Chapter XV: Ben's Ride (1)

Great was the mourning for Sancho, because his talents and virtues made him universally admired and beloved. Miss Celia advertised, Thorny offered rewards, and even surly Pat kept a sharp look-out for poodle dogs when he went to market; but no Sancho or any trace of him appeared. Ben was inconsolable, and sternly said it served Bab right when the _dog_-wood poison affected both face and hands. Poor Bab thought so, too, and dared ask no sympathy from him, though Thorny eagerly prescribed plantain leaves, and Betty kept her supplied with an endless succession of them steeped in cream and pitying tears. This treatment was so successful that the patient soon took her place in society as well as ever, but for Ben's affliction there was no cure, and the boy really suffered in his spirits.

"I don't think it's fair that I should have so much trouble--first losing father and then Sanch. If it wasn't for Lita and Miss Celia, I don't believe I could stand it," he said, one day, in a fit of despair, about a week after the sad event.

"Oh, come now, don't give up so, old fellow. We'll find him if he's alive, and if he isn't I'll try and get you another as good," answered Thorny, with a friendly slap on the shoulder, as Ben sat disconsolately among the beans he had been hoeing.

"As if there ever could be another half as good!" cried Ben, indignant at the idea; "or as if I'd ever try to fill his place with the best and biggest dog that ever wagged a tail! No, sir, there's only one Sanch in all the world, and if I can't have him I'll never have a dog again."

"Try some other sort of a pet, then. You may have any of mine you like. Have the peacocks; do now," urged Thorny, full of boyish sympathy and good-will.

"They are dreadful pretty, but I don't seem to care about 'em, thank you," replied the mourner.

"Have the rabbits, all of them," which was a handsome offer on Thorny's part, for there were a dozen at least.

"They don't love a fellow as a dog does; all they care for is stuff to eat and dirt to burrow in. I'm sick of rabbits." And well he might be, for he had had the charge of them ever since they came, and any boy who has ever kept bunnies knows what a care they are.

"So am I! Guess we'll have an auction and sell out. Would Jack be a comfort to you? If he will, you may have him. I'm so well now, I can walk, or ride anything," added Thorny, in a burst of generosity.

"Jack couldn't be with me always, as Sanch was, and I couldn't keep him if I had him."

Ben tried to be grateful, but nothing short of Lita would have healed his wounded heart, and she was not Thorny's to give, or he would probably have offered her to his afflicted friend.

"Well, no, you couldn't take Jack to bed with you, or keep him up in your room, and I'm afraid he would never learn to do anything clever. I do wish I had something you wanted, I'd so love to give it to you."

He spoke so heartily and was so kind that Ben looked up, feeling that he had given him one of the sweetest things in the world--friendship; he wanted to tell him so, but did not know how to do it, so caught up his hoe and fell to work, saying, in a tone Thorny understood better than words:

"You are real good to me--never mind, I wont worry about it; only it seems extra hard coming so soon after the other----"

He stopped there, and a bright drop fell on the bean leaves, to shine like dew till Ben saw clearly enough to bury it out of sight in a great hurry.

"By Jove! I'll find that dog, if he is out of the ground. Keep your spirits up, my lad, and we'll have the dear old fellow back yet."

With which cheering prophecy Thorny went off to rack his brains as to what could be done about the matter.

Half an hour afterward, the sound of a hand-organ in the avenue roused him from the brown study into which he had fallen as he lay on the newly mown grass of the lawn. Peeping over the wall, Thorny reconnoitered, and, finding the organ a good one, the man a pleasant-faced Italian, and the monkey a lively animal, he ordered them all in, as a delicate attention to Ben, for music and monkey together might suggest soothing memories of the past, and so be a comfort.

In they came by way of the Lodge, escorted by Bab and Betty, full of glee, for hand-organs were rare in those parts, and the children delighted in them. Smiling till his white teeth shone and his black eyes sparkled, the man played away while the monkey made his pathetic little bows, and picked up the pennies Thorny threw him.

"It is warm, and you look tired. Sit down and I'll get you some dinner," said the young master, pointing to the seat which now stood near the great gate.

With thanks in broken English the man gladly obeyed, and Ben begged to be allowed to make Jacko equally comfortable, explaining that he knew all about monkeys and what they liked. So the poor thing was freed from his cocked hat and uniform, fed with bread and milk, and allowed to curl himself up in the cool grass for a nap, looking so like a tired little old man in a fur coat that the children were never weary of watching him.

Meantime, Miss Celia had come out, and was talking Italian to Giacomo in a way that delighted his homesick heart. She had been to Naples, and could understand his longing for the lovely city of his birth, so they had a little chat in the language which is all music, and the good fellow was so grateful that he played for the children to dance till they were glad to stop, lingering afterward as if he hated to set out again upon his lonely, dusty walk.

"I'd rather like to tramp round with him for a week or so. Could make enough to live on as easy as not, if I only had Sanch to show off," said Ben, as he was coaxing Jacko into the suit which he detested.

"You go wid me, yes?" asked the man, nodding and smiling, well pleased at the prospect of company, for his quick eye and what the boys let fall in their talk showed him that Ben was not one of them.

"If I had my dog I'd love to," and with sad eagerness Ben told the tale of his loss, for the thought of it was never long out of his mind.

"I tink I see droll dog like he, way off in New York. He do leetle trick wid letter, and dance, and go on he head, and many tings to make laugh," said the man, when he had listened to a list of Sanch's beauties and accomplishments.

"Who had him?" asked Thorny, full of interest at once.

"A man I not know. Cross fellow what beat him when he do letters bad.

"Did he spell his name?" cried Ben, breathlessly.

"No, that for why man beat him. He name Generale, and he go spell Sancho all times, and cry when whip fall on him. Ha! yes! that name true one, not Generale?" and the man nodded, waved his hands and showed his teeth, almost as much excited as the boys.

"It's Sanch! let's go and get him, now, right off!" cried Ben, in a fever to be gone.

"A hundred miles away, and no clue but this man's story? We must wait a little, Ben, and be sure before we set out," said Miss Celia, ready to do almost anything, but not so certain as the boys. "What sort of a dog was it? A large, curly, white poodle, with a queer tail?" she asked of Giacomo.

"No, Signorina mia, he no curly, no wite, he black, smooth dog, littel tail, small, so," and the man held up one brown finger with a gesture which suggested a short, wagging tail.

"There, you see how mistaken we were. Dogs are often named Sancho, especially Spanish poodles, for the original Sancho was a Spaniard, you know. This dog is not ours, and I'm so sorry."

The boys faces had fallen dismally as their hope was destroyed; but Ben would not give up, for him there was and could be only one Sancho in the world, and his quick wits suggested an explanation which no one else thought of.

"It may be my dog--they color 'em as we used to paint over trick horses. I told you he was a valuable chap, and those that stole him hide him that way, else he'd be no use, don't you see, because we'd know him."

"But the black dog had no tail," began Thorny, longing to be convinced, but still doubtful.

Ben shivered as if the mere thought hurt him, as he said, in a grim tone:

"They might have cut Sanch's off."

"Oh, no! no! they mustn't, they wouldn't!"

"How could any one be so wicked?" cried Bab and Betty, horrified at the suggestion.

"You don't know what such fellows would do to make all safe, so they could use a dog to earn their living for 'em," said Ben, with mysterious significance, quite forgetting in his wrath that he had just proposed to get his own living in that way himself.

"He no your dog? Sorry I not find him for you. Addio, signorina! Grazia, signor! Buon giorno, buon giorno," and, kissing his hand, the Italian shouldered organ and monkey, ready to go.

Miss Celia detained him long enough to give him her address, and beg him to let her know if he met poor Sanch in any of his wanderings, for such itinerant showmen often cross each other's paths. Ben and Thorny walked to the school-corner with him, getting more exact information about the black dog and his owner, for they had no intention of giving it up so soon.

That very evening, Thorny wrote to a boy cousin in New York giving all the particulars of the case, and begging him to hunt up the man, investigate the dog, and see that the police made sure that everything was right. Much relieved by this performance, the boys waited anxiously for a reply, and when it came found little comfort in it. Cousin Horace had done his duty like a man, but regretted that he could only report a failure. The owner of the black poodle was a suspicious character, but told a straight story, how he had bought the dog from a stranger, and exhibited him with success till he was stolen. Knew nothing of his history and was very sorry to lose him, for he was a remarkably clever beast.

"I told my dog man to look about for him, but he says he has probably been killed, with ever so many more, so there is an end of it, and I call it a mean shame."

"Good for Horace! I told you he'd do it up thoroughly and see the end of it," said Thorny, as he read that paragraph in the deeply interesting letter.

"May be the end of _that_ dog, but not of mine. I'll bet he ran away, and if it _was_ Sanch he'll come home. You see if he doesn't," cried Ben, refusing to believe that all was over.

"A hundred miles off? Oh, he couldn't find you without help, smart as he is," answered Thorny, incredulously.

Ben looked discouraged, but Miss Celia cheered him up again by saying:

"Yes, he could. My father had a friend who kept a little dog in Paris, and the creature found her in Milan and died of fatigue next day. That was very wonderful, but true, and I've no doubt that if Sanch _is_ alive he will come home. Let us hope so, and be happy while we wait."

"We will!" said the boys, and day after day looked for the wanderer's return, kept a bone ready in the old place if he should arrive at night, and shook his mat to keep it soft for his weary bones when he came. But weeks passed, and still no Sanch.

Something else happened, however, so absorbing that he was almost forgotten for a time, and Ben found a way to repay a part of all he owed his best friend.

Miss Celia went off for a ride one afternoon, and an hour afterward, as Ben sat in the porch reading, Lita dashed into the yard with the reins dangling about her legs, the saddle turned round, and one side covered with black mud, showing that she had been down. For a minute, Ben's heart stood still, then he flung away his book, ran to the horse, and saw at once by her heaving flanks, dilated nostrils and wet coat, that she must have come a long way and at full speed.

"She has had a fall, but isn't hurt or frightened," thought the boy, as the pretty creature rubbed her nose against his shoulder, pawed the ground and champed her bit, as if she tried to tell him all about the disaster, whatever it was.

"Lita, where's Miss Celia?" he asked, looking straight into the intelligent eyes, which were troubled but not wild.

Lita threw up her head and neighed loud and clear as if she called her mistress, and turning, would have gone again if Ben had not caught the reins and held her.

"All right, we'll find her;" and, pulling off the broken saddle, kicking away his shoes, and ramming his hat firmly on, Ben was up like a flash, tingling all over with a sense of power as he felt the bare back between his knees, and caught the roll of Lita's eye as she looked round with an air of satisfaction.

"Hi, there! Mrs. Moss! Something has happened to Miss Celia, and I'm going to find her. Thorny is asleep; tell him easy, and I'll come back as soon as I can."

Then, giving Lita her head, he was off before the startled woman had time to do more than wring her hands and cry out:

"Go for the Squire! Oh, what shall we do?"

As if she knew exacty what was wanted of her, Lita went back the way she had come, as Ben could see by the fresh, irregular tracks that cut up the road where she had galloped for help. For a mile or more they went, then she paused at a pair of bars which were let down to allow the carts to pass into the wide hay-fields beyond. On she went again cantering across the new-mown turf toward a brook, across which she had evidently taken a leap before; for, on the further side, at a place where cattle went to drink, the mud showed signs of a fall.

"You were a fool to try there, but where is Miss Celia?" said Ben, who talked to animals as if they were people, and was understood much better than any one not used to their companionship would imagine.

Now Lita seemed at a loss, and put her head down as if she expected to find her mistress where she had left her, somewhere on the ground. Ben called, but there was no answer, and he rode slowly along the brook-side, looking far and wide with anxious eyes.

"May be she wasn't hurt, and has gone to that house to wait," thought the boy, pausing for a last survey of the great, sunny field, which had no place of shelter in it but one rock on the other side of the little stream. As his eye wandered over it, something dark seemed to blow out from behind it, as if the wind played in the folds of a skirt, or a human limb moved. Away went Lita, and in a moment Ben had found Miss Celia, lying in the shadow of the rock, so white and motionless he feared that she was dead. He leaped down, touched her, spoke to her, and receiving no answer, rushed away to bring a little water in his leaky hat to sprinkle in her face, as he had seen them do when any of the riders got a fall in the circus, or fainted from exhaustion after they left the ring, where "do or die" was the motto all adopted.

In a minute, the blue eyes opened, and she recognized the anxious face bending over her, saying faintly, as she touched it:

"My good little Ben, I knew you'd find me--I sent Lita for you--I'm so hurt I couldn't come."

"Oh, where? What shall I do? Had I better run up to the house?" asked Ben, overjoyed to hear her speak, but much dismayed by her seeming helplessness, for he had seen bad falls, and had them, too.

"I feel bruised all over, and my arm is broken, I'm afraid. Lita tried not to hurt me. She slipped, and we went down. I came here into the shade, and the pain made me faint, I suppose. Call somebody, and get me home."

Then, she shut her eyes, and looked so white that Ben hurried away and burst upon old Mrs. Paine, placidly knitting at the end door, so suddenly that, as she afterward said, "it sca't her like a clap o' thunder."

"Aint a man nowheres around. All down in the big medder gettin' in hay," was her reply to Ben's breathless demand for "everybody to come and see to Miss Celia."

He turned to mount, for he had flung himself off before Lita stopped, but the old lady caught his jacket and asked half a dozen questions in a breath.

"Who's your folks? What's broke? How'd she fall? Where is she? Why didn't she come right here? Is it a sunstroke?"

As fast as words could tumble out of his mouth Ben answered, and then tried to free himself, but the old lady held on while she gave her directions, expressed her sympathy, and offered her hospitality with incoherent warmth.

"Sakes alive! poor dear! Fetch her right in. Liddy, get out the camphire, and Melissy, you haul down a bed to lay her on. Falls is dretful uncert'in things; shouldn't wonder if her back was broke. Father's down yender, and he and Bijah will see to her. You go call 'em, and I'll blow the horn to start 'em up. Tell her we'll be pleased to see her, and it wont make a mite of trouble."

Ben heard no more, for as Mrs. Paine turned to take down the tin horn he was up and away.

Several long and dismal toots sent Lita galloping through the grassy path as the sound of the trumpet excites a war-horse, and "father and Bijah," alarmed by the signal at that hour, leaned on their rakes to survey with wonder the distracted-looking little horseman approaching like a whirlwind.

"Guess likely grandpa's had 'nother stroke. Told 'em to send over soon's ever it come," said the farmer calmly.

"Shouldn't wonder ef suthing was afire some'r's," conjectured the hired man, surveying the horizon for a cloud of smoke.

Instead of advancing to meet the messenger, both stood like statues in blue overalls and red flannel shirts, till the boy arrived and told his tale.

"Sho, that's bad," said the farmer, anxiously.

"That brook always was the darndest place," added Bijah, then both men bestirred themselves helpfully, the former hurrying to Miss Celia while the latter brought up the cart and made a bed of hay to lay her on.

"Now then, boy, you go for the doctor. My women folks will see to the lady, and she'd better keep quiet up yender till we see what the matter is," said the farmer, when the pale girl was lifted in as carefully as four strong arms could do it. "Hold on," he added, as Ben made one leap to Lita's back. "You'll have to go to Berryville. Dr. Mills is a master hand for broken bones and old Dr. Babcock aint. 'Tisn't but about three mile from here to his house, and you'll fetch him 'fore there's any harm done waitin'."

"Don't kill Lita," called Miss Celia from the cart, as it began to move.

But Ben did not hear her, for he was off across the fields, riding as if life and death depended upon his speed.

"That boy will break his neck!" said Mr. Paine, standing still to watch horse and rider go over the wall as if bent on instant destruction.

"No fear for Ben, he can ride anything, and Lita was trained to leap," answered Miss Celia, falling back on the hay with a groan, for she had involuntarily raised her head to see her little squire dash away in gallant style.

"I should hope so; regular jockey, that boy. Never see anything like it out of a race-ground," and farmer Paine strode on, still following with his eye the figures that went thundering over the bridge, up the hill, out of sight, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

Now that his mistress was safe, Ben enjoyed that wild ride mightily, and so did the bay mare; for Lita had good blood in her, and proved it that day by doing her three miles in a wonderfully short time. People jogging along in wagons and country carry-alls, stared amazed as the reckless pair went by. Women, placidly doing their afternoon sewing at the front windows, dropped their needles to run out with exclamations of alarm, sure some one was being run away with; children playing by the roadside scattered like chickens before a hawk, as Ben passed with a warning whoop, and baby-carriages were scrambled into door-yards with perilous rapidity at his approach.

But when he clattered into town, intense interest was felt in this bare-footed boy on the foaming steed, and a dozen voices asked, "Who's killed?" as he pulled up at the doctor's gate.

"Jest drove off that way; Mrs. Flynn's baby's in a fit," cried a stout lady from the piazza, never ceasing to rock, though several passers-by paused to hear the news, for she was a doctor's wife, and used to the arrival of excited messengers from all quarters at all hours of the day and night.

Deigning no reply to any one, Ben rode away, wishing he could leap a yawning gulf, scale a precipice, or ford a raging torrent, to prove his devotion to Miss Celia, and his skill in horsemanship. But no dangers beset his path, and he found the doctor pausing to water his tired horse at the very trough where Bab and Sancho had been discovered on that ever-memorable day. The story was quickly told, and, promising to be there as soon as possible, Dr. Mills drove on to relieve baby Flynn's inner man, a little disturbed by a bit of soap and several buttons, upon which he had privately lunched while his mamma was busy at the wash-tub.

Ben thanked his stars, as he had already done more than once, that he knew how to take care for a horse; for he delayed by the watering-place long enough to wash out Lita's mouth with a handful of wet grass, to let her have one swallow to clear her dusty throat, and then went slowly back over the breezy hills, patting and praising the good creature for her intelligence and speed. She knew well enough that she had been a clever little mare, and tossed her head, arched her glossy neck, and ambled daintily along, as conscious and coquettish as a pretty woman, looking round at her admiring rider to return his compliments by glances of affection, and caressing sniffs of a velvet nose at his bare feet.

Miss Celia had been laid comfortably in bed by the farmer's wife and daughters, and, when the doctor arrived, bore the setting of her arm bravely. No other serious damage appeared, and bruises soon heal, so Ben was sent home to comfort Thorny with a good report, and ask the squire to drive up in his big carry-all for her the next day, if she was able to be moved.

Mrs. Moss had been wise enough to say nothing, but quietly made what preparations she could, and waited for tidings. Bab and Betty were away berrying, so no one had alarmed Thorny, and he had his afternoon nap in peace,--an unusually long one, owing to the stillness which prevailed in the absence of the children; and when he awoke he lay reading for a while before he began to wonder where every one was. Lounging out to see, he found Ben and Lita reposing side by side on the fresh straw in the loose box, which had been made for her in the coach-house. By the pails, sponges and curry-combs lying about, it was evident that she had been refreshed by a careful washing and rubbing down, and my lady was now luxuriously resting after her labors, with her devoted groom half asleep close by.

"Well, of all queer boys you are the queerest, to spend this hot afternoon fussing over Lita, just for the fun of it!" cried Thorny, looking in at them with much amusement.

"If you knew what we'd been doing you'd think I ought to fuss over her, and both of us had a right to rest!" answered Ben, rousing up as bright as a button; for he longed to tell his thrilling tale, and had with difficulty been restrained from bursting in on Thorny as soon as he arrived.

He made short work of the story, but was quite satisfied with the sensation it produced; for his listener was startled, relieved, excited and charmed, in such rapid succession, that he was obliged to sit upon the meal chest and get his breath before he could exclaim, with an emphatic demonstration of his heels against the bin:

"Ben Brown, I'll never forget what you've done for Celia this day, or say 'bow-legs' again as long as I live!"

"George! I felt as if I had _six_ legs when we were going the pace. We were all one piece, and had a jolly spin, didn't we, my beauty?" and Ben chuckled as he took Lita's head in his lap, while she answered with a gusty sigh that nearly blew him away.

"Like the fellow that brought the good news from Ghent to Aix," said Thorny, surveying the recumbent pair with great admiration.

"What fellow?" asked Ben, wondering if he didn't mean Sheridan, of whose ride he had heard.

"Don't you know that piece? I spoke it at school. Give it to you now; see if it isn't a rouser."

And, glad to find a vent for his excitement, Thorny mounted the meal-chest, to thunder out that stirring ballad with such spirit that Lita pricked up her ears, and Ben gave a shrill "Hooray!" as the last verse ended,

"And all I remember is friends flocking round,
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent."

(_To be continued_.)

MASTER MONTEZUMA.

(_With Illustrations copied from Mexican Hieroglyphics_.)

By C.C. HASKINS.

[Note.--Montezuma II., the last of the Aztec (or native Mexican) emperors, was born about 1480. He was taken prisoner by Hernando Cortes, the commander of the Spanish army which conquered Mexico, and, in the hope of quelling an insurrection which had arisen among his former subjects, he consented to address them from the walls of his prison. Stung by the apparent desertion of their leader to the cause of the enemy, the Mexicans assaulted him with stones and other missiles. He was struck on the temple by one of the stones, and died from the effects in a few days. The illustrations are true copies of old Mexican pictures, which appeared originally in the "Collection of Mendoza," a work frequently referred to by all writers on ancient Mexico.--C.C.H.]

The Emperor Montezuma was a great man, and historians have recorded much about him, but of his earlier life, when he was plain Master Montezuma, comparatively little is known of this rising young gentleman.

Master M. commenced his earthly career as a crying baby, in the year "one cane," which, when properly figured down according to the Gregorian calendar, would be about the year of our Lord 1480.

No sooner had Master M. reached the fourth day of his existence, than the nurse, under instructions from his anxious mamma, took off what few clothes the poor boy had on, and repairing to the baptismal font in the yard, sprinkled cold water upon his naked breast and lips, presented his credentials in the shape of offerings to propitiate the gods of war, agriculture, etc., whose names you will find further along in this history, repeated a prayer in which "the Lord was implored to wash away the sin that was given him before the foundation of the world, so that the child might be born anew," and told the three little boys who sat near by, what Master M.'s name was to be. The three little boys left off eating their parched corn, and boiled beans, repeated the name, and the little baby was christened.

Now, if Master M. had been a girl--which he was not--the offerings would have been a mat, a spinning machine and a broom, all of which would have been buried under the _metate_, the stone where corn was ground. As it was, the offerings were implements of war, articles of metal, pottery, etc., and these were buried, as near as they could guess at the location, where they either hoped or feared there might some day be a battle with their enemies.

When Master M. had eaten and slept and kicked and cried for sixteen days longer, his parents took him to the priest, and to the teacher, and promised that he should be instructed by these worthy gentlemen in war, politics, religion, and other branches of general education. They promised that he should be an Alfalqui, or priest, and should also serve in the army as a soldier. In that little, wiggling baby, that seemed all fists and mouth, it was impossible to foresee the future Emperor of Mexico, whose name has since become familiar to the civilized world.

Young Master M. worried along pretty well, and up to six years of age had done nothing remarkable. At this age he was granted one and one-half rolls at a meal, and commenced doing little errands and picking up scattered beans and corn in the Tianquez, which is what the Mexicans called the market-place.

The restless spirit of a military chieftain now began to show itself in the embryo warrior, and, by the time he had reached his eighth year, discipline became necessary to curb his growing inclination to despotism. He was fast becoming one of that class of boys who think "it's too bad to be good all the time." In the second picture see the scalding tears! Whether Master M. is sorry that he has done wrong, or whether he only fears being pricked with those terrible thorns of the aloe with which he is threatened, or is crying because he is cold, who shall tell? It is hard, sometimes, to tell what eight-year-old boys are crying for, whether they live in the United States or in Mexico.

Master M. may have been better than most boys, and it may be that his father was a better driver than leader for his little ones. Some fathers are. In any event, when Master M. was ten years old there came another opportunity for weeping and wailing, and Master M. was submitted to the mortification of lying on the damp ground all day while he listened to a parental lecture; and this, too, after he was twelve years old!

Then Master M. reformed, and became an industrious, faithful boy. I have sometimes questioned whether he wasn't hungry, and if he had been better fed whether he would not have done better. At fourteen years of age they gave him two rolls at a meal, and he was instructed in the art of fishing with a net. You can tell how old the boy is by the number of round marks in the picture, and the person who is speaking is denoted by a tongue in front of the mouth.

When his fifteenth year came, Master M. found he would have plenty to do. After this, old Mr. M. had no trouble with him. It is curious--the more we have to do, the less liable we are to do something we should not, and--let us all study on that half an hour, some day, and see what we can make of it.

He had two teachers, the priest and the military professor. It seemed as if everything was to be learned. There was arithmetic, he learned to make figures. A round, blue dot stands for one.

Five of them make five, and ooooo-o (five and one) is six, and in that way it runs up to ten. If he wanted to say "twenty" he made a flag, and for forty he made two flags.

Just imagine such a multiplication table as this: Five times four is one flag. Flag times flag is one plume. Flag times plume is one purse! Let's see; a purse, then, would equal 8,000. Yes, and if he wanted to write 4,000 he would draw only half a purse. All the examples in their arithmetic were worked by such tables as these.

Then there were lessons in time. He had to learn that five days make a week, four weeks make a month, and eighteen months make a year; and as all that footed up only three hundred and sixty days, they threw in what they called the five unlucky days that belonged to no month, to fill up before they commenced a new year. And then he found another arrangement for doing what we do with our leap-year, for, once in fifty-two years they put in twelve and one-half extra days, which is something like setting the clock ahead when you find it is too slow by the town bell or the fire alarm.

He learned that this kind of calendar had been in use a long time, and was the result of careful study and calculation by the wise priests of the olden time; and, when he wanted to know how long, he counted up the bundles of reeds which represented centuries, and found that it had been in use over four hundred years. And all this, you must remember, was before San Salvador was discovered by Columbus. Then he had to study all about the naming of the years and the cycles. How, if this year was "one rabbit," next year would be "two cane," the third "three flint," the next "four house," and these four elements, representing air, water, fire, earth, would be thus repeated up to thirteen, and then they would commence at one again, so that the fourteenth year would be "one cane," etc., and in four of these cycles of thirteen they would reach a cycle of fifty-two years, or, as they called it, a "bundle," and as the twelve and one-half days additional would end one cycle of fifty-two years at midday, and the next at midnight, they bundled two of these together and called it "an old age." The number fifty-two was an unlucky number, and these old Mexicans believed that at the end of a cycle of that number of years, at some time, the world would be depopulated, the sun put out, and, after death and darkness had reigned awhile, it would all begin afresh with a new race of people.

So, when a cycle or bundle was completed, all fires were extinguished and not rekindled during the five unlucky days. Household goods which could no longer be of any service, dishes, household articles, etc., were broken; every one gave up all hope, and abandoned himself to despair while awaiting the expected ruin.

On the evening of the fifth day of sorrow, the priests gathered the people together in a procession and marched to a temple, about two leagues from the city. Here they would sit like bumps on a log until midnight, and then, when the constellation which we call the Pleiades came exactly overhead, the danger was over. Two sticks were rubbed together over the breast of a captive who had been selected for the sacrifice, until fire was produced by the friction, the funeral pile was lighted, the body burned, and messengers, many of whom could run long distances, at the rate of seven or eight miles an hour, would light their torches and spread the joyful news of danger averted, while carrying the "new fire" into all parts of the empire. Then would follow a regular old-fashioned frolic, something like a centennial,--a jollification few had ever seen and most would see but once in a life-time. There must be no drunkenness, however; that was a high crime, in some instances punished by death. If the intemperate party, man or woman, was over seventy years of age, however, no notice was taken of it,--they were old, and had rights and privileges not granted to younger members of the community.

Master M. had much to learn about deities. At the head of these stood one, infinite, supreme ruler, "the unknown God," and next beneath him came Tezcatlipoca, the "son of the world," supposed to be the creator of the earth, Huitzilopotchli was the god of war, a sort of Mars, but with very much more name. Then there was the god of air, Quetzatcoatl, who controlled vegetation, metals, and the politics of the country. Here is something Master M. was taught to believe of him:

When this god, whom we will call Q, was on earth, vegetation was so wonderfully prolific that a single ear of corn was all a man could carry. Everything the people needed grew spontaneously. Cotton grew more beautifully tinted than the dyers of the present time could color it. Richest perfumes loaded temperate breezes, and everywhere the gaudiest-colored birds filled the air with most entrancing harmonies. Q had some little difficulty, however, with the rest of the gods, and was obliged to leave his little paradise. When he embarked in his wizard snake-skin canoe on the shore of the gulf, he told his friends that his descendents would one day return and bless the land as he had done, and that they would be like him,--tall, fine looking, with dark hair, white skins, and flowing beards. Alas! this belief was in no small degree the cause of their ruin; for the invading Spaniards quite nearly answered this description of Q's descendants.

There were thirteen of the principal deities, as Master M. learned, each of whom required sacrifices more or less horrible. For instance, there was the "soul of the world," I forget his other name. He must be propitiated now and then. A year before the fatal day, a tall, beautiful, well-formed, unblemished captive was selected to play the part of this god for one year. He must have all these qualifications to make the resemblance as perfect as possible. He was now treated as a god. Everything he could wish, everything it was thought could possibly conduce to his pleasure, comfort, or happiness, was furnished without stint. He slept on the softest of couches in the most gorgeous of chambers; his raiment was profuse and expensive, and the whole surroundings were, as far as possible, in keeping with his high and holy estate. Birds and music, flowers and rare perfumes pleased every sense, and everything, save liberty, was his. This happy-go-lucky sort of life continued until the day fixed for the sacrifice. Then joy gave way to sadness, pain, death! Stripped of his costly raiment, he was taken by a procession of priests to a royal barge, thence across a lake to a temple about a league from the city, where, as he mounted the weary steps of the huge edifice, he flung aside the garlands of flowers and broke the musical instruments which had been a joy to him in his past days. At the summit of the temple, in full view of the assembled multitude below, he was barbarously put to death by a priest, in order to propitiate the cruel god to whom the temple was dedicated. And Master M. was taught that the moral of all this savagery was, that human joys are transitory, and the partition between sorrow and happiness is a very thin one, or words to that effect.

Master M. learned that there were many other inferior gods, each of which had festivals, sacrifices, etc., proportioned to his rank and power; that nearly every hour of the day was dedicated to some god or other; but I cannot tell you all he learned of these strange deities.

He studied the history of the temples, and learned why they were four or five stories high with the stairs on the outside, and why he had to go entirely round the temple to find the next flight of stairs as he went up or down; and why each story was smaller than the next lower, and learned that some of these buildings were over one hundred feet square and as many feet high, and had towers forty or fifty feet high on their summits; and all about the everlasting fire which burned on the tops of these temples, and that there were so many of these that the whole country for miles around was always brilliantly illuminated.

I must pass over a long period in the life of Master M. with the mere remark that he graduated in both his military and religious classes with the highest honors, and acquitted himself to the most perfect satisfaction of both the alfalquis, or priests, and the teachcauhs, which is nearly the same as our word teachers.

Master M. had, for a long time, cherished a hope that some day he might press the throne as king of Mexico. So, like the Yorkshire lad who begged salt of a stranger eating eggs near him, so as to have the salt ready in case any one _should_ ask him to accept an egg, he prepared himself fully for the possible emergency, and became not only a military general, but a leading alfalqui.

And then he married. I have not room to give you the whole picture, but here is the way it was done.

A lady whose position in society required her to negotiate the match, having previously made all the necessary arrangements, one evening, hoisted the happy damsel on her back, and accompanied by four young women (I have drawn only one) each bearing a torch, headed the joyous procession and marched to the house of Master M., where she dropped her cargo of precious humanity. Then the alfalqui asked them if they were mutually agreed on matrimony, and of course, they said "yes," when he proceeded to tie their clothes together. Then two old patriarchs and two good old grandmothers (one of each of which I have copied for you) delivered little sermons suited to the occasion. The new couple walked seven times round a blazing fire, partook of a feast with their friends, heard a final sort of a "ninety-ninthly and to conclude" parting word from the four old people, and then, just as all married people do, went to housekeeping, and having their own way as much as possible. One thing they could not do. There was no law of divorce to appeal to then; death was the only judge who could entertain the question of separation.

Master M. will now disappear, to re-appear as the Emperor. In the year "ten rabbits," or A.D. 1502, the monarch died, and the electoral college selected Master M. to supply his place. In the household of each monarch there was an electoral board of four nobles, whose duty it was, on the death of the ruler, to elect his successor from among the sons and nephews of the crown. Having done this, and so notified the successor, they selected four nobles to fill their own places, and vacated their electoral chairs. Master M. when waited upon to be notified of his election to fill his uncle's place, was very busy sweeping down the stairs in the great temple dedicated to the god of war!

Four years after becoming emperor, Montezuma, to appease the gods, made a sacrifice of a young gentleman captive by transfixing him with arrows. This, you see, was in the year "one rabbit." It is recorded that in this year the rats overran the country so completely that the inhabitants had to stand guard at night with blazing torches to prevent their devouring the grain sown in the fields.

With the last picture, I take pleasure in introducing to you Master M. in his new position as Emperor of Mexico, seated in the royal halls.

For further particulars, read "The Conquest of Mexico," by Prescott.

A LONG JOURNEY.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

"We sail to-day," said the captain gay,
As he stepped on board the boat that lay
So high and dry, "Come now, be spry;
We'll land, at Jerusalem by and by!"

Away they sailed, and each craft they hailed;
While down in the cabin they bailed and bailed;
For the sea was rough, and they had to luff
And tack, till the captain cried out "Enough!"

They stopped at Peru, this jolly crew,
And went to Paris and Timbuctoo;
And after a while they found the Nile,
And watched the sports of the crocodile.

They called on the Shah, and the mighty Czar,
And on all the crowned heads near and far;
Shook hands with the Cid--they really did!
And lunched on top of the pyramid!

To Afric's strand, or northern land,
They steer as the captain gives command;
And fly so fast that the slender mast
Goes quivering, shivering in the blast!

Then on to the ground with a sudden bound,
Leaps Jack--'t was a mercy he wasn't drowned!
The sail is furled, the anchor hurled,
"We've been," cry the children, "all round the world!"

By billows tossed, by tempests crossed,
Yet never a soul on board was lost!
Though the boat be a sieve, I do not grieve,
They sail on the ocean of "Make-believe."

THE LITTLE RED CANAL-BOAT.

BY M.A. EDWARDS.

The morning sun had not mounted high enough in the sky to send his rays into Greta's room, when she was awakened by a noise. She listened. It was the sound of a boat grating against the side of the canal. Who could be coming to their back door so early? She sprang out of bed, and ran quickly to the open window. A disappointment awaited her. It was only her father's boat, which the maid-servant Charlotte was pushing along, slowly making her way to the landing-stairs.

"Where have you been so early, Charlotte?" called out Greta.

"Are you there, youngsters?" said Charlotte, looking up at the two bright faces at the window; for the little Amelia had been roused by her sister's wild jump from the bed, and had also run to the window.

"Bad Charlotte, to wake us so early!" cried Amelia.

Charlotte laughed. "You wouldn't think me bad, Minchen, if you knew all the good things I've been buying at market. Have you forgotten your cousins are coming to-day, all the way from over the sea? I'm sure they'll be hungry enough."

"What you got?" asked Amelia (usually called Minchen).

"Fine Beemster cheese, sweet butter, fresh salad, and plenty of fruit. And there are lots of good things at the bottom of the basket. I'll leave you to find out what they are." And Charlotte made the boat fast, and carried the heavy basket into the house.

It was not necessary for Charlotte to remind these little girls of the cousins who lived in the city of New York, in the far-off land of America. For the last month little else had been talked of in the Van Schaick mansion besides the expected visit of the Chester family. Mrs. Van Schaick and Mrs. Chester were sisters, and this was but the second visit the latter had paid her old Holland home since her marriage. On the first visit her children were not with her; but now Mr. Chester was coming, and the two boys. Many were the wild speculations the girls indulged in with regard to Americans,--what they would look like, and what they would say and do.

Great, then, was their surprise, when the travelers arrived, to find that their aunt Chester was very like their mother in appearance and dress. Mr. Chester did not in the least resemble their father, but he was not unlike many other men they had seen, and he did not dress in wild-beast skins. As for the boys, Greta poured her tale of woe into the ears of the sympathizing Charlotte. "They are just like English boys!" she said, contemptuously. Greta had often seen English boys, and there was nothing uncommon about them.

This was soon forgotten, however, when Greta discovered what pleasant companions the boys were, and that they could put the Dutch words together almost as correctly as Greta herself. Will Chester, who had reached the dignified age of thirteen, had felt much troubled at the thought that he would have "only girls" to play with at Zaandam, especially as Greta was a year younger than himself. But when the two girls, instead of bringing forward their dolls and tea-sets with which to entertain their visitors, produced from their treasures two good-sized toy canal-boats, fully equipped with everything a canal-boat needed, he admitted to himself that girls who liked to sail boats might be good for something.

Secretly, however, he thought that a canal-boat was a poor kind of vessel to have, and wished his cousins owned such beautiful ships as he and Martin had; for among the last things bought before leaving New York were two little sailing-vessels--the "America" and the "Columbus." Mr. Chester said Holland was full of water, and these were proper toys to take there.

The two canal-boats, being precisely alike, were distinguished from each other only by their names. Greta's had "Wilhelmina" painted on the side in black letters, while Minchen's had "Gouda" in red letters. They were similar to American canal-boats in shape, and of a dark red-brown color. Will thought them stumpy and heavy-looking; and he did not admire the red sails with crooked gaffs, and smiled at the blue pennants, stretched out on stiff frames that turned with the wind. But when Greta showed him a tiny windlass on the deck, by means of which she easily raised and lowered the mast, he came to the conclusion that a Dutch canal-boat was not to be despised.

"I do this when we pass under bridges," she explained.

"Where are your mules for drawing your boat?"

"My boat sails!" she said, proudly. "If there is no wind, I drag it along myself. That is the way we do in our country."

The American vessels were now unpacked and displayed. When the girls saw these sharp-prowed, graceful ships, with their tapering masts and pretty sails, their eyes glistened, and they declared that never before had they seen anything so lovely. Their, pride in their canal-boats suffered a woful downfall. The boys proposed to try all the vessels on the canal at the back of the house, but Greta objected.

"Mother never lets us go there to sail our boats," she said. "It is a dirty place, and she is afraid we will fall in. But there is a beautiful stream by the mill where we are going to-morrow, and there we can try our boats, and see which goes the fastest."

"Let us take a walk, then," said Martin. "I want to look at this queer place."

The Van Shaicks lived in Zaandam, and it is indeed a queer place to American eyes. It is a large town, with but two streets, one on each side of the Zaan River; but these two extend for a long distance, and are crossed at frequent intervals by canals, so that Martin soon got tired counting the little bridges the children passed over in their walk. Will was not quite sure whether the brick-paved street was all road-way or all sidewalk.

"I don't see any carriages," he said, after studying this matter for some time.

"People don't ride much here," said Greta. "There are plenty of carriages in Amsterdam."

"How do you get about, then?"

"On our feet and in boats. Look at our fine river, and there are ever so many canals! What do we want with carriages?"

"It must be jolly going everywhere in boats," said Will. "I should like that!"