Chapter X: Bill Thompson's Tent (1)

Hardly had the boys ceased to talk of their grand hunt, when they were thrown into the greatest excitement by news which Bill Thompson had called them together to impart. This is what he said, when at least a dozen were present behind the same barn that had been ornamented with the skin of Tip's victim:

"Fellers, my father has just brought home a great big tent--a reg'lar canvas one--an' he says we may take it, an' all go off campin' for a week. What do you think of that?"

For some moments it was impossible to learn just what the boys did think of it, for they all attempted to talk at once, and some, who could not speak as loud as the others, began to cheer, until Tip, who of course had been called into council with the others, barked loudly at the confusion of sound. Although Bill knew that his companions were almost beside themselves with joy at the news, it was fully ten minutes before the noise had subsided sufficiently for him to learn that fact from their words.

Bobby Tucker was positive he and Tim would be allowed to go with the party, because his father had told them they might enjoy themselves in their own way until the summer term of school began, and the majority of those present were equally certain they could go. Those who had any doubts on the matter started off at once to gain the desired permission, and in a short time it was decided that just an even dozen--eleven boys and Tip--would make up the party. Then the serious work began.

It was necessary to decide where they should go, how they were to get there, and how a supply of provisions could be obtained.

Bobby Tucker was sure he could get a bushel of potatoes as his share, and a large piece of pork as Tim's. Bill Thompson owned three of the hens in his father's flock, one of which he agreed to carry, in order that at least one "big" dinner might be served, and he also agreed to get three dozen of eggs. Jimmy Newcomb, whose father kept a store, was certain he could get a large supply of crackers, and a small supply of candy. Another of the party promised butter, pepper, and salt; another agreed, in the name of his mother, to have some gingerbread and pies, and so the list of provisions was made, up, thus settling the last question first.

Where the camp should be pitched was a more difficult matter to decide. Some were in favor of going in the same direction as that taken on the bear-hunt; but this was voted down at once by Bill Thompson, who, because he was the party furnishing the tent, had great weight in the discussion.

"We want to go 'way off where we can't get back for a good while," he said, decidedly. "An' besides, we must go where nobody lives, so's we can find more bears for Tip."

Then another of the party suggested getting a horse and cart, and going as far into the interior of the island as possible; but this Bill objected to on the ground that they would then be obliged to follow some road, which would still keep them within the range of civilization.

"Can't we get a boat, an' go 'way round to the other side of the island, where nobody lives?" asked Tim.

"That's the very thing," said Bill, decisively--"that's the very thing; an' Jimmy Newcomb can get the one his father keeps at Dunham's wharf."

All three of the questions having thus been settled, the boys went over to Bill Thompson's to view the tent which was to afford them their highest idea of enjoyment. It was found to be quite large enough to shelter the entire party, being fully twelve feet square, and complete in everything save pegs and stakes, which could easily be made before starting, or after they should arrive on the spot where it was to be pitched.

It was some time before the boys had gazed sufficiently upon this canvas house so wonderfully come into their possession, and they would probably have spent more time in admiration of it had there not been some little doubt as to whether Jimmy Newcomb's father had the same idea regarding the loan of his boat as his son.

It was thought best to have an interview with Mr. Newcomb at once, and the entire party marched down the village to a point almost opposite the store, and waited there while Jimmy went in to ask the important question.

He remained inside so long that every boy's face began to grow sad, for each moment he was there seemed to tell that he was not succeeding in the project.

"I guess his father won't let him have it, an' he's stayin' there to coax," said Bill, sadly; but he had hardly spoken when Jimmy appeared. He could not wait until he crossed the street before he imparted the joyful news, but waved his hat even while he stood on the threshold of the door, and shouted at the highest squeak of his voice:

"It's all right, boys; we can have her as long as we want if we're careful not to get her stove up."

In the twinkling of an eye every one of those boys had started at full speed toward Dunham's wharf, that they might look at the craft which was to carry them on their journey. They had all seen the boat at least a hundred times before, but now that she was theirs for a while, she seemed like a new one.

Since the boat was ready, and the tent nearly complete for pitching, Bill Thompson proposed that each one should spend that day getting ready for the trip. The time set for the start was seven o'clock on the following morning, and every one was expected to be on hand promptly at that hour. Tim, Bobby, and Bill promised to make the tent pegs and stakes, and it was decided that if any important question should come up meanwhile, they could meet behind Bobby Tucker's barn that night to discuss it.

With this agreement the conference broke up, and during the remainder of that day, when any of the towns-people saw a boy running at full speed, or staggering under a load of bed-clothing, they knew he was one of the party who were going out camping for a week.

It would not be surprising if the mothers of those boys lost their temper several times during the following ten hours, so numerous were their wants, and such vague ideas did they have as to the amount of provisions necessary for a week's stay in the woods. But greatly to the delight of both the boys and their parents, the day came to a close, as all days will, and a very happy party met in the rear of Mr. Tucker's barn.

Each one had secured the articles promised, while some had been able to do even more. Bobby had found a flag, rather the worse for wear, to be sure, but still showing enough of the stars and stripes to allow one to see what it had been, and this was looked upon as the crowning triumph of all.

Tim, Bobby, and Bill had worked hard at the tent pegs, but had made only about half the required number. This, however, was not considered important, since the remainder could be made after they arrived at the camping place.

When the party broke up that night it was with the understanding that each one would be at the wharf as early as possible, and it was hard work for any of them to get to sleep that night. But nearly all of them were up and dressed before the sun had any idea that it was time for him to show his face in the east.

It was hardly half past six when everything, from the tent to Bill Thompson's live hen, was in the boat, packed snugly. The flag was raised at the stern on a thin slab of drift-wood, held in place by Jimmy Newcomb, who was given the position of helmsman, owing to the fact that his father owned the boat. The remainder of the party were to take turns at rowing, and when the boat was pushed away from the wharf, four oars were worked as vigorously as the boys at the end of them knew how.

Bill Thompson started a song, in which all joined; Tip barked until there was every danger that he would become hopelessly hoarse; and the old hen cackled and scolded as if she knew just what her fate was to be.

There was only one settlement on Minchin's Island, and it was the plan of the party to row around the coast until they reached a point as nearly opposite the village as possible. The distance was fully ten miles; but no one thought the labor would be too great if, by dint of hard rowing, they could reach a place that was uninhabited, and each one was ready to take his turn at the oars whenever another was tired.

Now Bill Thompson was a great stickler for discipline, and although he had said nothing about it when the details of the voyage were under discussion, he had a plan which he began to carry into execution as soon as the journey was fairly commenced.

"Now we've got to do this thing right," he said, as he braced himself in the bow, where he could have a view of all hands. "We must choose different ones to do different things, so's we'll know what we're about. We've got to have cooks, an' I nom'nate Tim Babbige an' Bobby Tucker to take care of the victuals, an' do the cookin'."

Bill paused as if for some one to second the proposition, and Jimmy Newcomb said, not very properly to be sure, according to the rules laid down for the election of gentlemen to office, but still quite decidedly enough to show he meant it, "That settles it," and Tim and Bobby were considered elected to the responsible offices of cooks and guardians of the food.

"Now I go in for makin' Jimmy Newcomb captain of the ship, an' he must boss the job when we're out on a trip, an' when we're landin'."

This time Tim, being already one of the most important officers of the expedition, considering it necessary to assist in the election of some of the others, said quickly, "That's jest the thing."

After Bill had appointed certain of the boys to cut wood and bring water, he said, with just a shade of hesitation in his voice, as if he was troubled with bashfulness,

"Now somebody's got to be captain of the huntin', an' if you boys are willin' I'll do that; an' whatever kind of wild animals we scare up, I promise to be the first one to rush in an' cut their throats after Tip has caught 'em."

This was considered as a sort of oath of office, and each member of the party made some sign of agreement in Bill's self-election, feeling perfectly satisfied that he should fill what was looked upon as a dangerous position.

After they had rowed at least three hours, different members of the crew insisted that they must have gone entirely around the island, and were then proceeding toward home; but Jimmy quickly put a stop to any grumbling. Both he and Bill knew when they were about opposite the village, for they had been there several times with Captain Thompson, and they were both equally positive that they had yet some miles to go before gaining the extreme end of the island.

It was about eleven o'clock, and nearly every boy was tired out with his work at the oars, when Jimmy ordered them to stop rowing, and pointed inshore.

The view which presented itself was a lovely one. Two points of rocks projected some distance into the sea, forming a little harbor, at the head of which was a smooth shelving beach of sand. Just back of the beach was a dense grove of pine-trees, and through them led a narrow path, now so covered with vines and weeds as to show it had not been used, by man at least, for some time.

Jim had no need to ask what his companions thought of camping there, for each one appeared delighted with it, and the boat was pulled up to the beach.

Bill Thompson was the first to leap ashore, and even though he was only the chief huntsman, he assumed full charge of the expedition, so far as landing and setting up the tent were concerned.

A cleared spot in the grove about fifty yards from the beach was selected as the site of the tent, and then they wished that the pegs had all been made before they started, for the canvas could not be put up until they were done. Bill and two others set about this important work, while Tim and Bobby bustled around to get something to eat, and Jim made sure the boat was anchored securely.

The first thing done by the two cooks was to tie Bill's hen by her leg to a tree, and then it was found necessary to fasten Tip some distance from her, since he showed a decided inclination to treat her as he had the woodchuck.

Then the more skillful work of building the fire-place was begun, and this Tim took charge of, while Bobby unpacked the kettle and spider, got the potatoes ready for cooking, and made himself generally useful.

Tim made rather a good job of the fire-place, and after he had finished it to his satisfaction he cut three forked sticks on which to hang the kettle, but immediately afterward found that they had forgotten to bring a chain, and would be obliged to suspend the pot by a rope, thereby running some risk of its burning.

Meanwhile the wood and water carriers had done their part of the work, and the cooks found plenty of material close at hand for the beginning of their cooking operations. The potatoes were put on to boil, and thanks to the generous fire underneath them, gave promise of speedily being ready to do their allotted duty in the dinner which the hungry boys were anxiously expecting.

Bill had finished making his tent pegs, and by the time Tim had succeeded in hanging the kettle, the tent was up, needing only the delicate operation of setting the stakes properly to make it a large and habitable dwelling.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A TYROLESE NATIONAL DAY.

Napoleon has many sins to answer for, but there is no one deed of his for which he has been more justly blamed than for the killing of Andreas Hofer, the Tyrolese patriot. From 1363, when Tyrol by inheritance came to belong to Austria, the Tyrolese had never wavered in their devotion to the house of Hapsburg, and therefore when in 1805, by the Peace of Presburg, Austria was forced by Napoleon to cede Tyrol to Bavaria, a thrill of indignation stirred the hearts of the sturdy mountaineers at being against their will forced to change rulers; and when they found that the mild rule to which they had been accustomed was exchanged for severe impositions, taxes, and drafting to fight against their friends the Austrians, it is no wonder they revolted against their oppressors. The Tyrolese are a nation of marksmen, and though ready to fight when occasion requires, they will not endure regular military service such as Bavaria then demanded (being obliged to furnish a certain number of men for the French armies), and, besides, rather prided themselves on their ignorance of military manoeuvres. They have a rhyme--

"You say 'tis luck alone when those
Unskilled in tactics beat their foes,
But better 'tis without to win
Than with these tactics to give in,"

and their encounters with the French and Bavarians during the year 1809 only served to confirm them in this belief.

The Archduke John of Austria had been much in Tyrol, and had endeared himself to the people, and when the cession in 1805 forced him to quit the country, he disbanded his Tyrolese army, promising them, however, that if the time should ever come when it would be safe to try and recover their liberty, he would send them word, and become their leader; he also promised to keep up intercourse with the chief Tyrolese, and his favored correspondent was our patriot, Andreas Hofer.

Hofer was an innkeeper in the Passeyr Valley, as his ancestors had been before him, a wine dealer, and horse drover, all of which occupations brought him in contact with people of every rank in life. A Tyrolese innkeeper is a very important person, often serves as a banker for the neighboring settlements, and his house is always the place appointed for political meetings. Hofer's inn was called the "Sand House," and he was known and trusted from one end of Tyrol to the other. He was born in 1767, and was forty-one when chosen leader of the Tyrolese forces.

The Archduke in January, 1809, sent word that he would like to confer with Hofer and other tried friends, and they accordingly went to receive his orders. He directed them to hold themselves ready, promised that they should have due notice when a general rising was to be made, and desired Hofer to let the different districts know, in order that the suddenness of the revolt in so many places at one time might arouse all Germany. The signal was to be the floating of sawdust on the streams, and though more than two months passed before the plan could be carried out, and many were necessarily in the secret, there was never a suspicion excited in the minds of the enemy.

Within three days (from March 31) the whole of Tyrol was in arms, and Hofer captured at Innsbruck and Hall over eight thousand French and Bavarian prisoners; within the next fortnight the whole province was free, and over ten thousand French and Bavarian troops destroyed. The defeat of Austria at Wagram by the French caused a demand that the Austrians should evacuate Tyrol, and though three separate armies were sent against them, Hofer and his brave countrymen routed them all, and Tyrol declared herself free, formed an independent government, and Hofer was declared absolute Dictator.

For some time the Tyrolese fought against a superior foe. In the last battle the women bore arms alongside the men, and nearly four hundred were killed by the enemy's cavalry; but finding resistance vain, Hofer disbanded his forces. Refusing all requests to leave the country and seek refuge in Austria, he went to a lonely hut on the mountain, some miles above his inn. Here, though he remained for over two months, supplied by the peasantry with food, no reward could induce his countrymen to betray him; but one Douay, a traitor, and no Tyrolese, offered to lead a band to the place, and on the 27th of January two hundred men were sent to capture him. They reached his hut after dark, and when he was aware of their presence, he submitted to be ironed, and with his wife, daughter, and little son was marched to Botzen amidst the taunts of the French and the tears of his countrymen. He retained his cheerfulness, though worn with privation, believing that not even Napoleon could condemn him. He was taken under strong escort to Mantua, it not being deemed safe to keep him in Tyrol, and tried by a court-martial. The majority of his judges voted he should be imprisoned; two, that he should be liberated; but Napoleon, then at Milan, sent word that he should be shot within twenty-four hours. Hofer received the news with calmness; and on February 20, 1810, at eleven o'clock, he was led out to execution.

ANDREW JACKSON WASHINGTON JONES.

Andrew was quite as black a little colored boy as if he had been well painted, and his mammy was in the habit of telling him that he was as lazy as he was black, a fact which Andrew Jackson never took the trouble to deny.

He had not a very clear idea of the proper definition of the word lazy; but even though he never made any attempt to correct the error into which his mother had fallen, he believed he could point out at least a dozen boys who were really indolent, while he was only what might be called tired.

He looked upon such work as carrying wood and water as something especially adapted to cultivate the muscles of older people, but decidedly injurious to boys of his age. Therefore whenever he saw anything at home which indicated the possibility of his being set at work, he always had immediate and urgent business which called him as far away as he felt able to walk, and he could go a long distance, however warm the day, when he believed he was fleeing from labor.

But one day Andrew Jackson Washington Jones's father came home with a very long and stout willow switch in his hand, and told the ever-tired little darky that it was his intention to "use it upon his back, shuah," if a certain pile of wood was not split and into the shed by sunset.

Andrew would have turned pale if his skin had not been quite so dark, for from the way his father spoke, he was quite certain he would be just cruel enough to carry his threat into execution; and he went out by the wood-pile wondering which would be the hardest--to do the work or receive the promised whipping.

He had just made up his mind that he would rather have the willow cut up by his back than to cut that pile of wood with the dull axe, while all the other boys were out cat-fishing; and he was already smarting from anticipation when another and more horrible thought came to him. He would probably not only be obliged to feel the willow, but to do the work also, and he was discouraged.

"Daddy'll lick me fo' a fac', an' mammy will tear round drefful till it's done," he said, musingly, and he shivered at the thought. "Dar's gwine to be no rest fo' dis chile till dat yere wood am cut."

If Andrew had only ceased discussing matters with himself then, and set to work in earnest on that unlucky wood-pile, all would have been well, and one little colored boy would not have been missing from home that night. But he continued the discussion until he had decided to do the task, and afterward concluded that he could, by trying remarkably hard, catch just one cat-fish, and yet have the wood in the shed before the sun got through work and went to bed.

"Keep remembrancin' dis yere switch," cried his mother, when she saw him feel of the axe, then put his best bone clappers in his pocket, and start in the direction of the wharves.

Andrew nodded his head and shrugged his shoulders as if he had it ever before his eyes, but hurried on.

If he had attacked the wood-pile with half the energy that he started for the cat-fish, all would have been well with both him and the wood, for he walked along at a really rapid rate, considering how tired he always was.

At the wharves he saw none of his friends, but a steamer was there taking on freight, and to Andrew's mind it would be quite as interesting to examine her as to catch three or even four cat-fish.

His wanderings on board, unchecked by any of the officers because there was a possibility he might be a passenger, led him to the furnace-room, which was entirely deserted. A cozy seat made of rough boards was just beside the open door of the furnace, from which the heat was escaping in very welcome quantities, and Andrew popped into it, smiling as he thought of the difference between cutting the wood and sitting there where he was so thoroughly comfortable.

"Talk 'bout dat yere wood-pile," he muttered, and then he was sound asleep, while the light of the glowing coals played about his face, causing it to assume all shades from a light bronze to an intense black.

No boy ever slept more soundly than did Andrew Jackson Washington Jones then, and none ever awoke more quickly than he when a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he was pushed on to the iron floor in anything rather than a gentle manner.

"G-'way from me, g'way--" and then he stopped speaking that he might open his mouth wide with astonishment as he saw a man, a very big, stout man, looking at him angrily.

"What are you doing here?" asked the big party, whom Andrew would have known to be the fireman, if he had been better acquainted with steamboat life.

"I's gwine cat-fishin' fur a spell," said the boy, his eyes opening wide as he closed his mouth to speak.

"Cat-fishin'! Perhaps you're runnin' this craft, and are goin' to take her out on a fishin' cruise?"

The sneer which accompanied the words was lost on the boy, as, suddenly thinking of the neglected work, he replied, in a dazed sort of way:

"Daddy's gwine to lick me now fo' a fac'."

"He won't do it half as quick as I will," roared the fireman, evidently enraged by the astonished way in which the boy stared at him, his eyes seeming to increase in size each moment.

Before Andrew Jackson Washington Jones had any idea as to what was about to be done, the man had seized him by the collar of his jacket, and he felt blows compared with which those from the willow switch would have been pleasure.

"Now shovel over that coal," shouted the man, as he released his hold of Andrew Jackson's collar so suddenly that the boy spun around against the iron-clad sides of the room like a top in a box.

"Mammy says I's to come right back," blubbered Andrew, as he rubbed coal dust over his face in his efforts to wipe his eyes.

"It'll be quite a spell before you do get back, for the steamer left the dock ten minutes ago."

"Den I mus' shinny along, fur I carn't stay here," said Andrew, hurriedly, as he started toward the door.

"Come back here," and the man made sure he would obey by catching him by the jacket, and pulling him toward him. "Didn't you hear me say that the boat had left the dock? We're two miles away by this time."

"Wha--wha--wha'll I do?" and Andrew Jackson burst into a fresh flood of tears, as the most lonely feeling he ever had in his life came over him.

"You'll take hold of that shovel and exercise it as lively as you know how," replied the man, and from the way in which he spoke Andrew did not think it prudent to make any objections.

Shovelling coal in the hot furnace-room of a steamer is work by the side of which almost any other seems like mere play, and if Andrew Jackson Washington Jones could suddenly have been carried back to that wood-pile he would have attacked it with an energy that would have astonished his mother.

But he was not there, which was his own fault, and he was obliged to shovel coal, which was the fault of the ill-natured fireman, both of which facts made of Andrew Jackson as miserable a little colored boy as ever strayed into mischief for the sake of a few cat-fish.

For nearly two hours--and he would not have been surprised had he been told two days had passed--he shovelled coal, while the perspiration rolled down in streams from his face, and to add to his misery he lost his valued clappers through the grating. Then the fireman said:

"Now, then, boy, we're going to stop pretty soon, and you'd better get on deck if you want to go ashore; for you're only about twenty miles from home now, and at the next stopping-place you'll be fifty miles away."

Andrew dropped that shovel as if it had suddenly become hot, and when the steamer stopped he was the first person who landed, having carelessly stepped on the mate's foot, and been thrown ashore by him before the gang plank was out.

The moment he was fairly on his feet he started up the pier toward the town at a speed that would have persuaded his mother he had a fit, could she have seen him, and it was not until he got into the very centre of the village that he attempted to form any plan as to the future.

There he was, twenty miles from home, without any money, and his clappers lost. His hands were blistered, his clothes covered with cinders and coal dust, and he was more thoroughly hungry and tired than he ever remembered being before.

He looked down the road which a gentleman told him led to his home, and as he thought of that wood-pile twenty miles away, it seemed as if it would have been happiness indeed if he could only be there cutting it up and carrying it into the shed. He was hungry too, wonderfully hungry, but fortunately an old lady gave him two doughnuts and three crackers after she heard his story, and then she told him he was a cruel, wicked boy for not having done as his father had commanded him.

He knew it was necessary for him to trudge along if he ever wanted to get home, and every lazy bone in his body rebelled against the exercise.

He walked and walked until he thought he must have gone fully a hundred and seventeen miles, and yet there was no sign of a town, while it had grown as dark as it well could be on a moonlight night.

He sat down by the side of the road to rest, but he heard so many strange noises, and fancied he saw so many horrible things, that he was forced to go on again, although his legs were so tired it seemed as if they would drop from his body, and his feet were very sore.

There was one thing he could do, which was to cry, and he set about that work with more real energy than he had ever set about anything before.

He roared so that the woods fairly rang with the echoes, and the night birds peered out very carefully to see what the matter was. But all his crying did not take him one inch nearer home, and the sound of his own voice actually frightened him.

After he had walked what ought to have been another hundred miles, and thought he should surely die from fatigue, he heard sounds in the rear which caused his heart to stand almost still, while he expected every moment to be killed and scalped.

No such fearful fate awaited him, however, for the horrible noise he heard was simply the driver of an ox-team singing to cheer himself on his journey.

It was singular how sweet that music sounded after Andrew knew what it was, and he ran back to meet the team rather than wait for it to come to him.

The oxen and the man were going directly past his home, though it would, of course, be some time before they reached there, and the boy who went for cat-fish rather than chop wood was to be allowed to ride over all level places in the road, and down hill. Up hill he must walk, for the load was heavy, and the patient oxen had about all they could draw without him.

If the driver of that team was to be believed, Andrew Jackson had walked about four miles; but the boy felt certain that either the man was mistaken or was wickedly concealing the truth.

The journey was not ended until noon of the next day, and it surely seemed as if it had been all up hill, so often was Andrew called upon to get down and walk.

His father and mother were both out hunting for him when he arrived home, and the way he made that wood fly, tired and hungry though he was, should have been a caution to any lazy boy. It was all cut and in the shed when his parents got home, but nevertheless the willow switch was well worn, and from that day forth Andrew Jackson Washington Jones was nearly, if not quite, cured of being lazy.

THE BOY WHO COULD NOT BE HURT.

BY DAVID KER.

I.

Many many years ago, about the time that Hendrick Hudson was smoking his first pipe with the Manhattan Indians on the site of New York, a group of school-boys were assembled one quiet summer evening in front of a house in the quiet little Swedish village of Hornelen.

"That's where the nest is, up there by the corner of the highest window," said one. "But who's to get it?"

"Oh! can't you really, Karl?" piped a poor little pale-faced cripple in the centre of the group. "That's just the egg I've been wanting ever so long. _Can't_ you get it somehow?"

"I wish I could, little one, if only for _your_ sake; but I've tried it twice, and got nothing but a good tumble for my pains."

"And so has Austrian Moritz here--haven't you, old fellow?" cried another, clapping the shoulder of a slim, dark-haired boy, who was spending his holidays at Hornelen with one of his father's Swedish friends.

"True enough," said Moritz von Arnheim, with a grimace. "But here comes Johnny Banner, and _he'll_ do it if any one can."

"Hurrah for the boy who can't be hurt!" shouted several voices, as a big square-built lad, with a bold, bluff, sunburned face, joined the group. "Why, Johnny, man, how dusty you are!"

"And so would _you_ be, if you'd just been run over by a wagon," grunted Johnny.

"Run over by a wagon!" echoed the boys, staring.

"Just so. You see, I was up in the big elm yonder, having a swing on one of the boughs, when Farmer Jansen, not seeing me, let fly at a rook that had perched there, and put a charge of shot through my cap. Look here;" and he held up the riddled cap to view.

"Another escape, I declare," laughed Moritz. "We shall have to call you 'Jack-of-Nine-Lives,' at this rate."

"So then, as you may think," pursued Johnny, "I came down again faster than I went up, and got into the road just in time to meet old Nils, the carrier, rattling along at his usual slap-dash pace. In trying to avoid him, I slipped and fell right before the cart, and horse and cart and all went merrily over me. Luckily, I had fallen lengthwise, so that the wheels went on each side of me, and here I am, all right."

"Well, old boy," cried Karl, "here's another chance for you. Try if you can get those eggs up yonder for little Olaf. None of _us_ can."

The words were hardly spoken, when Banner was over the fence, and the next moment he was seen scrambling up the side of the house by the notches which time and weather had made in the masonry. Once he slipped, and came down with a run; but he only set his hard mouth a little more firmly, and went to work again. Inch by inch he worked his way upward, the boys holding their breath as they watched him, until at length a general shout proclaimed that he had got a firm hold of the ivy.

Once there, the rest was easy. Another minute brought him within reach of the nest, and the eggs were carefully stowed away in a kind of pouch in the breast of his jacket.

Just then the village school-master came by, and seeing what was going on, cried, indignantly,

"You cruel boy! it would serve you right if you were to fall and injure yourself."

The words were truer than he intended, for Banner, startled by the shout, lost his hold and fell headlong to the ground. A cry of horror burst from the lookers-on, who were all over the fence in an instant, and the old teacher, dismayed at the effect of his rebuke, was not the hindmost. But to their amazement they found that "the boy who could not be hurt" had deserved his name once more. He had alighted upon a heap of straw, and though stunned and slightly bruised, was otherwise not a whit the worse.

"All right, boys," said he, faintly, "the _eggs_ aren't broken, anyhow. Here, Olaf." And he put his prize into the trembling hands of the little cripple, who was crying bitterly.

"God bless thee, my brave lad!" said the old teacher, losing all his anger in honest admiration of the boy's courage. "Thou art one who will be heard of yet."

II.

"Stand firm, lads! we'll beat them yet," shouted a tall handsome man in the uniform of an Austrian Colonel, who was doing his best to keep his men steady in the crisis of one of the hardest battles of the Thirty Years' War.

Few of his old playmates would have recognized little Moritz von Arnheim in that bearded face and towering figure; but it was he nevertheless, and the soldiers who were pressing him so hard were men from the very part of Sweden where he had once spent his holidays.

"Forward, my Swedes!" roared a tremendous voice from the other side, and through the rolling smoke in front broke a long line of glittering pike-heads and stern faces, sweeping down upon them like a mighty sea. There was a crash and a terrible cry, and the Austrian ranks were rolled together like leaves before the wind.

Foremost among the Swedes, as they swept onward with a joyous cheer, was a big red-bearded man with the plumed hat of a General, whose face every Austrian leader already knew to his cost.

"Here's that fellow again," growled the Colonel. "He shan't escape _this_ time, anyhow."

He discharged his pistol full at the General's broad breast, but the ball glanced off as if from a rock, and the next moment Colonel Von Arnheim and his horse were rolling in the dust together, under the very feet of the Swedish pikemen.

"Don't hurt him, on your lives!" roared the General. "Take him to my tent, and keep him safe till I come."

"Ha!" muttered the Colonel, "I ought to know _that_ voice. A strange adventure, truly, if this be indeed he!"

But all his doubts were ended a few hours later when the Swedish General came striding into the tent, and holding out his huge brown hand, said, with a broad grin,

"Do you know me, friend Moritz?"

"John Banner, sure enough!" cried Von Arnheim, grasping the offered hand cordially. "Well, I see you're still 'the boy who can't be hurt,' for I'm certain I saw my bullet hit you right on the breast."

"Hitting's not killing," answered Banner, throwing open his uniform, and showing a breastplate of fine steel underneath. "I've had many a narrower escape than that since I climbed for the nest at Hornelen."

"Well, speaking for myself, I'm very glad you _have_ escaped," said the Colonel; "but for the sake of Austria and the imperial flag, I rather wish _that heap of straw hadn't been there_."

Banner answered with a hearty laugh, and the two old comrades, thus strangely reunited, spent a very merry evening together.

A PRISON SCHOOL IN PARIS.

In the large and gloomy prison called Mazas, in Paris, there is a school for the instruction of youthful offenders against the law. Most of them are very ignorant when they enter the prison, but they are taught reading, writing, and arithmetic during their term of confinement, and most of them leave their cells not only improved in morals, but fitted to earn their living in honest employment.

The prison is a gloomy place for a school; but it is better than the dreadful places from which its youthful inmates are taken, where they had begun to learn the ways and habits of older criminals. It is a wise thing to give them useful instruction as well as punishment, so that when they are set free they may not sink back into evil ways, and go on from bad to worse in a downward course.

No class in this prison school contains more than eight pupils at a time, and the school-room is very different from the pleasant, cheerful rooms where the pupils of our free schools are taught. It is a vaulted court lighted with gas, and the doors of the cells open into it. At each door is a plain wooden table, and the pupils sit in such a position that they can not see each other, while all are under the eye of the teacher.

The teacher, as may be seen in the picture, walks slowly back and forth in front of the open doors, listening to the recitation of the lessons. All the pupils respond at once, either reading from their slates or answering questions orally. It is really wonderful to see how quickly he detects the slightest error, and corrects it, when all are speaking at the same time. You may think that this is a very inconvenient way to learn; but bright boys, who were entirely ignorant when they entered the prison, have been known to write legibly in a month's time, and to do quite difficult sums in multiplication and division. The fact that they have nothing to divert their minds from their lessons, and that study is really a new kind of recreation for them, may account for this rapid progress.

When Louis Napoleon overthrew the French Republic in 1851, and made himself Emperor, Mazas became famous for the number of distinguished patriots who were confined there by the order of the usurper. A full description of the prison is given in Victor Hugo's _History of a Crime_.

ANECDOTES ABOUT CATS.

A cat that belonged to a coachman had a very curious way of bringing up her kittens. Soon after her first family was born, she disappeared one morning with all the little things, and could not be seen anywhere. In the evening she came in for food, but as soon as she had had enough, ran away again. I think it was the next morning that one of the kittens was found lying under a large tree in the drive, and it was then discovered that the mother had taken her favorite children up to where two branches, separating, formed a kind of nest for them, leaving the one poor little thing that she did not care for down below to shift for himself. Strange to say, she and the rest of her family remained safely up in the tree until they were old enough to run about, when she got them all down again. I do not remember whether the little cast away was ever taken into favor and allowed to share his brothers' airy home, but I think not. She found this plan succeeded so well with her first set of kittens, that she followed it with all the others.

A rather strange thing once happened to an ugly sandy-colored cat that lived chiefly in the stables. The coachman found her one morning in a most pitiful state, hopping about on three legs, with the fourth hanging down quite limp, and apparently useless. He took her up, and after examining it, felt quite sure that it was broken; and calling the gardener, asked his opinion, which was the same. They were both very sorry for the poor creature, and decided that she had better be killed, as she seemed to be in great pain, and would most likely never get better. Just then a farmer passed, and wanted to know upon what they were holding such a grave discussion. They told him, and after feeling the paw very carefully, he came to the same conclusion about the injury. "But," said he, "you need not kill poor Pussy; I will try and cure her." So he took her into the kitchen, and cut some little wooden splints. While he held her quiet, the housekeeper bound the leg carefully up between the splints with tape, which was then securely sewed, and poor Pussy was put to bed, with a great deal of petting and plenty of food. About two hours later she was found walking about firmly on her four legs, with no signs of the bandage that had been on her paw, and was never seen to limp again.

THE GARDENS.

Three children and three gardens
In this picture you may see;
One has planted a lily,
And one a red-rose tree.

And one in the earth with a little stick
Has written her name, and then quite thick
The seeds of the water-cress has laid
In the little track the stick has made.

And here she sits with folded hands--
In this picture you may see
What a very patient little girl
This little girl must be.

And if you'd like to know her name,
Why, when the cresses grow,
You can see as well as she,
And then her name you'll know.

Our first letter this week comes from a young lady who writes to the Natural History Society. All the way from Japan came a letter from a bright boy describing the Feast of Lanterns in his far-off home. We think the same boy, if he would, could tell us something about mission work in Nagasaki. Every letter we print is interesting, and we are very sorry that you can not enjoy the letters we have had to keep to ourselves. We are glad that so many of you like Our Post-office Box.

WATERTOWN, NEW YORK.

Good-morning, boys and girls! How are you progressing with your
studies in natural history? Have you been successful in finding
facts for your societies, and securing specimens for their
collections? No doubt those who spent vacation away from home
brought back many trophies which will be greatly valued. Have you
added some of them to a cabinet where all the members of your
society can enjoy them? Those of you who have staid at home,
plodding on in the same old paths, have you noticed anything
wonderful there? Surely there is no place where God is not, and
where His works may not be studied. Sometimes children make fine
and well-arranged collections not only of flowers, but of leaves,
ferns, and mosses, some varieties of which can be obtained in all
parts of our country.

One branch of natural history which is full of instruction is often
neglected. I refer to the study of insects. Not only may
butterflies and moths lay claim to beauty, but many beetles, flies,
spiders, and worms. "Ugh!" says some little girl--"spiders and
worms! The horrid things! Who ever heard of their being beautiful?"
Little sister, have you been walking all this time with your eyes
shut, so that you have not seen their velvet coats of many colors,
ringed, streaked, and speckled? If you would but stop and watch
them in the trades they follow and the houses they build, instead
of running with fright or turning away in disgust, you would find
them more interesting than you now imagine they can be.

I have a friend who has for a few months past been studying
entomology. She has used her fernery, covering the top with
mosquito bar, as a cage for worms, and there we have fed them with
the leaves of the plants on which they were found, and have been
quite delighted with their transformations. She had two green ones,
with black bands running around them, dotted with orange. They were
found on celery. We watched one hang itself to a piece of
apple-tree branch put in for that purpose; saw it spin a small,
thick patch of web, hook its hind-feet into it, then pull with all
its might, apparently to see if the web was strong. After that it
spun a silken cord for its back, attaching the ends to the bark,
holding up its fore-feet and passing it back and forth over them to
make it long enough. It then passed its head through the loop so
made, and wriggled itself in. In about thirty-six hours the skin
split on the back, and it slipped it off, unhooking its tail, and
hooking it into the web again; and after repeating the operation of
pulling, the little creature settled down for a long nap. As the
skin came off, he looked like an entirely different fellow, both in
shape and color. He is now a chrysalis, without legs or a
distinctly defined head; in color, light gray, with brown stripes
running lengthwise; there is also a delicate trace of wings. We are
now looking for his last change, which will be to a dark
swallow-tailed butterfly, spotted with yellow, blue, and orange.

All parts of the cabbage butterfly, even its eyes, can be clearly
traced in the chrysalis.

Another worm, pale green, very large, nearly like the tomato-worm,
laid himself away in the earth in one corner of the fernery, there
to change into a pupa, and remain until spring, when he will become
a pretty moth--ash-color and pink, with brown spots. It will
measure over three inches when the wings are spread.

A stupid-looking bug, somewhat like a May-beetle without wings, was
also put into the cage. It soon attached itself to the branch,
split open its back, and out came a lace-winged cicada, wrongly
called a locust. You would be surprised to see how much larger it
was than the case out of which it came.

Have any of you ever watched the wrigglers in your mother's barrel
of rain-water, and have you seen them change to mosquitoes? If not,
keep your eyes open early in the morning, is the advice of

MARY P.

* * * * *

JERICHO, LONG ISLAND.

I live on Long Island, not very far from where HARPER'S YOUNG
PEOPLE is published.

My sister Annie and I started for school two weeks ago. We have a
new teacher, and we like her very much.

The only pets we have are three cats, Tiny, Daisy, and Lillie. Tiny
is the nicest. We think they are all pretty smart. I suppose all
who have pets think the same.

I am eleven years old. We have a piano, and take music lessons. I
am a little farther along than Annie, so I teach her. I have no
teacher now, but hope I shall soon have one. I like music very
much.

I like "Tim and Tip" very much. "Toby Tyler" was splendid. I hope
Jimmy Brown will favor us with another account of his misfortunes
soon.

MAGGIE J. L.

How charming it is for you to be able to teach Annie what you have learned! You will find that your doing this will help you to become a finer performer yourself. We like to hear of girls who believe in helping along.

* * * * *

BAYOU VERMILION, LOUISIANA.

I live on the bank of Vermilion River, in Louisiana, nine miles
from Abbeville. I have been taking your paper for seven months. I
have two little sisters and one little brother. I have a pet 'coon.
It is a cunning little animal. When my little sister has a piece of
bread in her hand, and he sees her, he comes and takes it away from
her, and will then run and hide. I like "Toby Tyler," and I like
"Tim and Tip" also.

FRANK C. R.

* * * * *

LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND.

A lady sends me HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE every week from New York. I
read all the stories, and I like "The Cruise of the 'Ghost'" and
"Aunt Ruth's Temptation" better than any of the others. I have two
little sisters who like pets. They have two pretty canaries, and
between us we have a darling dog, a collie, and we call him Bruno.

GUSSIE L.

* * * * *

FORT CAMERON, UTAH TERRITORY.

I saw a large spider this morning. When I first observed it, it had
already woven a large web in the corner of the windows and had
attached it by long braces to a rustic lounge beneath the window.
As I was watching it, a house-fly became entangled in the web. As
it was struggling to free itself, the spider saw it, ran up to the
spot where it was caught, seized and covered it with a slimy stuff,
after which it proceeded to eat the fly up. It had a very small
head, and a body the size of a small marble. It had four feelers
curved over its head, and four legs, in three colors, red, white,
and black, and covered with a kind of fur.

WILLIAM L.