl who spoke last before Alice quitted the room. But sometimes there were two or three speakers, and in this case I touched my own shoulders. If no one spoke, I touched the piano. Any article that may be agreed upon will do equally well. With this simple understanding, and an intelligent assistant, a mistake is almost impossible."

SEA-BREEZES.

LETTER No. 3 FROM BESSIE MAYNARD TO HER DOLL.

OLD ORCHARD BEACH, _August, 1880_.

Dear Child,--It is two weeks, I do declare, since I have written you one word, and what a state you must be in all this time; for I remember perfectly well how suddenly my letter closed, just at the very smilax of that awful adventure. But really, Clytie, so many things have happened since, and every minute is so full of pleasures or catastrophes, that, as I look back, that one seems almost insignificant.

I suppose you are surprised at my using such large words; but here we meet a great many "people of culture," as they are called, and they are all very busy "improving their minds"; and you know Solomon says, "Never do till to-morrow what you can put off to-day," so I am trying to improve mine too, while I am under their confluence.

Papa bought me a little pocket dictionary, and I look out all sorts of words in it, and that is how I get so many big ones that perhaps _you_ don't quite apprehend, but I must use them inasmuch.

Excuse me for scratching out inasmuch, I _should_ have said nevertheless. When I am not quite sure of a word, I look it out, for I always have my little dictionary close at hand, and that is a great conveyance, you know. I am trying to get over my babyish way of talking, or at least of writing, and hope I may exceed.

But to go back to my story: where was I? We were crossing over the board to the island, weren't we? Well, Fan was going ahead, wheeling Jane in her carriage, then Dora and Snip, and me on behind with Moppet in my arms. Randolph stood in the water, and watched his chance till we were all fairly on the board, and then he gave a regular Indian war-whoop, and threw himself right across the middle of the board, and shook it with all his might, so that it jiggled awfully right up and down. Before we had time to scream or to paralize our danger, over we all went, pell-mell, helter-skelter, higgledy-piggledy, down, down, down into the foaming water! What do you think of that, Clytie? Every single one of us--dogs, Jane, carriage, and all! 'Twas worse, a thousand-fole, than when we lost Lucille. Fan sat right down on the pebbles at the bottom of the sea, and gave herself up for lost. I threw Moppet as far as I could on to the beach, while Dora screamed: "You hateful boy! Go at him, Snip! bite him! throw him over! eat him up!" And Snip _did_ go at him, as if he would "tear him limb from limb," as the story-books say.

Randolph looked scared out of his wits, and without waiting to help one of us, he turned and ran as fast as he could go, and never stopped till he was safe back at the hotel, the mean coward that he is! We heard afterward how he ran into the house with such a roar as to frighten every one there, crying out at the top of his lungs, "They've set the dog on me, and he'll kill me!" Did you ever know such a horrid boy?

As for the rest of us, we scrambled out as best we could, by the help of the other boys, for, to tell the truth--and you know, my Clytie, I always do that, and never mean even to inangerrate when I am telling a story--the water was not very deep where we fell, not more than half way up to our knees, and we often go in wading there; but it _seems_ a good deal deeper when you are dumped right down into it without any warning. Now wasn't this a teragical end of our picnic on the island?

A few days later Mrs. Peyton and her party left Old Orchard. Where they have gone I do not know, but we children believe they went away on Randolph's account. We _tried_ to treat him politely, but how _could_ we? I don't think any one would blame us for turning our backs on him whenever he appeared, and only saying good-morning to him in a lofty way over our shoulders. He neverdently didn't like it, and proberly _coaxed_ his mother to go away.

Whatever _other_ people can do, I am very sure _I_ shall never be able to love my emernies. _Love_ Randolph Peyton! Just think of it, Clytie, I'd be _ashamed_ to love such a mean boy even if I could, emerny or not. I truly hope we may never see him again.

Such heaps and heaps of things as I shall have to tell you, dear Clytemnestra, when I get home! No letter would ever be long enough to get them all in. There will be enough to talk about all next winter.

You don't know anything about the clam-bake we had last week, nor how Dora and I got lost one day in a cave--a real _boner fidy_ cave, as papa says, dark and dreadful, where smugglers used to hide their things.

I'm saving up lots of things to tell you some day, and if your eyes don't open wider than ever before, it will only be because something is the matter with your wires. Such fun as I am having this summer! And, oh, Clytie! what do you think? Mamma is busy packing the trunk, and we are going away from here to-morrow. We are going with some other people to Mount Desert, 'way round the coast of Maine, ever so much farther than this.

It is lovely everywhere here, and I don't believe Maine is half so crooked and queer along the shore as it looks in the geography, and I'm going to tell the girls so when I get back to school.

There's no sense in working so hard on our maps if 'tisn't true, and Maine was the very hardest State of all to draw, for 'twas so awful jiggly along the edge. Really, it isn't so a bit, for I have seen it, and ought to know.

Here come Snip and Moppet, and I hear Fan and Dora rushing up stairs for me, so I will bid you good-by, or "orevo," as I heard Dr. Le Baron say to Miss Farrar when he went away last night--that is, it _sounded_ like orevo. I don't know as I spell it right, for I can not find it anywhere in my dictionary.

With ever so much love to the rest of the dolls, as well as to yourself, dear Clytie, good-night.

Your little mamma,
BESSIE MAYNARD.

WASHING THE BABIES' FACES.

THE GREEDY LITTLE MOUSE.

BY E. C.

Tottie and Lillie were twins, with the same wide-open blue eyes, the same rosy dimples, and bright yellow hair. One day, when they were seated at the little table in the nursery eating their dinner--for they were too young yet to dine with mamma--Tottie thought she saw a little black bead shining in a hole by the closet door. No, it could not be a bead, for it popped in and out. Presently out came a little pointed nose, with long stiff whiskers, two little round ears, and two bright black--not beads, but eyes. The children sat very still, and thought they had never seen anything quite so pretty as the little plump body and long graceful tail whisking rapidly and noiselessly, while the little creature peered cautiously about. Lillie threw gently a little piece of bread, but terrified little mousie thought it was surely intended to kill her, and flew back to her stronghold in the closet. Tottie now put a little piece of bread quite close to the hole, and they sat motionless for it to re-appear. They had not long to wait; the bread was too sweet a morsel for mousie to resist, and they soon had the great pleasure of seeing her first nibble a little, and finally drag it into the hole. Lillie said, "Oh, don't you know, Tottie, mousie is the mother, and she has a lot of little children in her house, and that is going to be their dinner: let's give her some every day." And so they did, until mousie grew so tame and so wise she seemed to know the dinner hour as well as they, and would come nearer and nearer, and run in and out under the table picking up the crumbs; but she was ever a little distrustful.

If any one made an effort to catch her, or made ever so little noise, off she flew to her hole, and would wait, and peep out for some time, before she became re-assured. But when every one was fast asleep in bed, then she became more brave; but with all her fine feeding, Mrs. Mouse could not overcome her nature, and, I grieve to add, she was a _thief_. She would rummage in pockets for cake and goodies, and climb to the highest shelf if she smelt any dainty, and so, alas! fell a victim to her greedy propensities.

Nurse had put a bowl of liquid starch, on the shelf in the closet, and mousie, thinking she had a fine treat, scaled the side, and reaching over for the dainty, lost her balance, and tumbled in. The fluid was too heavy and the sides too steep and slippery for her to escape; so, after vain endeavors, she sank exhausted to the bottom.

The next day, and the next passed, and no mousie came at the usual hour. Tottie said she "_knew_ the old black cat had caught her." Lillie said she "_knew_ the children were sick." So she threw little bits down the hole for her. But when nurse went for her forgotten starch, the truth was revealed. Poor mousie was dead. Many tears fell; and although the children had many toys, nothing was equal to that sly, active, bright-eyed, live little play-fellow.

GROESBEECK, TEXAS.

I am twelve years old, and am a constant reader of YOUNG PEOPLE. I
think the story of "The Moral Pirates" is the best of all.

I am a member of the "Groesbeeck Cornet Band," considered the best
band in the State for practice. I play second B flat cornet. I
live not far from the railroad, and I have a little engine of my
own that runs by steam. I was born in London, England.

SAM RISIEN, Jun.

* * * * *

VANDALIA, ILLINOIS.

I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE from the first number, and papa says he
will have it bound for me if I keep it nice. Lots of times, when
papa brings it home, and dinner is just ready, I go without my
dinner to read it.

I have three little ducks for my pets. They are real greedy when I
feed them, and they fly upon my shoulders to get the first bite.

I am making a little cook-book, and would like any recipe from the
readers of YOUNG PEOPLE.

I am much obliged to Etta D. for naming her Paris doll after me,
although I don't suppose she knew she did it.

ROSA BELL H.,
Staten Island.

* * * * *

Dotty Seaman is my sister, but I am two years younger than she is,
and I can not write very well yet, so she is writing this letter
for me. I must tell you about my pets. I have a blue-bird that
bites very hard when I try to catch him. He is very wild, but I
hope he will get tame. My little sister Lucy has a pet lamb named
Will. It was very cross the other day. We have a bay horse named
Sue, and I ride round from the door sometimes. It is great fun. I
like YOUNG PEOPLE very much, and I love to make Wiggles.

WILLIE I. S.

* * * * *

NORTH ANDOVER, MASSACHUSETTS.

I have noticed that several correspondents of Our Post-office Box
inquire how to preserve eggs. Eggs should always be blown, for if
they are not, they gradually change their color, becoming darker
than is natural. Besides losing the delicacy of the tints, they
are also easily broken, while if blown, they can be dropped quite
a distance without being injured.

In order to blow them, make two holes on the same side, a little
distance apart. The holes should be very small. Boys often make
them twice as large as necessary. It is better to make them both
on the same side, as that side can be placed down in the case, and
the egg looks neater.

HARRY W. C.

* * * * *

TAYLORSVILLE, TEXAS.

I love to read the letters in the Post-office Box very much, and I
like the story of "The Moral Pirates." Do you know whether Frank
Austin, the hero of "Across the Ocean," is living yet?

JOSEPH L. P.

Yes, Frank Austin is living, and often comes into the office of YOUNG PEOPLE.

* * * * *

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.

I am nearly thirteen years old. I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE from the
beginning, and I think it is the nicest paper published.

I have a collection of postage stamps, and am saving money to buy
a stamp album. My father has taken HARPER'S WEEKLY and MONTHLY
ever since I can remember. I wish YOUNG PEOPLE much success.

Can you tell me why some correspondents sign fancy names to their
letters?

CHARLES C. M.

You probably know that many great authors sign a _nom de plume_ to their writings, and some little authors like to do the same. Our young correspondents, with but few exceptions, send us their real names, even when they desire the publication of a fictitious one, and it would please us better if they would always do so.

* * * * *

JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI.

I am eight years old. I am writing this with my left hand, because
my right arm is broken. I have broken it three times.

I had a little turtle, but it died. Now I have a pet goat.

HARRY D. F.

* * * * *

HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY.

I wish to tell Kittie G. that I tried her recipe for butterscotch,
and found it splendid. I am glad she liked mine. I also tried
Fanny S.'s recipe for caramels, and it was very nice.

REBECCA H.

I am five years old, and can not write myself, but my sister is
writing for me, and I tell her what to say. I have some pet
Plymouth Rock chickens, and they are all named. My brother Wilton
has four beautiful pet pigeons, and one of them is making a nest.
I have four cats, and a setter pup named Dash. Uncle Jimmie lives
with us, and takes YOUNG PEOPLE for my brothers, Wilton and Eddie,
and myself, and we all like it very much. Wilton reads everything
in it.

I have some beautiful morning-glories that have been blooming ever
since the first of June, and I will send some seed to any little
boy or girl who would like some, and will send me their address.

MARY EARLE,
Evergreen, Anderson County, South Carolina.

* * * * *

DENVER, COLORADO.

I am very much obliged for my nice little paper, YOUNG PEOPLE. My
uncle gave it to me for a Christmas present, and it amuses mamma
and me very much.

My only pet is a nice canary. When I let him out of the cage he
flies and picks the buds off from mamma's plants.

We can see the snow on the mountains all the time here where I
live. I am twelve years old.

LULU.

* * * * *

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA.

I am seven years old. I like to read the letters in YOUNG PEOPLE
so much that I want to write one myself. I live in a large orange
grove. It is a lovely place, and summer lasts all the year.

My pet is a hen named Tinny. She is so tame I can pick her up
anywhere. She has eleven little chickens now. I can not write very
well, for I have been to school only eight months.

NELLIE E. C.

* * * * *

MONTICELLO, NEW JERSEY.

I think YOUNG PEOPLE is the nicest little paper that I ever saw.
The only pet I have is a dear little baby sister. I am eleven
years old, and I have been to a private school two years.

My papa is an editor, and in a year or two I am going to study
stenography so that I can report for his paper.

I have two younger brothers, and we are all learning to swim. I
can take fifteen strokes.

GEORGE E. W.

* * * * *

NETHERWOOD, NEW JERSEY.

Here is a recipe for cookies for Nellie E. O.: One cup of butter;
two cups of sugar; one cup of milk; one egg; one tea-spoonful of
royal baking powder; a little grated nutmeg; flour enough to make
it very stiff. Roll very thin. These cookies will keep good a long
time. I have made them, and I know they are good. I am twelve
years old.

EVA LOUISE P.

* * * * *

May M. Vinton, Mabel Lowell, Alberta F. Morrill, and K. R. send very nice recipes for candy, but they are so very similar to recipes already published that we can not make room for them. We would request the young housekeepers to avoid repetition as much as possible, for while we thank them all for their favors, we can only print such recipes as are new.

* * * * *

I would like to exchange for some birds' eggs a collection of
Christmas, New-Year, and birthday cards, about sixty in number,
and all in good order. Most of them are as good as new. If some
correspondent would write to me, stating the number and the
varieties of eggs he would be willing to exchange with me, we
might agree on terms.

VANCE MARTIN,
243 Dearborn Avenue, Chicago, Illinois.

* * * * *

I am ten years old. My aunt takes HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for my
sister and myself.

I would like to exchange pressed leaves and flowers with some
little girl in California.

MAUD EVERETT,
Newark, Delaware.

* * * * *

I am collecting different kinds of seeds, and I would like to
exchange them with any correspondents of YOUNG PEOPLE. We have
only purple and white larkspurs, and if Mary Lowry has any other
colors, I will gladly exchange pink seed for them.

DOTTY SEAMAN,
Richmond, Staten Island, New York.

* * * * *

Some boys, friends of mine in this part of Brooklyn, are going to
start a young chemists' club, and I desire recipes for simple
experiments from any readers of YOUNG PEOPLE.

I also send a recipe for Puss Hunter's cooking club. Currant
ice-cream: one table-spoonful and a half of currant jelly or
juice; one cup of sugar; one pint of sweet cream; the juice of one
lemon. Stir until the sugar is thoroughly melted, and freeze.

I will exchange flowers, ferns, leaves, and mosses from the Long
Island woods with any readers of YOUNG PEOPLE.

CHARLIE WILLIAMSON,
293 Eckford Street, Brooklyn, New York.

* * * * *

I tried Fanny S.'s recipe for caramels, and thought it was very
nice.

I would like to exchange postage stamps with any boy or girl.

J. FRED SEAMAN,
114 Cumberland Street, Brooklyn, New York.

* * * * *

My home is eighteen miles from St. Paul, on Lake St. Croix. It is
a beautiful lake, and is navigable for large steamers, and there
is splendid fishing here for boys. We find many specimens of
carnelian on the lake shore. It is a species of agate or
chalcedony. I would like to exchange some for any curiosities from
any other State.

CARRIE E. SILLIMAN,
Hudson, St. Croix County, Wisconsin.

* * * * *

I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE from the first number, and like it very
much.

I am collecting birds' eggs, and would be pleased to exchange
varieties with any of the correspondents of YOUNG PEOPLE.

I have six catalogues of the birds and eggs of Ohio, which I will
take pleasure in forwarding to any six correspondents engaged in
collecting, if they will send me the necessary postage.

WALTER DOUGLASS,
Mount Auburn, Cincinnati, Ohio.

* * * * *

I subscribed for YOUNG PEOPLE immediately on seeing it. I liked it
ever so much then, and I like it more and more all the time.

I have a lot of United States, official, and foreign postage
stamps that I would like to exchange with any readers of YOUNG
PEOPLE (especially with those just beginning a collection, as I
have not many rare stamps) for minerals, curiosities, or relics of
any kind.