{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_23751/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_23751","id":"gutenberg_23751","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23751","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Children's Anthologies","Southern States -- Juvenile fiction","Southern States -- Juvenile literature"],"text":"Produced by Mark C. Orton, Janet Blenkinship, Linda McKeown\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSOUTHERN STORIES\n\n\nRETOLD FROM ST. NICHOLAS\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nNEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1907\n\nCopyright, 1889, 1890, 1891, 1892, 1894, 1898, 1900, 1902, 1903, 1907,\nby THE CENTURY CO.\n\nTHE DE VINNE PRESS\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Illustration: A REAL UNCLE REMUS STORY.]\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n                                                                    PAGE\n\n  A REAL UNCLE REMUS STORY                                 _Frontispiece_\n\n  HIS HERO   _Margaret Minor_                                          3\n\n  JERICHO BOB    _Anna Eichberg King_                                 18\n\n  HOW WE BOUGHT LOUISIANA   _Helen Lockwood Coffin_                   28\n\n  THE CITY THAT LIVES OUTDOORS   _W. S. Harwood_                      34\n\n  QUEER AMERICAN RIVERS   _F. H. Spearman_                            52\n\n  THE WATERMELON STOCKINGS   _Alice Caldwell Hegan_                   65\n\n  THE \"'GATOR\"   _Clarence B. Moore_                                  80\n\n  THE EARTHQUAKE AT CHARLESTON   _Ewing Gibson_                       96\n\n  HIDING PLACES IN WAR TIMES   _J. H. Gore_                          102\n\n  ST. AUGUSTINE   _Frank R. Stockton_                                108\n\n  CATCHING TERRAPIN   _Alfred Kappes_                                126\n\n  \"LOCOED\"   _Edward Marshall_                                       130\n\n  A DIVIDED DUTY   _M. A. Cassidy_                                   165\n\n  THE \"WALKING-BEAM BOY\"   _L. E. Stofiel_                           178\n\n  THE CREATURE WITH NO CLAWS   _Joel Chandler Harris_                185\n\n\n\n\nSOUTHERN STORIES\n\n\n\n\nSOUTH\n\n\n  Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;\n  Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens\n  Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.\n\n                                                     _Longfellow._\n\n\n\n\nHIS HERO\n\nBY MARGARET MINOR\n\n\nIt was an October afternoon, and through Indian summer's tulle-like haze\na low-swinging sun sent shafts of scarlet light at the highest peaks of\nthe Blue Ridge. The sweet-gum leaves looked like blood-colored stars as\nthey floated slowly to the ground, and brown chestnuts gleamed\nsatin-like through their gaping burs; while over all there rested a\ndense stillness, cut now and then by the sharp yelp of a dog as he\nscurried through the bushes after a rabbit.\n\nSurrounded by this splendid autumn beauty stood Mountain Top Inn, near\nthe crest of the Blue Ridge in Rockfish Gap, its historical value dating\nfrom the time when Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe, after a long and\nspirited discussion in one of its low-ceiled rooms, decided upon the\nlocation of the University of Virginia.\n\nOn the porch of this old inn there now sat a little boy, idly swinging a\npair of sun-tanned legs. Occasionally he tickled an old liver-colored\nhound that lay dozing in a limp heap; but being rewarded only by\ntoothless snaps at very long intervals, he finally grew tired of this\namusement, and stretching himself out on his back, he began to dream\nwith wide-open eyes. At these dream-times, when he let his thoughts\nloose, they always bore him to the very same field, and here his fancy\npainted pictures with the vivid colors of a boy's imagination: pictures\nso strong that they left him flushed and tingling with pride; again,\npictures that brought a cool, choking feeling to his throat; and at\ntimes pictures that made his childish mouth quiver and droop. Among all\nof these thought-born scenes, at intervals there would stand out the\nreal ones, scenes that were etched on the clean walls of his memory in\neverlasting strokes.\n\nHe never tired thinking of that first morning--that morning when all the\nworld seemed gilded with sunshine and throbbing with martial music. His\ngrandfather had lifted him up on one of the \"big gate\" posts to see the\nsoldiers march by. With mingled feelings of admiration and childish envy\nhe had watched them drill for many weeks, but they had never seemed such\nreal, grand soldiers until now, as they came marching by with quick,\nfirm steps, keeping time to the clear, staccato notes, marching off to\nreal battle-fields. It was all so beautiful, splendid, and gay--the\nmusic, the soldiers, the people, the hurrahing! It stirred his sentient\nlittle body through and through with a kind of joy, and he thought it so\nstrange that his mother's eyes were full of tears.\n\nJust a few days later he had listened eagerly to the sharp, crackling\nsound of guns and the rumbling thunder of cannon, so near that the air\nseemed to vibrate. He and another little boy had stood and talked in\nhigh, quick tones, bragging and predicting breathlessly the result of\nthe battle as they used the term \"our men.\"\n\nFinally they climbed the tallest oak on the lawn, and strained their\nyoung eyes to see which was \"gettin' whipped.\"\n\nA little while after this he remembered following his father through the\nlong hospital ward. Over the first bed he saw him stoop and loosen the\nwhite cotton bandages of a wounded man. On the next narrow cot there\nwas a slender boy of fifteen, who lay with clenched hands watching the\nwork of the surgeon. Then they passed a woman, who was gently bathing\nthe forehead of a man whose soldier days seemed likely to come to an\nearly end.\n\nSome weeks had gone by, when one day he followed a party of men to\nMarye's Heights. It was a short time after the battle of Fredericksburg.\nA light snow had fallen the night before, which the wind whirled and\nsifted about the dead, in a way that made them appear to be shuddering.\nOnce a sharp gust blew the snow off a body lying on its face, and the\nboy's eyes filled. He scarcely heeded the talk of the men with whom he\nhad gone. His thoughts were held fast by the awful scene which lay\nspread before his young eyes.\n\nHow often since then had the boy pictured himself a grown man, seated on\njust such a fine horse and following Lee! It was always Lee; in his\ndreamland through the heart of the battle he always followed General\nRobert E. Lee, his hero, whom he had never seen, but whom he had carried\nhalo-crowned in his heart ever since he could remember.\n\nAnd then the very saddest day in his life had come--the day when the\nfirst news of Lee's surrender lay heavy on the hearts of the household.\nFor a while he had followed his mother as she went silently, with closed\nwhite lips, from one duty to another. Finally he went out to seek\ncomfort from Uncle Jake, whom he found sitting with his back propped\nagainst the side of the corn-crib, drawing little quick puffs of smoke\nfrom his pipe.\n\n\"Uncle Jake,\" he said, \"Lee's just _had_ to s'render.\"\n\n\"Yes, honey.\" And as he looked into Uncle Jake's little red, watery\neyes, he saw no comfort there, and turned away.\n\nSeven months had gone by since the war had ended; still, on this October\nafternoon, as the boy lay stretched out on the porch of the old inn, he\ndreamed his boyish dreams of romance and heroism.\n\nSuddenly his attention was attracted by the sound of hoofs, and turning\nhis head he saw a man riding slowly down the road. A new arrival at the\ninn was always most interesting. An eager light came into the boy's eyes\nas he watched the rider, who was now near enough for him to see how\nfirmly he sat in his saddle. The man seemed a very part of the strongly\nbuilt horse, which carried him with an ease that indicated long habit.\n\nA wiry little negro had also seen the approaching horseman, and was now\nhurrying across the lawn to meet him.\n\n\"May I spend the night here, my man?\" asked the stranger.\n\n\"Yessuh--yessuh!\" answered Uncle Jake, quickly, and opening the gate he\nstepped out and caught the bridle near the bit, as the horseman swung\nout of the creaking saddle to the ground.\n\n\"Uncle Jake, take the horse around to the stable!\" called out the boy,\nwho felt that the honors of hospitality rested on him, there being no\none else in sight. Then he ran briskly down the walk to meet the\nstranger, who extended his fine, strong hand with a little smile, and\nsaid very kindly:\n\n\"How do you do, sir?\"\n\n\"I'm well,\" replied the boy.\n\n\"And what is your name?\"\n\n\"Jimmy.\"\n\n\"Jimmy? Well, Jimmy is a nice name,\" he said. Then he turned, and still\nheld the boy's hand as he watched the little old negro, who stood with\nhis head under the saddle-skirt, tiptoeing and straining in his effort\nto unfasten the girth. Finally, when he succeeded, he flung the saddle\non the ground, and the horse, feeling relieved of his burden, first\nshook himself violently, and then expressed his comfort again and again\nin deep chest-tones.\n\nDuring all this time Jimmy's eyes had been fastened on the stranger's\nspurs, and a peculiar feeling of incredulity gradually filled his mind.\n\nSilver, indeed! He could not fool him! No one was rich enough to have\nreal silver spurs! So sternly did he resent what he thought to be an\nattempt at deception that he drew his small brown hand slowly out of the\nstranger's gentle clasp.\n\nAfter slipping off the bridle from the horse's head and dropping it by\nthe saddle, Uncle Jake led him away by his forelock to the stable, and\nJimmy walked toward the inn with his guest, who said as they reached the\nsteps:\n\n\"Jimmy, we will sit here for a while, and then I will go over to the\nstable and see about my horse.\"\n\nAs they sat down the old hound came cautiously down the steps, wheezing\nout a husky greeting.\n\n\"She is too old to hurt any one,\" said Jimmy.\n\n\"Is she yours?\"\n\n\"No, sir. Tip's mine. Listen!\" he exclaimed, as the sharp yelp of a dog\nagain broke the stillness. \"That's Tip! He goes off and runs rabbits all\nby himself.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he is after a fox.\"\n\n\"No, sir; Tip won't run a fox.\"\n\n\"Jimmy, can you tell from a dog's cry whether he is running a fox or a\nrabbit?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, if he is trailing a rabbit he does not bark continually, but if\nhe is after a fox he does; so you can always tell if you listen\ncarefully.\"\n\n\"Never heard about that before,\" replied Jimmy, with a smile.\n\nAfter this there followed a long pause, during which the stranger looked\nabout inquiringly, then said:\n\n\"Jimmy, how long have you been living here?\"\n\n\"Not very long. We refugeed over in North Carolina the first part of the\nwar. Then we came back to Spottsylvania County while father was in\nprison. Why, we just came here after the s'render. You remember when Lee\njust had to s'render?\" he asked, looking up into the stranger's face.\n\n[Illustration: \"'YOU REMEMBER WHEN LEE JUST HAD TO S'RENDER?' ASKED\nJIMMY.\"]\n\nThe boy's mouth, as usual, quivered as he uttered the word \"s'render,\"\nbut the man did not appear to see this. He seemed to be looking at a\nfar-off mountain peak. After a pause he replied, \"Yes, I remember,\" as\nhe arose and started toward the stable.\n\n\"I'll show you the way,\" said Jimmy.\n\n\"Thank you, sir,\" he answered gravely.\n\nWhen they entered the stable the big gray horse greeted his master with\nsome soft little nickerings. \"Oh, he knows you without even looking!\"\nexclaimed Jimmy, in tones expressing delight and surprise.\n\n\"Yes, he knows me pretty well,\" the man replied, as he looked with\nanxious sympathy at a saddle-galled place on the horse's back.\n\nJimmy had climbed up on the side of the stall, and was also looking with\nmuch interest. Suddenly he exclaimed: \"I know what's good for that! Some\nstuff down in the bottom of the chalybeate spring.\"\n\nHe pronounced each syllable of the word \"chalybeate\" very clearly, for\nit was a newly learned word, and he was proud of his ability to use it.\n\n\"Why, yes; the iron in it ought to be healing. How far is the spring?\"\n\n\"Oh, just a little way; I'll show you,\" Jimmy replied, jumping to the\nground and quickly opening the stable door. \"Let me lead him,\" he added.\n\n\"Hadn't you rather ride him, Jimmy?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" he replied, in rather shy but pleased tones.\n\n\"All right,\" said the man, as he swung the little fellow up on the\nhorse. \"There! Sit farther back, so you will not hurt that galled place.\nNow I'll lead him, and you tell me in which direction to go.\"\n\n\"Down the road there, just on the other side of the ice-pond,\" said\nJimmy, pointing in that direction as they moved off.\n\nThe boy was happy as he cupped his bare legs close around the body of\nthe horse, and watched the square shoulders of the man who walked slowly\nahead. He thought him exceedingly nice and kind, and his feelings in\nregard to the spurs were not nearly so intense. The desire to ask if\nthey were real silver, though, was strong, but he felt that perhaps it\nwould not be polite, so he said nothing.\n\nAfter they had gone some distance Jimmy exclaimed, \"There's the spring!\"\nThen he slid quickly to the ground, and without other words knelt down\nand, baring one arm, dipped out of the bottom of the spring a handful of\nrust-colored flakes.\n\n\"This is what you put on his back,\" he said. \"Just lay it right on. It\ndoesn't hurt; it just feels cool.\"\n\nThe directions were quietly obeyed, and the horse made no movement, save\na slight quiver of the skin, as if to shake off a fly.\n\n\"Uncle Jake says that doctors can't make any finer medicine than this,\"\nhe said, as he scooped up another handful.\n\n\"Well, Jimmy, I am very much obliged to you, and I'm sure that my horse\nis also,\" said the stranger, as they started on back to the stable.\n\nIn the meantime the saddle left by Uncle Jake near the horse-rack had\nattracted the attention of a young man as he came through the front\ngate. After looking at it for a few minutes, idle curiosity prompted him\nto turn it over with his foot, and as he did so three bright brass\nletters--\"R. E. L.\"--greeted him. He looked sharply at them at first,\nthen his eyes dilated, and a little prickly thrill ran through him. \"I\nwonder if it can be!\" he said. Suddenly some convincing feeling seemed\nto fill his mind, and then he almost ran to the house. On reaching the\nsteps, he sprang up them two at a time, and entered the hall, where he\nmet Mrs. Claverly.\n\n\"Mrs. Claverly--\" he began, and stopped.\n\n\"Well?\" she asked, smiling at his hesitation. \"What is it, Charley?\"\n\n\"Ah, do you know, Mrs. Claverly, I think that General Lee is here.\" His\nvoice was husky with excitement.\n\n\"General Lee! Where?\" But without waiting for a reply, she stepped\nquickly to the door of the old-fashioned parlor, and exclaimed in soft,\nsuppressed tones to a group of women sitting there:\n\n\"They think that General Lee is here!\"\n\n\"What makes them think so?\" asked a thin, gray-haired woman, as she\nhastily arose.\n\n\"Why,\" replied the young man, his tones now quite positive, \"his saddle\nwith 'R. E. L.' on it is out there by the gate.\"\n\n\"There he comes now,\" said one of the group, eagerly; \"at least, I\nsuppose that it is he.\"\n\n\"Let me see,\" said Mrs. Claverly, going rapidly to the window. \"I saw\nhim once at the Greenbrier White, and I am sure that I would know him.\nYes, it is he!\" she exclaimed, as she looked at the man coming slowly\nacross the lawn, talking earnestly to the barefoot boy at his side. His\nthoughts were so completely occupied by what he was saying that not\nuntil he was quite near the inn did he see the group on the porch, and\nhis face flushed slightly as he realized that they were there to greet\nhim. Lifting his hat, he ascended the steps with bared head. Mrs.\nClaverly walked quickly forward, and extended her slim white hand.\n\n\"General Lee, I believe.\"\n\n\"Yes, madam,\" he replied gravely, as he bowed low over her hand.\n\nAt the sound of Lee's name Jimmy's eyes grew round, and filled with\nastonishment. For one brief moment he stood gazing up at the stately old\nsoldier, whom every one was greeting, then he backed slowly away until\nhe reached the door. There he stood another moment, seeing nothing but\nhis hero.\n\nSuddenly he turned and darted down the long hall, up the stairway, and\ninto his mother's room.\n\n\"Mother!\" he exclaimed in breathless wonderment, \"mother! General Lee is\ndownstairs, and he is just splendid, and--er--mother, he's just exactly\nlike anybody else!\"[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: This story is based upon the personal experience of one who\nrelated it to the author.]\n\n\n\n\nJERICHO BOB\n\nBY ANNA EICHBERG KING\n\n\nJericho Bob, when he was four years old, hoped that one day he might be\nallowed to eat just as much turkey as he possibly could. He was eight\nnow, but that hope had not been realized.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMrs. Jericho Bob, his mother, kept hens for a living, and she expected\nthat they would lay enough eggs in the course of time to help her son to\nan independent career as a bootblack.\n\nThey lived in a tumble-down house in a waste of land near the steam\ncars, and besides her hens Mrs. Bob owned a goat.\n\nOur story has, however, nothing to do with the goat except to say he was\nthere, and that he was on nibbling terms, not only with Jericho Bob,\nbut with Bob's bosom friend, Julius Caesar Fish, and it was surprising\nhow many old hat-brims and other tidbits of clothing he could swallow\nduring a day.\n\nAs Mrs. Bob truly said, it was no earthly use to get something new for\nJericho, even if she could afford it; for the goat browsed all over him,\nand had been known to carry away even a leg of his trousers.\n\nJericho Bob was eight years old, and the friend of his bosom, Julius\nCaesar Fish, was nine. They were both of a lovely black; a tallow-dip\ncouldn't take the kink out of their hair, and the hardest whipping did\nnot disturb the even cheerfulness of their spirits. They were so much\nalike that if it hadn't been for Jericho's bow-legs and his turn-up\nnose, you really could not have told them apart.\n\nA kindred taste for turkey also united them.\n\nIn honor of Thanksgiving day Mrs. Bob always sacrificed a hen which\nwould, but for such blessed release, have died of old age. One drumstick\nwas given to Jericho, whose interior remained an unsatisfied void.\n\nJericho Bob had heard of turkey as a fowl larger, sweeter, and more\ntender than hen; and about Thanksgiving time he would linger around the\nprovision stores and gaze with open mouth at the noble array of turkeys\nhanging, head downward, over bushels of cranberries, as if even at that\nuncooked stage, they were destined for one another. And turkey was his\ndream.\n\nIt was spring-time, and the hens were being a credit to themselves. The\ngoat in the yard, tied to a stake, was varying a meal of old shoe and\ntomato-can by a nibble of fresh green grass. Mrs. Bob was laid up with\nrheumatism.\n\n\"Jericho Bob!\" she said to her son, shaking her red and yellow turban at\nhim, \"Jericho Bob, you go down an' fetch de eggs to-day. Ef I find yer\ndon't bring me twenty-three, I'll--well, never mind what I'll do, but\nyer won't like it.\"\n\nNow, Jericho Bob meant to be honest, but the fact was he found\ntwenty-four, and the twenty-fourth was so big, so remarkably big.\n\nTwenty-three eggs he brought to Mrs. Bob, but the twenty-fourth he\nsinfully left in charge of the discreet hen.\n\nOn his return he met Julius Caesar Fish, with his hands in his pockets\nand his head extinguished by his grandfather's fur cap.\n\nTogether they went toward the hen-coop and Julius Caesar Fish spoke, or\nrather lisped (he had lost some of his front teeth):\n\n\"Jericho Bobth, that 'th a turkey'th egg.\"\n\n\"Yer don't say so?\"\n\n\"I think i'th a-goin' ter hatch.\" No sooner said than they heard a pick\nand a peck in the shell.\n\n\"Pick!\" a tiny beak broke through the shell. \"Peck!\" more beak. \"Crack!\"\na funny little head, a long, bare neck, and then \"Pick! Peck! Crack!\"\nbefore them stood the funniest, fluffiest brown ball resting on two weak\nlittle legs.\n\n\"Hooray!\" shouted the woolly heads.\n\n\"Peep!\" said turkeykin.\n\n\"It's mine!\" Jericho shouted excitedly.\n\n\"I'th Marm Pitkin'th turkey'th; she laid it there.\"\n\n\"It's mine, and I'm going to keep it, and next Thanksgiving I'm going\nter eat him.\"\n\n\"Think your ma'll let you feed him up for thath?\" Julius Caesar asked,\ntriumphantly.\n\nJericho Bob's next Thanksgiving dinner seemed destined to be a dream.\nHis face fell.\n\n\"I'll tell yer whath I'll do,\" his friend said, benevolently; \"I'll keep\n'm for you, and Thanksgivin' we'll go halvth.\"\n\n[Illustration: JERICHO BOB AND JULIUS CAESAR FISH PLANNING THEIR\nTHANKSGIVING DINNER.]\n\nJericho resigned himself to the inevitable, and the infant turkey was\nborne home by his friend.\n\nFish, Jr., lived next door, and the only difference in the premises was\na freight-car permanently switched off before the broken-down fence of\nthe Fish yard; and in this car turkeykin took up his abode.\n\nI will not tell you how he grew and more than realized the hopes of his\nfoster-fathers, nor with what impatience and anticipation they saw\nspring, summer, and autumn pass, while they watched their Thanksgiving\ndinner stalk proudly up the bare yard, and even hop across the railroad\ntracks.\n\nBut, alas! the possession of the turkey brought with it strife and\ndiscord.\n\nQuarrels arose between the friends as to the prospective disposal of his\nremains. We grieve to say that the question of who was to cook him led\nto blows.\n\nIt was the day before Thanksgiving. There was a coldness between the\nfriends which was not dispelled by the bringing of a pint of cranberries\nto the common store by Jericho, and the contributing thereto of a couple\nof cold boiled sweet potatoes by Julius Caesar Fish.\n\nThe friends sat on an ancient wash-tub in the back yard, and there was a\nmomentary truce between them. Before them stood the freight-car, and\nalong the track beyond an occasional train tore down the road, which so\nfar excited their mutual sympathy that they rose and shouted as one man.\n\nAt the open door of the freight-car stood the unsuspecting turkey, and\nlooked meditatively out on the landscape and at the two figures on the\nwash-tub.\n\nOne had bow-legs, a turn-up nose, and a huge straw hat. The other wore a\nfur cap and a gentleman's swallow-tail coat, with the tails caught up\nbecause they were too long.\n\nThe turkey hopped out of the car and gazed confidingly at his\nprotectors. In point of size he was altogether their superior.\n\n\"I think,\" said Jericho Bob, \"we'd better ketch 'im; to-morrow's\nThanksgiving. Yum!\"\n\nAnd he looked with great joy at the innocent, the unsuspecting fowl.\n\n\"Butcher Tham 'th goin' ter kill 'im for uth,\" Julius Caesar hastened to\nsay, \"an' I kin cook 'im.\"\n\n\"No, you ain't. I'm goin' to cook 'im,\" Jericho Bob cried, resentfully.\n\"He's mine.\"\n\n\"He ain'th; he'th mine.\"\n\n\"He was my egg,\" and Jericho Bob danced defiance at his friend.\n\nThe turkey looked on with some surprise, and he became alarmed when he\nsaw his foster-fathers clasped in an embrace more of anger than of love.\n\n\"I'll eat 'im all alone!\" Jericho Bob cried.\n\n\"No, yer sha'n't!\" the other shouted.\n\nThe turkey fled in a circle about the yard.\n\n\"Now, look yere,\" said Julius Caesar, who had conquered. \"We're goin' to\nbe squar'. He wath your egg, but who brought 'im up? Me! Who'th got a\nfriend to kill 'im? Me! Who'th got a fire to cook 'im? Me! Now you git\nup and we'll kitch 'im. Ef you thay another word about your egg I'll\njeth eat 'im up all mythelf.\"\n\nJericho Bob was conquered. With mutual understanding they approached the\nturkey.\n\n\"Come yere; come yere,\" Julius Caesar said, coaxingly.\n\nFor a moment the bird gazed at both, uncertain what to do.\n\n\"Come yere,\" Julius Caesar repeated, and made a dive for him. The turkey\nspread his tail. Oh, didn't he run!\n\n\"Now I've got yer!\" the wicked Jericho Bob cried, and thought he had\ncaptured the fowl; when with a shriek from Jericho Bob, as the turkey\nknocked him over, the Thanksgiving dinner spread his wings, rose in the\nair, and alighted on the roof of the freight-car.\n\nThe turkey looked down over the edge of the car at his enemies, and they\ngazed up at him. Both parties surveyed the situation.\n\n\"We've got him,\" Julius Caesar cried at last, exultantly. \"You git on the\nroof, and ef you don't kitch 'im up thar, I'll kitch 'im down yere.\"\n\nWith the help of the wash-tub, an old chair, Julius Caesar's back, and\nmuch scrambling, Jericho Bob was hoisted on top of the car. The turkey\nwas stalking solemnly up and down the roof with tail and wings half\nspread.\n\n\"I've got yer now,\" Jericho Bob said, creeping softly after him. \"I've\ngot yer now, sure,\" he was just repeating, when with a deafening roar\nthe express-train came tearing down the road.\n\nFor what possible reason it slowed up on approaching the freight-car\nnobody ever knew; but the fact remains that it did, just as Jericho Bob\nlaid his wicked black paw on the turkey's tail.\n\nThe turkey shrieked, spread his wings, shook the small black boy's\ngrasp from his tail, and with a mighty swoop alighted on the roof of the\nvery last car as it passed; and in a moment more Jericho Bob's\nThanksgiving dinner had vanished, like a beautiful dream, down the road!\n\nWhat became of that Thanksgiving dinner no one ever knew. If you happen\nto meet a traveling turkey without any luggage, but with a smile on his\ncountenance, please send word to Jericho Bob.\n\nEvery evening he and Julius Caesar Fish stand by the broken-down fence\nand look up and down the road, as if they expected some one.\n\nJericho Bob has a turn-up nose and bow-legs. Julius Caesar still wears\nhis dress-coat, and both are watching for a Thanksgiving dinner that ran\naway.\n\n\n\n\nHOW WE BOUGHT LOUISIANA\n\nBY HELEN LOCKWOOD COFFIN\n\n\nIt is a hard matter to tell just how much power a little thing has,\nbecause little things have the habit of growing. That was the trouble\nthat France and England and Spain and all the other big nations had with\nAmerica at first. The thirteen colonies occupied so small and\nunimportant a strip of land that few people thought they would ever\namount to much. How could such insignificance ever bother old England,\nfor instance, big and powerful as she was? To England's great loss she\nsoon learned her error in underestimating the importance or strength of\nher colonies.\n\nFrance watched the giant and the pygmy fighting together, and learned\nseveral lessons while she was watching. For one thing, she found out\nthat the little American colonies were going to grow, and so she said to\nherself: \"I will be a sort of back-stop to them. These Americans are\ngoing to be foolish over this bit of success, and think that just\nbecause they have won the Revolution they can do anything they wish to\ndo. They'll think they can spread out all over this country and grow to\nbe as big as England herself; and of course anybody can see that that is\nimpossible. I'll just put up a net along the Mississippi River, and\nprevent them crossing over it. That will be the only way to keep them\nwithin bounds.\"\n\nAnd so France held the Mississippi, and from there back to the Rocky\nMountains, and whenever the United States citizen desired to go west of\nthe Mississippi, France said: \"No, dear child. Stay within your own yard\nand play, like a good little boy,\" or something to that effect.\n\nNow the United States citizen didn't like this at all; he had pushed his\nway with much trouble and expense and hard work through bands of Indians\nand through forests and over rivers and mountains, into Wisconsin and\nIllinois, and he wished to go farther. And, besides, he wanted to have\nthe right to sail up and down the Mississippi, and so save himself the\ntrouble of walking over the land and cutting out his own roads as he\nwent. So when France said, \"No, dear,\" and told him to \"be a good\nlittle boy and not tease,\" the United States citizen very naturally\nrebelled.\n\nMr. Jefferson was President of the United States at that time, and he\nwas a man who hated war of any description. He certainly did not wish to\nfight with his own countrymen, and he as certainly did not wish to fight\nwith any other nation, so he searched around for some sort of a\ncompromise. He thought that if America could own even one port on this\nuseful river and had the right of Mississippi navigation, the matter\nwould be settled with satisfaction to all parties. So he sent James\nMonroe over to Paris to join our minister, Mr. Livingston, and see if\nthe two of them together could not persuade France to sell them the\nisland of New Orleans, on which was the city of the same name.\n\nNow Napoleon was the ruler of France, and he was dreaming dreams and\nseeing visions in which France was the most important power in America,\nbecause she owned this wonderful Mississippi River and all this\n\"Louisiana\" which stretched back from the river to the Rockies. He\nalready held forts along the river, and he was planning to strengthen\nthese and build some new ones. But you know what happens to the plans of\nmice and men sometimes. Napoleon was depending upon his army to help\nhim out on these plans, but his armies in San Domingo were swept away by\nwar and sickness, so that on the day he had set for them to move up into\nLouisiana not a man was able to go. At the same time Napoleon had on\nhand another scheme against England, which was even more important than\nhis plans for America, and which demanded men and money. Besides this,\nhe was shrewd enough to know that he could not hold this far-away\nterritory for any long time against England, which had so many more\nships than France. He suddenly changed his mind about his American\npossessions, and nearly sent Mr. Monroe and Mr. Livingston into a state\nof collapse by offering to sell them not only New Orleans but also the\nwhole Province of Louisiana.\n\n[Illustration: MAP OF THE\n\nUNITED STATES\n\nSHOWING\n\nTHE LOUISIANA PURCHASE\n\nAND OTHER\n\nACCESSIONS OF TERRITORY.]\n\nThere was no time to write to President Jefferson and ask his advice,\nand this was before the days of the cable; so Monroe and Livingston took\nthe matter into their own hands, and signed the contract which\ntransferred the Louisiana territory to the United States for a\nconsideration of $15,000,000. They were severely criticized by many of\ntheir own countrymen, and they had some doubts of their own about the\nwisdom of their action. You see, nobody knew then that corn and wheat\nwould grow so abundantly in this territory, or that beyond the\nMississippi there were such stretches of glorious pasture-lands, or that\nunderneath its mountainous regions were such mines of gold, silver, and\ncopper. Americans saw only the commercial possibilities of the river,\nand all they wanted was the right of navigating it and the permission to\nexplore the unknown country to the westward.\n\nBut Jefferson and Monroe and Livingston builded better than they knew.\nAll this happened a hundred years ago; and to-day that old Louisiana\nterritory is, in natural resources, the wealthiest part of the whole\nUnited States. Without that territory in our possession we should have\nno Colorado and no Wyoming, no Dakotas, or Nebraska, or Minnesota, or\nMontana, or Missouri, or Iowa, or Kansas, or Arkansas, or Louisiana, or\nOklahoma, or Indian Territory.\n\nFor all these reasons we owe our most sincere and hearty thanks to the\npatriotic and far-sighted men who were concerned in buying this\nterritory for the United States.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CITY THAT LIVES OUTDOORS\n\nBY W. S. HARWOOD\n\n\nWhen the wind is howling through the days of the mad March far up in the\nlands where snow and ice thick cover the earth, here in this city that\nlives outdoors the roses are clambering over the \"galleries\" and the\nwistaria is drooping in purplish splendor from the low branches of the\ntrees and from the red heights of brick walls.\n\nThe yellow jonquils, too, are swelling, and the geraniums are throwing\nout their scarlet flame across wide stretches of greensward, while the\nviolets are nodding at the feet of the gigantic magnolias, whose huge\nyellowish-gray buds will soon burst into white beauty, crowning this\nnoblest of flower-bearing trees.\n\nIt is a strange old city, this city that lives outdoors--a city rich in\nromantic history, throbbing with tragedy and fascinating events, a\nbeautiful old city, with a child by its side as beautiful as the mother.\nThe child is the newer, more modern city, and the child, like the\nparent, lives out of doors.\n\nThe people seem to come into closer touch with nature than the people of\nmost other portions of the land. The climate, the constant invitation of\nthe earth and sky, seem to demand a life lived in the open. This city\nthat lives outdoors is a real city, with all a city's varied life; but\nit is a country place as well--a city set in the country, or the country\nmoved into town.\n\nFor at least nine months in the twelve, the people of this rare old town\nlive out of doors nearly all the waking hours of the twenty-four. For\nthe remaining three months of the year, December, January, and February,\nthey delude themselves into the notion that they are having a winter,\nwhen they gather around a winter-time hearth and listen to imaginary\nwind-roarings in the chimney, and see through the panes fictitious and\nspectral snow-storms, and dream that they are housed so snug and warm.\nBut when the day comes the sun is shining and there is no trace of white\non the ground, and the grass is green and there are industrious buds\nbreaking out of cover, and the earth is sleeping very lightly.\nOpen-eyed, the youngsters sit by these December firesides and listen to\ntheir elders tell of the snow-storms in the long ago that came so very,\nvery deep--ah, yes, so deep that the darkies were full of fear and would\nnot stir from their cabins to do the work of the white people; when\nsnowballs were flying in the streets, and the earth was white, and the\n\"banquettes,\" or sidewalks, were ankle-deep in slush.\n\nAll the long years of the two centuries since this old city was born, a\nmighty river has been flowing by its doors, never so far forgetting its\npurpose to live outdoors as to freeze its yellow crest, stealing softly\npast by night and by day, bearing along the city's front a vast commerce\non down to the blue waters of the Gulf, and enriching the city by its\ncargoes from the outer world and from the plantations of the upper\nriver. Strangely enough, the great yellow river flows above the city,\nits surface being nearly thirty feet above the streets in time of flood.\nIt is held in its course by vast banks of earth.\n\n[Illustration: THE SPANISH DAGGER IN BLOOM.]\n\nIt is a cold, drear March where the north star shines high overhead; but\nhere, where it seems suddenly to have lost its balance and to have\ndropped low in the brilliant night, March is like June. It is June\nindeed, June with its wealth of grasses, its noble avenue of\nmagnolias, its great green spread of live-oaks--most magnificent of\nSouthern trees; June with its soft balm, and its sweet sunshine, and its\nperfume-laden air. And if you have never seen the pole star in the sky\nof the north, where the star is almost directly over your head, you\ncannot realize how strange a sight it is to see it so low in the sky as\nit is here.\n\nThere is a large garden in this city--it is, in fact, a part of the city\nproper. It was once a beautiful faubourg, now known as the Garden\nDistrict, where the people live outdoors in a fine old aristocratic way,\nand where all the beauty in nature seen in the other sections of the\ncity seems to be outdone. Very many rare old homes are in this garden\nregion, with its deep hedges and ample grounds, inclosed in high stone\nwalls, and a wealth of flowers and noble courts and an abounding\nhospitality. But what, after all, are houses to a people that lives\noutdoors? Conveniences only; for such a people, better than houses are\nthe air of the open, the scent of the roses, the blue of the Southern\nsky, the vast, strong sweep of the brilliant stars!\n\nIf we pause here along this street where run such every-day things as\nelectric street-cars, we shall see on one side of the splendid avenue a\nsmooth-paved roadway for the carriages, on the other a course for the\nhorsemen, and in the center a noble inner avenue of trees set in a\nvelvet-like carpet of grass; and here and there along the way, almost in\ntouch of your hand from the open car window, appears the Spanish dagger,\nwith its green, sharp blades and its snowy, showy plume. Not far away\nstands a lowly negro cabin, where the sun beats down hot and fierce upon\na great straggling rose-bush, reaching up to the eaves, beating back the\nrays of the sun defiantly and gaining fresh strength in the struggle. On\nsuch a bush one day I counted two hundred and ninety roses.\n\nThis city which lives outdoors must play most in the open, and in its\nnoble park, with its vast stretches of bright green, here empurpled by\nmasses of the dainty grass-flower, there yellowing with the sheen of the\nbuttercup, one finds the tireless golf-players leisurely strolling over\nthe links; from yonder come the cries of the boys at ball; and in the\nfarther distance you may see through the frame-like branches of a\ngiant live-oak the students of a great university hard set at a\ngame of tennis. And yet--is it the air, or the race, or the\ntraditions?--something it is which makes the sportsmen, like the spring,\nseem slow to move.\n\n[Illustration: FAR IN THE PINEY WOODS.]\n\nAnd here even the palms grow outdoors in the city yards. And should you\ngo past the city's limits, and yet within seeing distance of its\nblue-tiled housetops, you will find the palms growing rank in the great\nswamps, which you must search if you care to hunt for the languid\nalligators--palms growing so thick and rank that it is quite like\nlooking into some vast conservatory, with the blue dome of the sky for\nglass. And here grow the magnolias in their wild, barbaric splendor of\nbloom, and the live-oaks, mighty of girth and spread, draped in somber\ngray moss as if for the funeral of some god of the deep green wood. At\nthe fringe of the swamp, tempting you until near to jumping into the\nmorass after them, are the huge fleurs-de-lis, each gorgeous blossom\nfully seven inches across its purple top.\n\nTo the north, somewhat apart from the reach of the treacherous river,\nlie the health-giving piny woods, and along the big, sullen stream the\nsugar plantations, some of them still the home of a lavish hospitality,\nsome of them transformed into mere places of trade, where thrift and\npush have elbowed out all that fine gallantry and ease and ample\nhospitality of an earlier day--that hospitality which will ever remain a\nleading characteristic of the people. To be a Southern man or a Southern\nwoman and to be inhospitable--that is not possible in the nature of\nthings.\n\n[Illustration: A PICTURESQUE FRONT IN THE FRENCH QUARTER.]\n\nIt is, when all is said and done, on the gallery that this city lives\nmost of its life--on the gallery even more than on the evening-thronged\nbanquette, which is the sidewalk of the North, or the boulevards, or\neven the fragrant parks, where life flows in a fair, placid stream. Some\nthere must be who toil by day in shop, or at counter, or in dim\naccounting-rooms, or on the floors of the marts where fortunes are made\nand lost in sugar or cotton or rice. For such the gallery is a haven of\nrest. If they must pass the earlier day indoors, for them the gallery\nduring the long, late afternoon, and the ghost of a twilight, and the\nlong evenings far into the starry night. The ghost of a twilight\nindeed--the South knows no other. Sometimes I have watched the long,\nsplendid twilight come down over the wild Canadian forest--slowly\ndelaying; creeping up the low mountains; halting from hour to hour in\nthe glades below; shade after shade in the glorious sky of the west\ngradually merging into the dimness of the oncoming dusk; the moments\npassing so slowly, the day fading so elusively, until, at last, when\neven the low moon has hung out its silver sign in the west and the stars\nare pricking through, it is still twilight along the lower earth. And\nstill farther to the north, around the globe in the far upper Europe,\nwith the polar circle below you, it is like living on a planet of\neternal day to sit through the northern light and feel about you the\nall-pervasive twilight of the land of the midnight sun. But the night is\nso hasty here, and the day is swift; and between them runs but a\nslender, dim thread.\n\n[Illustration: OLD PLANTATION VILLA ON ANNUNCIATION STREET.]\n\nThe gallery is a feature of every house in this city that lives\noutdoors, be it big or little, humble or grand, or lowly or mean. It is\non the first floor or the second, or even the third, though the third it\nseldom reaches, for few people care for houses of great height. Indeed,\nthere are hundreds of homes of but one story, full of the costliest\ntokens of the taste of an artistic people. And the soil below is so like\na morass that ample space must be left between floor and earth; while as\nfor cellars, I have heard of but two in all the great city. The\ngallery may run around the entire house, flanked and set off by splendid\npillars with capitals rich and ornate; it may run across one end of the\nresidence and be a marvel of rich ironwork, as fine as art and\nhandicraft can make it, with, mayhap, the figures of its field outlined\nin some bit of color, as gold or green; it may be but a single cheap\nwooden affair, paintless, dingy, dilapidated, weather-worn, and stained\nwith neglect; but a gallery it is still, an important social feature of\nthis outdoor life.\n\nOver the gallery grow the roses; out near at hand a bignonia-vine lifts\nits yellow flare aloft and throws down a fluttering shower of bell-like\nblooms, and all the air is heavy with the scents of the South. So\nthrough the long evening the people sit upon the gallery and chat or\nread or sing or doze or plan or discuss their family affairs. By day the\ngalleries are protected with gay-colored awnings or those filmy woven\nsheets of reeds which keep out the glare and let through the light and\nthe fragrant breeze. Children make of the gallery a play-house; young\npeople here entertain their friends; the elders discuss the affairs of a\nnation or dwell on that wonderful past through which this ancient\nSouthern city has come tumultuously down through the lines of Castilian\nand Saxon and Gaul.\n\n[Illustration: OLD SPANISH HOUSES.]\n\nIf you should take your map of the United States and run your finger far\ndown its surface until it rested upon the largest city in all the\nbeautiful South, and the metropolis of a vast inner empire which holds\ntwo civilizations, one French-Spanish, one American, both slowly, very\nslowly, merging through the centuries; or, better still, if you should\nstroll along the streets on a sweet March day, peering into its curious\nquarters, watching the beautiful little children and the dark-eyed men\nand the gaily dressed women and all the throngs of people, city people\nwho can never long remain away from the green fields and the noble old\ntrees and the scent of the roses--then you could not fail to hit upon\nthis charming old place, New Orleans--in many ways the most interesting\nof all the cities in America, the beautiful city that lives outdoors.\n\n\n\n\nQUEER AMERICAN RIVERS\n\nBY F. H. SPEARMAN\n\n\nI wonder if my readers realize what a story of the vast extent of our\ncountry is told by its rivers?\n\nEvery variety of river in the world seems to have a cousin in our\ncollection. What other country on the face of the globe affords such an\nassortment of streams for fishing and boating and swimming and\nskating--besides having any number of streams on which you can do none\nof these things? One can hardly imagine rivers like that; but we have\nthem, plenty of them, as you shall see.\n\nAs for fishing, the American boy may cast his flies for salmon in the\nArctic circle, or angle for sharks under a tropical sun in Florida,\nwithout leaving the domain of the American flag. But the fishing-rivers\nare not the most curious, nor the most instructive as to diversity of\nclimate, soil, and that sort of thing--physical geography, the teacher\ncalls it.\n\n[Illustration: A LIVE-OAK WITH SPANISH MOSS.]\n\nFor instance, if you want to get a good idea of what tropical heat and\nmoisture will do for a country, slip your canoe from a Florida steamer\ninto the Ocklawaha River. It is as odd as its name, and appears to be\nhopelessly undecided as to whether it had better continue in the fish\nand alligator and drainage business, or devote itself to raising\nlive-oak and cypress-trees, with Spanish moss for mattresses as a side\nproduct.\n\nIn this fickle-minded state it does a little of all these things, so\nthat when you are really on the river you think you are lost in the\nwoods; and when you actually get lost in the woods, you are quite\nconfident your canoe is at last on the river. This confusion is due to\nthe low, flat country, and the luxuriance of a tropical vegetation.\n\nTo say that such a river overflows its banks would hardly be correct;\nfor that would imply that it was not behaving itself; besides, it has\nn't any banks--or, at least, very few! The fact is, those peaceful\nFlorida rivers seem to wander pretty much where they like over the\npretty peninsula without giving offense; but if Jack Frost takes such a\nliberty--presto! you should see how the people get after _him_ with\nweather-bulletins and danger-signals and formidable smudges. So the\nOcklawaha River and a score of its kind roam through the woods,--or\nmaybe it is the woods that roam through them,--and the moss sways from\nthe live-oaks, and the cypress trees stick their knees up through the\nwater in the oddest way imaginable.\n\nIn Florida one may have another odd experience: a river ride in an\nox-cart. Florida rivers are usually shallow, and when the water is high\nyou can travel for miles across country behind oxen, with more or less\nriver under you all the way. There are ancient jokes about Florida\nsteamboats that travel on heavy dews, and use spades for paddle-wheels.\n\nBut those of you who have been on its rivers know there is but one\nFlorida, with its bearded oaks and fronded palms; its dusky woods,\ncarpeted with glassy waters; its cypress bays, where lonely cranes pose,\nsilently thoughtful (of stray polliwogs); and its birds of wondrous\nplumage that rise with startled splash when the noiseless canoe glides\ndown upon their haunts.\n\n[Illustration: MOSS-DRAPED LIVE-OAKS.]\n\nEvery strange fowl and every hideous reptile, every singular plant and\nevery tangled jungle, will tell the American boy how far he is to the\nsouth. Florida is, in fact, his corner of the tropics; and the clear\nwaters of its rivers, stained to brown and wine-color with the juices\nof a tropical vegetation, will tell him, if he reads nature's book, how\ndifferent the sandy soil of the South is from the yellow mold of the\ngreat Western plains.\n\nSuch a boy hardly need ask the conductor how far west he is if he can\ncatch a glimpse of one of the rivers. All the rivers of the plains are\nalike full of yellow mud, because the soil of the plains melts at the\ntouch of water. These are our spendthrift rivers, full to the banks at\ntimes, but most of the year desperately in need of water. It is only\nwith the greatest effort that they can keep their places in the summer:\nthere is just a scanty thread of water strung along a great, rambling\nbed of sand, to restrain Dame Nature from revoking their licenses to run\nand turning them into cattle-ranches.\n\nNo wonder that fish refuse to have anything to do with such streams, and\nrefuse tempting offers of free worms, free transportation, and\nprotection from the fatal nets. Fancy trying to raise a family of little\nfish, and not knowing one day where water is coming from the next!\n\nNot but what there is water enough at times; only, those rivers of the\ngreat plains, like the Platte and the Kansas and the Arkansas, are so\nwasteful of their supply in the spring that by July they are gasping for\na shower. So, part of the year they revel in luxury, and during the rest\nthey go shabby--like shiftless people.\n\nBut the irrigation engineers have lately discovered something wonderful\nabout even these despised rivers. During the very driest seasons, when\nthe stream is apparently quite dry, there is still a great body of water\nrunning in the sand. Like a vast sponge, the sand holds the water, yet\nit flows continually, just as if it were in plain sight, but more slowly\nof course. The volume may be estimated by the depth and breadth of the\nsand. One pint of it will hold three quarters of a pint of water. This\nis called the underground flow, and is peculiar to this class of rivers.\nBy means of ditches this water may be brought to the surface for\nirrigation.\n\nScattered among the foot-hills of the Rockies are rivers still more\nwilful in their habits. Instead of keeping to their duties in a\nmethodical way, they rush their annual work through in a month or two;\nthen they take long vacations. For months together they carry no water\nat all; and one may plant and build and live and sleep in their deserted\nbeds--but beware! Without warning, they resume active business. Maybe\non a Sunday, or in the middle of the night, a storm-cloud visits the\nmountains. There is a roar, a tearing, a crashing, and down comes a\nterrible wall of water, sweeping away houses and barns and people. No\nfishing, no boating, no swimming, no skating on those treacherous\nrivers; only surprise and shock and disaster!\n\nSo different that they seem to belong in a different world are the great\ninter-mountain streams, like the Yellowstone and the Colorado.\n\nThey flow through landscapes of desolate grandeur, vast expanses\ncompassed by endless mountain-ranges that chill the bright skies with\nnever-melting snows. The countless peaks look down on the clouds, while\nfar below the clouds wind valleys that the sunlight never reaches.\nTwisting in gloomy dusk through these valleys, a gaping canon yawns.\nPeering fearfully into its black, forbidding depths, an echo reaches the\near. It is the fury of a mighty river, so far below that only a sullen\nroar rises to the light of day. With frightful velocity it rushes\nthrough a channel cut during centuries of patience deep into the\nstubborn rock. Now mad with whirlpools, now silently awful with\nstretches of green water, that wait to lure the boatman to death, the\nmighty river rushes darkly through the Grand Colorado Canon.\n\nNo sport, no fun, no frolic there. Here are only awe-inspiring gloom and\ngrandeur, and dangers so hideous that only a handful of men have ever\nbraved them--fewer still survived.\n\nGrandest of American rivers though it is, you will be glad to get away\nfrom it to a noble stream like the Columbia, to a headstrong flood like\nthe Missouri, or an inland sea like the Mississippi; on them at least\nyou can draw a full breath and speak aloud without a feeling that the\nsilent mountains may fall on you or the raging river swallow you up.\n\nIn the vast territory lying between the Missouri River and the Pacific\nOcean the rivers are fast being harnessed for a work that will one day\nmake the most barren spots fertile. Irrigation is claiming every year\nmore of the flow of Western rivers. Even the tricksy old Missouri is\ncontributing somewhat to irrigation, but in the queerest possible way.\n\nWith all its other eccentricities, the Missouri River leaks badly; for\nyou know there are leaky rivers as well as leaky boats. The government\nengineers once measured the flow of the Missouri away up in Montana, and\nagain some hundred miles further down stream. To their surprise, they\nfound that the Missouri, instead of growing bigger down stream, as every\nrational river should, was actually 20,000 second-feet[1] smaller at the\nlower point.\n\n[Footnote 1: The volume of rivers is measured by the number of cubic\nfeet of water flowing past a given point every second. The breadth of\nthe river is multiplied by its average depth, and the ascertained speed\nof the current gives the number of cubic feet of water flowing by the\npoint of measurement each second. This will explain the term\nsecond-feet.]\n\nNow, while 20,000 second-feet could be spared from such a tremendous\nriver, that amount of water makes a considerable stream of itself. Many\nvery celebrated rivers never had so much water in their lives. Hence\nthere was great amazement when the discrepancy was discovered. But of\nlate years Dakota farmers away to the south and east of those points on\nthe Missouri, sinking artesian wells, found immense volumes of water\nwhere the geologists said there would n't be any. So it is believed that\nthe farmers have tapped the water leaking from that big hole in the\nMissouri River away up in Montana; and from these wells they irrigate\nlarge tracts of land, and, naturally, they don't want the river-bed\nmended. Fancy what a blessing it is, when the weather is dry, to have a\nriver boiling out of your well, ready to flow where you want it over the\nwheat-fields! For of all manner of work that a river can be put to,\nirrigation is, I think, the most useful. But isn't that a queer way for\nthe Missouri to wander about underneath the ground?\n\n\n\n\nTHE WATERMELON STOCKINGS\n\nBY ALICE CALDWELL HEGAN\n\n(Author of \"Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch\")\n\n\n\"Jes' look at dat ornery little nigger!\" exclaimed Aunt Melvy, as she\ndeposited a basket of clothes on the cabin floor. \"I lef her to clean\nup, an' to put de 'taters on to bile, an' to shoo de flies offen de\ntwinses, an' I wisht you 'd look at her!\"\n\nNell Tracy, who had come down with Aunt Melvy from the big house on the\nhill, viewed the culprit ruefully. 'Mazin' Grace was Aunt Melvy's eighth\ndaughter, and had been named for her mother's favorite hymn, which began\n\"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.\" She was very short and very fat,\nand her kinky hair was plaited into ten tight pigtails, each of which\nwas bound with a piece of leather shoe-string. At present she sat with\nher back propped against the door, her mouth wide open, and slept\npeacefully while the flood of her mother's wrath passed over her.\n\n[Illustration: \"'MAZIN' GRACE SLEPT PEACEFULLY.\"]\n\n\"Oh, but, Aunt Melvy, won't you please let her come?\" begged Nell,\nthrowing off her sun-bonnet and letting down a tangle of yellow curls.\n\"I have n't got anybody to play with me. Mother drove to town with\nfather, and she said I was to get 'Mazin' Grace to stay with me.\"\n\n\"Why, I'se gwine to let her come, honey,\" said Aunt Melvy, \"co'se I is.\nI wouldn't mek you cry fer nothin'! Only, I'se gwine to whup her fust.\nShe ain't 'sponsible on her word, dat's what's de matter wid her. She\ndone 'low to me she would n't wink her eyeball while I was gone. What\nyou think I ketch her doin' one time?\" Aunt Melvy's voice sank to a\nwhisper. \"She sewed, on a Sunday! She knowed as well as me dat w'en she\ngits to heben she'll hab to pick out ebery one ob dem stitches wid her\nnose.\"\n\nNell looked at the sleeper's round pug-nose and wondered how she would\never be able to do it. But it was no use thinking of the punishment in\nthe next world, when an immediate whipping was promised in this;\nconsequently she turned the whole battery of her eloquence upon Aunt\nMelvy, who in the end gave in.\n\n[Illustration: \"'AND I AM GOING TO WEAR THE WATERMELON STOCKINGS,' CRIED\nNELL.\"]\n\nTen minutes later the two little playmates were skipping down the avenue\nunder the shady old beech-trees where their fathers had played\ntogether in the long ago.\n\n\"Is yer maw gwine lemme tek you to de Christian an' Debil Society?\"\nasked 'Mazin' Grace, as they skirted the house, and made their way into\nthe back yard.\n\n\"Yes,\" cried Nell, gleefully, \"and I am going to wear the watermelon\nstockings!\"\n\nIf 'Mazin' Grace had not been so black, a cloud might have been seen\npassing over her face. She was the sharer of all Nell's woes, and of all\nbut one of her joys. The exception was the possession of the watermelon\nstockings.\n\nThese were a sort of heirloom among the children of the family, and were\nregarded with reverence and pride. They were of a peculiar shade of pink\nsilk, with clockwork up the sides and sprays of white flowers\nembroidered over the instep. A long time ago they had belonged to Cousin\nMary, who was quite a big girl now, and she had sent them to Uncle\nRobert's boy up in Ohio. He learned to waltz in them, and in time sent\nthem to little Agnes in Virginia, who wore them for a year on state\noccasions, then sent them back to Kentucky to little Cousin Nell.\n\nIf ever a tempted soul longed for a forbidden treasure, 'Mazin' Grace\nlonged for the watermelon stockings. \"Effen they was mine, I'd give you\none anyways,\" she argued with Nell, but to no avail.\n\nIn the back yard stood a big old chicken-coop, which had been cleaned\nout and nicely whitewashed for the children to use as a play-house. It\nhad an upstairs and a downstairs, and a square little door that fastened\non the outside with a wooden peg. Nell could climb in easily; but\n'Mazin' Grace was too fat, and after many efforts she had given up,\ncontenting herself with watching the play from outside.\n\nTo-day a doll funeral was in progress, and Nell, moving comfortably\nabout inside the coop, arranged the broken bits of china in a spool-box,\ntied a sweeping piece of crape on her biggest doll, and allowed her\nimagination full swing in depicting the grief of the doll family.\n\n'Mazin' Grace, sitting under the apple-tree outside, took little\ninterest in the proceedings. The hot sun beat down on the long stretch\nof blue-grass, and up from the creek came the warm odor of mint; a fat\nold bumblebee hummed close to her head, but she did not stir. She was\nthinking about the watermelon stockings.\n\n[Illustration: \"NELL TIED A SWEEPING PIECE OF CRAPE ON HER BIGGEST\nDOLL.\"]\n\nPresently she began to move stealthily toward the coop, watching Nell\ncautiously from the corner of her eyes. \"Ain't nobody to home but me an'\nher,\" she whispered to herself, \"an' there wouldn't nobody know, an'--\"\nWith a deft movement she closed the small door and fastened it with the\nwooden peg. Then she turned, and, leaving the unconscious prisoner, sped\nsoftly up the garden path, through the basement, and up the stairs.\n\nIn Mrs. Tracy's bedroom was a wide old mahogany dresser with big glass\nknobs that seemed to glare unwinking reproof at 'Mazin' Grace as she\nopened the bottom drawer.\n\n\"Dis heah is where dey stays at,\" she said, tossing aside ribbons and\nlaces in her eagerness. \"Oh, goody, goody! Heah dey is!\"\n\nTearing away the tissue-paper, she gazed with delight at the coveted\nstockings. The knobs might glare as much as they liked; the sparrows\nmight scold themselves hoarse on the window-sill; 'Mazin' Grace was lost\nin the rapture of the moment, and refused to consider consequences. She\ntraced the pattern of the embroidery with her stubby finger, she rubbed\nthe silk against her cheek, and even tied one stocking around her head\nand stood on tiptoe to see the result in the mirror. The more she\nhandled them the more reckless she became.\n\n\"I 'spect I 'se gwine to try dese heah stockin's on!\" she said, with a\ngiggle, as she drew the silken lengths over her bare, dusty feet. \"Gee\nBob! Ain't them scrumptious! I look lak a shore-'nuff circus lady!\"\n\n[Illustration: \"CATCHING HER RAGGED SKIRTS IN EITHER HAND, SHE BOWED LOW\nTO HER IMAGE.\"]\n\nShe tipped the mirror in order to get the full reflection, and stood for\na moment entranced. Then catching her ragged skirts in either hand,\nshe bowed low to her image, and, after cutting a formal and elaborate\npigeonwing, settled down to a shuffle that shook the floor. Music and\nmotion were as much a part of 'Mazin' Grace as her brown skin and her\nwhite teeth. All Aunt Melvy's piety had failed to convince her of the\nawful wickedness of \"shaking her foot\" and \"singing reel chunes.\" She\ndanced now with utter abandon, and the harder she danced the louder she\nsang:\n\n  \"Suzanne Goffin, don't you cry;\n  Take dat apron from your eye.\n  Don't let de niggers see you sigh;\n  You'll git a pahtner by an' by.\"\n\nThe small figure with its flying pigtails swayed and swung, and the pink\nlegs darted in and out. Backward, forward, right glide, left glide, two\nskips sidewise. Her breath was almost gone, but she rallied her forces\nfor a grand finale. With a curtsy to the bedpost and hands all around,\nshe dashed into the rollicking ecstasy of the \"Mobile Buck\":\n\n  \"Way up yonder in de moon,\n  Yaller gal lickin' a silver spoon.\n  Cynthy, my darlin', who tol' you so?\n  Cynthy, my darlin', how do you know?\"\n\nAs she dropped panting on the floor, something arrested her attention.\nShe held up her head and sniffed the air. It was a familiar odor that\nroused her conscience as nothing else could have done. Something burning\nusually meant that she had failed to watch the stove, and that\ncatastrophe usually meant a whipping. She scrambled to her feet and ran\nto the window. Over across the road, the big barn where Mr. Tracy stored\nhis grain was wrapped in flames. The wind was blowing from that\ndirection, and it fanned the smoke into 'Mazin' Grace's eyes.\n\n\"Gee! Dat was a spark of fire,\" she cried, as she snatched her hand from\nthe window-sill. She climbed out of the window upon the porch, and\nlooked anxiously up and down the road. Nothing was to be seen save the\nlong stretch of empty turnpike, with the hot sun beating down upon it.\nAs she turned to go back inside the window, she stopped, horrified. On\nthe cornice of the roof above her a glowing ember was smoldering\ndangerously. 'Mazin' Grace wrung her hands.\n\n\"Mammy said I was gwine to git burned up fer bein' so wicked. An' Marse\nJim's house, what's belonged to we-all sence de wah! An' de settin'-room\nwhere we hangs up our stockin's ebery Christmas! An' dere ain't nobody\nto take keer ob it all but me! Oh, Lordy! Lordy! what mus' I do?--what\nmus' I do?\"\n\nAs she stood there, wild-eyed and tearful, a thought made its way\nthrough the kinky hair into her bewildered brain. She darted back into\nthe house, and reappeared with a broom.\n\n\"I'se gwine up dat ladder,\" she said with grim determination, \"an' I'se\ngwine to sweep dem sparks off. An' effen I can't sweep 'em off I kin\nspank 'em out.\"\n\nThe fire at the barn was now raging; great volumes of smoke swept toward\nthe house, heavily laden with live embers. 'Mazin' Grace, choking and\nfrightened, wielded her broom with telling effect; no sooner did a spark\ntouch the roof than it was brushed off into the long grass below. But\nthey were coming faster and faster, and, watch as she would, she could\nnot keep some of them from igniting the dry shingles. From side to side\nshe scrambled, sweeping, beating, fighting the fire with all the\nstrength in her little body. Her eyes smarted fiercely, her feet were\nbruised, the heat was suffocating; but 'Mazin' Grace never thought of\ndeserting the post: she worked, as she had danced, with all her might\nand main, pitting her puny strength valiantly against that of the\nflames.\n\n[Illustration: \"FROM SIDE TO SIDE SHE SCRAMBLED, SWEEPING, BEATING, AND\nFIGHTING THE FIRE.\"]\n\nBut courage does not always bring success. Just when the fire at the\nbarn began to subside, and the sparks ceased to fall on the roof, a tiny\ncolumn of smoke began to curl up from the gabled roof of the porch.\n'Mazin' Grace clambered down the ladder, and, sitting astride of the\nangle, worked her way outward toward the fire. She could not carry the\nbroom, but if she could only reach the blaze perhaps she could beat it\nout with her hands! Excitement gave her fresh strength. On either side\nthe roof sloped abruptly, but she worked her way on, inch by inch. Two\nshingles had caught--three! The smoke had changed into a blaze. Leaning\nover as far as she dared, 'Mazin' Grace stretched out her hand toward\nthe flame. She could not reach it.\n\nWith a cry of terror and despair, she fell forward on the ridge; all her\ncourage and strength suddenly deserted her--she could only cling there\nface downward, and sob and sob as if her heart would break. \"Effen our\nhouse burns down, I want to die too,\" she whispered. \"But Miss Lucy an'\nMarse Jim won't never know how I tried to take keer on it. 'Deed I did.\"\n\nUp from the creek came the faint perfume of the mint; the sparrows\nscolded in the beech-trees. Nellie, who had broken her prison bars,\ncalled again and again from the playground, while slowly but surely up\nthe roof crawled the ever-increasing flames. But 'Mazin' Grace heard\nnothing, saw nothing; she lay unconscious on the roof, an absurdly\npitiful little figure in her ragged dress and pink silk stockings.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was six weeks before 'Mazin' Grace's burns were sufficiently healed\nfor her to walk. Mr. Tracy, hearing of the fire on his farm, had driven\nhome just in time to save the child's life. His porch was completely\ndestroyed; but the old homestead, with its host of memories and\nassociations, stood intact--a monument to the faithfulness of a very\nnaughty little girl.\n\nAlmost the first time 'Mazin' Grace was allowed to go out, she took Nell\nto the \"Christian an' Debil\" Society. She limped as she walked, for her\nfeet were still tender from the recent blisters; but, in spite of the\npain, her smile was one of unalloyed bliss. Two pairs of sturdy little\nlegs were keeping step in two new pairs of watermelon stockings.\n\n\n\nThe \"'Gator\"\n\nBY CLARENCE B. MOORE\n\n\nThe alligator, or \"'gator,\" as it is usually called throughout its home,\nthe Southern States, is an object of great curiosity at the North. Every\nwinter many tourists visit Florida and carry back baby alligators,\ntogether with more or less magnified accounts of the creature's doings\nand habits, and their stories are probably the cause of this very\nwidespread interest.\n\nThough the alligator is rapidly disappearing from the banks of the lower\nSt. John's River, in Lake Washington and in the Saw Grass Lake (where\nthat river has its source), and in waters still farther south, they are\nstill to be found in almost undiminished numbers, and are hunted for a\nliving by native hunters. They are commonly sought at night, by\ntorch-light, for in this way they can be approached with the utmost\nease.\n\n[Illustration: THE ALLIGATOR HUNTERS IN THEIR CAMP.]\n\nA rifle-ball will readily penetrate an alligator's hide, although there\nexists an unfounded belief to the contrary. The creatures will \"stand a\ndeal of killing,\" however, and frequently roll off a bank and are lost\neven after being shot through and through.\n\nThe alligator builds a nest of mud and grass, and lays a large number of\noblong white eggs, but the little ones when hatched often serve as lunch\nfor their unnatural papa, and this cannibalism, more than the rifle,\nprevents their numbers from increasing. The alligator is not particular\nas to diet. I once found the stomach of a ten-footer to be literally\nfilled with pine chips from some tree which had been felled near the\nriver's bank! They are fond of wallowing in marshes, and many a man out\nsnipe shooting has taken an involuntary bath by stumbling into their\nwallows. In dry seasons alligators will traverse long distances overland\nto reach water, and travelers have come suddenly upon alligators\ncrawling amid prairies or woods, in the most unexpected manner. The\nalligator as a rule is very wary, but at times sleeps quite soundly. I\nsaw one struck twice with an oar before it woke.\n\n[Illustration: The Haunt of the \"Gator\".]\n\nThere is a very prevalent impression that the alligator differs from the\ncrocodile in that one moves the upper jaw and the other the lower. Such,\nhowever, is not the case. Both animals move the lower jaw, though the\nraising of the head as the mouth opens sometimes gives the appearance\nof moving the upper jaw only. But alligators and crocodiles differ in\nthe arrangement of the teeth, and the snout of the crocodile is more\nsharply pointed.\n\nThe hides are salted to preserve them and are shipped to dealers in\nJacksonville, where those less than six feet long are worth a dollar,\nwhile for those which exceed this length twenty-five cents extra is\nallowed. A fair estimate of the number of alligators killed for sale in\nFlorida alone, and not counting those shot by tourists, would be ten\nthousand annually. One hears very conflicting reports as to the length\nof large alligators. A prominent dealer in Jacksonville said that out of\nten thousand hides handled by him none were over twelve feet long. I am\ntold that at the Centennial, side by side with a crocodile from the\nNile, there was shown an alligator from Florida sixteen feet in length.\n\nYears ago near a place called Enterprise, on a point jumping into Lake\nMonroe, during all bright days a certain big alligator used to lie\nbasking in the sun. He was well known to the whole neighborhood. The\nentire coterie of sportsmen at the only hotel used to call him \"Big\nBen,\" and proud hunters would talk, and even dream, of the time when a\nwell-aimed rifle-shot would end his long career. But Big Ben was as\ncunning as a serpent, and whenever any one, afoot or afloat, came\nunpleasantly near, he would slide off into the water,--which meant\n\"good-by\" for the rest of the day.\n\nOne fine morning one of these sportsmen, paddling up the lake, luckily\nwith his rifle in his canoe, came upon Big Ben so sound asleep that he\nstole up within range and put a bullet through the alligator's brain.\nWhat to do next was a problem. He could not tow the monster all the way\nto Enterprise with his small canoe. A bright idea struck him. He put his\nvisiting-card in the beast's mouth and paddled swiftly back. A number of\nhunters were at the wharf, and the slayer of Big Ben hastened to inform\nthem with apparent sincerity that while out paddling he had come within\neasy range of the \"'gator,\" who was, no doubt, still lying motionless on\nthe point. A flotilla of boats and canoes, manned by an army with\nrifles, instantly started for the point. To avoid confusion it was\nunanimously agreed that all should go down together, and that the entire\nparty, if they were lucky enough to find Big Ben still there, should\nfire a volley at the word of command. As they approached the point,\nthe hearts of all beat quickly; and when, with straining eyes, they saw\nBig Ben apparently asleep and motionless upon the bank, even the coolest\ncould scarcely control his feelings. The boats were silently drawn up\nwithin easy shot, and the word was given. Bang, bang! went a score of\nrifles and Big Ben, riddled with bullets, lay motionless upon the point!\nWith a cheer of triumph the excited sportsmen leaped ashore, and\nfastening a rope around the dead alligator, speedily towed him to\nEnterprise. There the original slayer awaited them upon the wharf. When\nBig Ben was laid upon the shore, opening the animal's mighty jaws he\ndisclosed his visiting-card, and thanked them most politely for their\nkindness in bringing his 'gator home for him.\n\n[Illustration: A QUIET NAP ON THE RIVER BANK.]\n\nI once met with a curious adventure. Man is rarely attacked by\nalligators in Florida, except by the female alligator called upon to\ndefend her young. Some years ago, in a small steamer chartered for the\npurpose, I had gone up a branch of the St. John's beyond Salt Lake until\nwe could proceed no farther, because the top of the river had become\nsolid with floating vegetation under which the water flowed. We tied up\nfor the night, and shortly after were boarded by two men who said\nthat their camp was near by and that they shot alligators and\nplume-birds for a living. One of the men carried his rifle, a\nmuzzle-loader, and from its barrel projected the ramrod, which had\nbecome fast immediately above the ball while loading. He intended to\ndraw it out after they should return to camp.\n\n[Illustration: CATCHING AN ALLIGATOR ASLEEP.]\n\nWe went ashore with these men to look at an alligator's nest near by,\nand were filling our pockets with baby-alligators, when we heard a\ngrunting sound and saw an alligator eight or nine feet long coming\ndirectly at us. With the exception of the man already referred to, we\nwere all unarmed and affairs began to look a little unpleasant, for the\ncreature evidently meant mischief. When it was within a few feet, the\nman with the rifle, knowing that he alone had a weapon, took deliberate\naim and fired bullet, ramrod, and all down the 'gator's throat. The\nanimal turned over twice, and rolling off the bank, sank out of sight.\n\nThe alligators of the Amazon River in South America are very numerous,\nand owing to scarcity of hunters attain a very great size. In the upper\nwaters apparently they are entirely unaccustomed to the report of\nfirearms, and if not actually hit will lie still while shot after shot\nis fired. The largest I ever killed and measured was thirteen feet and\nfour inches in length; but this was much smaller than many which I shot\nfrom dugouts and canoes too far away from shore to tow them in.\n\nBuried an inch deep in one of these dead alligators I once found a\npirana, that troublesome fish which makes swimming in some parts of the\nAmazon a risky matter. It bores into flesh very much after the manner of\na circular punch, and when it starts, its habit is to go to the bone.\nThe pirana of course could not penetrate the hide of the alligator, but\nentering by the bullet-hole it had turned to one side and partially\nburied itself in the flesh. I have seen men bearing very ugly scars, the\nresults of wounds inflicted by the pirana while they were bathing. If\nthis fish is cut open after having bored its way into an animal a solid\nround mass of flesh will be found inside corresponding to the hole it\nhas made, showing that the fish really bores its way in.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF THE \"BIG FELLOWS.\"]\n\nIt is said that the alligator of the Amazon is more likely to attack man\nthan its brother of our Southern States. The captain of a small steamer\nrunning between Iquitos and Para, told me that on the preceding trip\nhe had carried to a doctor a boy who had lost his arm from the bite of\nan alligator, while allowing his arm to hang in the water from a raft.\nThe same captain, however, also informed me that he had been treed by\none of these animals and compelled to remain \"up a tree\" for some time;\nso that I have some hesitation in quoting him as an authority upon the\nnature and habits of these alligators. The flesh of young alligators is\nconsidered a delicacy in Brazil and is regularly sold in the markets.\n\n\n\n\nTHE EARTHQUAKE AT CHARLESTON\n\nBY EWING GIBSON\n\n\nOn Tuesday, the 31st of August, 1886, every one in Charleston, South\nCarolina, complained of the severe heat and sultriness of the air. Not a\nbreath cooled the atmosphere, parched by the burning summer sun's rays.\nIn the afternoon the usual sea breeze failed to appear, and there was no\nrelief from the intense closeness and almost overpowering warmth. The\nsky was clear, but with a misty, steamy appearance which reminded one\nstrongly of glowing, tropical countries.\n\nAs the night came on, the absence of the glare of the sun was the only\nrelief to the parched and panting population. Seated in the parlor of a\nlarge three-storied brick house in the central portion of the city, I\nspent the evening after tea conversing with two friends who had called\nto see me. After a few hours of pleasant conversation, one of my friends\nsaid it was time to leave. Taking out his watch, he continued, \"Six\nminutes of ten, and--_what is that?_\" A low, deep rumbling noise as of\nthunder, only beneath instead of above us, coming from afar and\napproaching us nearer and nearer, muttering and groaning, and ever\nincreasing in volume,--it was upon us in an instant.\n\nThe massive brick house we were in began to sway from side to\nside--gently at first with a rhythmical motion, then gradually\nincreasing in force, until, springing to our feet, we seized one another\nby the hand and gazed with blanched and awe-struck faces at the\ntottering walls around us. We felt the floor beneath our feet heaving\nlike the deck of a storm-tossed vessel, and heard the crashing of the\nfalling masonry and ruins on every side. With almost stilled hearts we\nrealized that we were in the power of an earthquake. The motion of the\nhouse, never ceasing, became now vertical. Up and down it went as though\nsome monstrous giant had taken it in his hands as a plaything and were\ntossing it like a ball for his amusement. Recalling our dazed senses,\nand staggering to our feet as best we could, with one accord we rushed\ndown the steps leading to the front door, and, grasping the handle,\nturned it. In vain--the door was jammed, and we were compelled to wait\nlike rats in a trap until the shock had passed!\n\nConcentrating its energies into one final, convulsive effort, the huge\nearth-wave passed and left the earth palpitating and heaving like a\ntired animal. There came crashing down into our garden-plot the chimneys\nfrom the house in front of ours. Fortunately the falling bricks injured\nnone of us. Making another trial, we succeeded in opening the door and\nrushed into the street.\n\nNow there came upon us an overpowering, suffocating odor of sulphur and\nbrimstone, which filled the whole atmosphere. We were surrounded by a\ncrowd of neighbors--men, women, and children--who had rushed out of\ntheir houses, as we had done, and who stood with us in the middle of the\nstreet, awaiting they knew not what.\n\nSuddenly there came again to our ears the now dreaded rumbling sound.\nLike some fierce animal, growling and seeking its victim, it approached,\nand we all prepared ourselves for the worst. The shock came, and for a\nmoment the crowd was awed into silence. Fortunately this shock was not\nnearly so severe as the first. The earth became still once more, and the\nroaring died away in the distance.\n\n[Illustration: STREET SCENE DURING THE CHARLESTON EARTHQUAKE.]\n\nHow the people shunned their houses and spent that and succeeding nights\nin the streets, private gardens, and on public squares, is well known\nfrom the many accounts given in the daily and illustrated papers at the\ntime.\n\nSo perfectly still and calm was the air during the night, that a lamp,\nwhich was taken out in the open air burnt as steadily as though\nprotected in a room, and no flickering revealed the presence of a breath\nof wind.\n\nAgain, some strong and powerful buildings in certain portions of the\ncity were wrecked completely, while others older and undoubtedly weaker\npassed through the shock unharmed. A house on one corner was perfectly\nshattered, while, just a few hundred feet away, the house on the\nopposite corner was not damaged in the slightest except that a little\nplastering was shaken down.\n\nKnowing that a city with a population of sixty thousand had been wrecked\nin every direction by an earthquake, one would expect the death-list to\nbe enormous; but not more than about forty were killed outright, and but\na few more were wounded. Had the shock occurred in the daytime, when the\nstreets were thronged, the loss of life must have been terrible.\n\n\n\n\nHIDING PLACES IN WAR TIMES\n\nBY J. H. GORE\n\n\nFor some years after the close of our Civil War, the attention of our\npeople was chiefly occupied with a study and recital of the most\nprominent battles, the decisive events, and the acts of famous officers.\nBut when these bolder features of the war panorama had been examined and\ndiscussed, more time was taken to look at some of the details, to call\nup the minor incidents, to bestow meed of praise upon privates, or to\nrecord the littles that made up the much.\n\nThe sacrifices of the women and children at home have been repeatedly\nreferred to in general, but seldom do we see mention made of their daily\nprivations, the petty but continual annoyances to which they were\nsubjected, and the struggle they made to sow and reap, as well as the\ndifficulties they met in saving the harvested crops.\n\nThe hiding-places here described were all in _one_ house. This house was\nin Virginia, near a town which changed hands, under fire, eighty-two\ntimes during the war--a town whose hotel register shows on the same page\nthe names of officers of both armies, a town where there are two large\ncities of the fallen soldiers, each embellished by the saddest of all\nepitaphs--\"To the unknown dead.\" Out from this battered town run a\nnumber of turnpikes, and standing as close to one of these as a city\nhouse stands to the street was the house referred to--the home of a\nwidow, three small children, a single domestic, and, for part of the\ntime, an invalid cousin, whose ingenuity and skill fashioned the secret\nplaces, one of which was on several occasions his place of refuge.\n\nWith fall came the \"fattening time\" for the hogs. They were then brought\nin from the distant fields, where they had passed the summer, and put in\na pen by the side of the road. And although within ten feet of the\nsoldiers as they marched by, they were never seen, for the pen was\ncompletely covered by the winter's wood-pile, except at the back, where\nthere was a board fence through whose cracks the corn was thrown in.\nWhenever the passing advance-guard told us that an army was approaching,\nthe hogs were hurriedly fed, so that the army might go by while they\nwere taking their after-dinner nap, and thus not reveal their presence\nby an escaped grunt or squeal. Fortunately, the house was situated in a\nnarrow valley, where the opportunities for bushwhacking were so great\nthat the soldiers did not tarry long enough to search unsuspected\nwood-piles. On one occasion we thought the hogs were doomed. A wagon\nbroke down near the house, and a soldier went to the wood-pile for a\npole to be used in mending the break. Luckily, he found a stick to his\nliking without tearing the pile to pieces. This suggested that some\nnice, straight pieces be always left conveniently near for such an\nemergency, in case it should occur again.\n\nThe house had a cellar with a door opening directly out upon the \"big\nroad,\" and never did a troop, large or small, pass by without countless\nsoldiers seeking something eatable in this convenient cellar. It was\nnever empty, but nothing was ever found. A partition had been run across\nabout three feet from the back wall, so near that even a close\ninspection would not suggest a space back of it; and being without a\ndoor, no one would think there was a room beyond. The only access to\nthis back cellar was through a trapdoor in the floor of the room above.\nThis door was always kept covered by a carpet, and in case any danger\nwas imminent, a lounge was put over this, and one of the boys, feigning\nillness, was there \"put to bed.\" In this cellar apples, preserves,\npickled pork, etc., were kept, and its existence was not known to any\none outside of the family.\n\nThe two garrets of the house had false ends, with narrow spaces beyond,\nwhere winter clothing, flour, and corn were safely stored. The partition\nin each was of weather-boarding, and nailed on from the inner side so as\nto appear like the true ends, and, being in blind gables, there was no\nsuspicion aroused by the absence of windows. The entrance to these\nlittle attics was through small doors that were a part of the partition,\nand, as usual in country houses, the clothesline stretched across the\nend from rafter to rafter held enough old carpets and useless stuff to\nsilence any question of secret doors. Several closets also were provided\nwith false backs, where the surplus linen of the household found a safe\nhiding-place.\n\nIn such an exposed place a company of scouts, or even a regiment, could\nappear so unexpectedly that it was necessary to keep everything out of\nsight. Even the provisions for the next meal had to be put away, or\nbefore the meal could be prepared a party of marauders might drop in and\ncarry off the entire supply. In the kitchen a wood-box of large size\nstood by the stove. It had a false bottom. In the upper part was \"wood\ndirt,\" a plentiful supply of chips, and so much stove-wood that the\nimpression would be conveyed that at least there was a good stock of\nfuel always on hand. The box was made of tongued and grooved boards, and\none of these in the front could be slipped out, thus forming a door.\nInto this box all the food and silverware were put. No little ingenuity\nwas needed in making this contrivance. The nails that were drawn out to\nlet this board slip back and forth left tell-tale nail-holes, but these\nwere filled up with heads of nails, so that all the boards looked just\nalike. I remember once a soldier was sitting on this box while mother\nwas cooking for him what seemed to be the last slice of bacon in the\nhouse. She was so afraid that he would drum on the box with his heels,\nas boys frequently do, and find that the box was hollow, that she\ncontinually asked him to get up while she took a piece of wood for the\nfire. It was necessary to disturb him a number of times before he found\nit advisable to take the proffered chair, and in the meantime a hotter\nfire had been made than the small piece of meat required.\n\nOf course it was advisable to have at least scraps of food lying\naround--their absence at any time would have aroused suspicion and\nstarted a search that might have disclosed all. The large loaves of\nbread were put in an unused bed in the place of bolsters; money, when\nthere was any on hand, was rolled up in a strip of cotton which was tied\nas a string around a bunch of hoarhound that hung on a nail in the\nkitchen ceiling; the chickens were reared in a thicket some distance\nfrom the house, and, being fed there, seldom left it.\n\nAlthough this house was searched repeatedly, by day and by night, by\nregulars and by guerrillas, by soldiers of the North and of the South,\nthe only loss sustained were a few eggs, and this loss was not serious,\nfor the eggs were stale.\n\n\n\n\nST. AUGUSTINE\n\nBY FRANK R. STOCKTON\n\n\nThe city of St. Augustine, on the eastern coast of Florida, stands in\none respect preeminent among all the cities of the United States--it is\ntruly an old city. It has many other claims to consideration, but these\nare shared with other cities. But in regard to age it is the one member\nof its class.\n\nCompared with the cities of the Old World, St. Augustine would be called\nyoung; but in the United States a city whose buildings and monuments\nconnect the Middle Ages with the present time, may be considered to have\na good claim to be called ancient.\n\nAfter visiting some of our great towns, where the noise and bustle of\ntraffic, the fire and din of manufactures, the long lines of buildings\nstretching out in every direction, with all the other evidences of\nactive enterprise, proclaim these cities creations of the present day\nand hour, it is refreshing and restful to go down to quiet St.\nAugustine, where one may gaze into the dry moat of a fort of medieval\narchitecture, walk over its drawbridges, pass under its portcullis, and\ngo down into its dungeons; and where in soft semi-tropical air the\nvisitor may wander through narrow streets resembling those of Spain and\nItaly, where the houses on each side lean over toward one another so\nthat neighbors might almost shake hands from their upper windows, and\nare surrounded by orange-groves and rose-gardens which blossom all the\nyear.\n\nSt. Augustine was founded in 1565 by Pedro Menendez de Aviles, who was\nthen Governor of Florida. Here he built a wooden fort which was\nafterward replaced by the massive edifice which still exists. St.\nAugustine needed defenses, for she passed through long periods of war,\nand many battles were fought for her possession. At first there were\nwars in Florida between the Spanish and the French; and when the town\nwas just twenty-one years old, Sir Francis Drake captured the fort,\ncarrying off two thousand pounds in money, and burned half the buildings\nin the town. Then the Indians frequently attacked the place and\ncommitted many atrocities; and, half a century after Drake, the\ncelebrated English buccaneer Captain John Davis captured and plundered\nthe town.\n\nMuch later, General Moore, Governor of South Carolina, took the town and\nheld it for three months, but was never able to take the fort. In 1740\nGeneral Oglethorpe, Governor of Georgia, attacked St. Augustine,\nplanting batteries on the island opposite, and maintaining a siege for\nforty days; but he was obliged to withdraw. Three years later he made\nanother attack, but succeeded no better. Even now one can see the dents\nand holes made in the fort by the cannon-balls fired in these sieges.\n\nIn 1819 Florida was ceded to our Government, and St. Augustine became a\ncity of the United States.\n\nApproaching St. Augustine from the sea, the town looks as if it might be\na port on the Mediterranean coast. The light-colored walls of its houses\nand gardens, masses of rich green foliage cropping up everywhere in the\ntown and about it, the stern old fortress to the north of it, and the\nwhite and glittering sands of the island which separates its harbor from\nthe sea, make it very unlike the ordinary idea of an American town.\n\nIn the center of the city is a large open square called the Plaza de la\nConstitucion, surrounded by beautiful live-oaks and pride-of-India\ntrees, with their long, hanging-mosses and sweet-smelling blossoms.\n\nMost of the streets are narrow, without sidewalks, and from the\nhigh-walled gardens comes the smell of orange-blossoms, while roses and\nother flowers bloom everywhere and all the time.\n\nAt the southern end of the town stands the old Convent of St. Francis,\nwhich is now used as barracks for United States soldiers.\n\nThe old palace of the governor still stands, but now contains the\npost-office and other public buildings. There was once a wall around the\ntown, and one of the gates of this still remains. There is a tower on\neach side of the gateway, and the sentry-boxes, and loopholes through\nwhich the guards used to look out for Indians and other enemies, are\nstill there. Along the harbor edge of the town is a wall nearly a mile\nlong, built at great expense by the United States Government as a\ndefense against the encroachments of the sea. This is called the sea\nwall, and its smooth top, four feet wide, is a favorite promenade.\nWalking northward on this wall, or on the street beside it, if you like\nthat better, we reach, a little outside of the town, what I consider the\nmost interesting feature of St. Augustine. This is the old fort of San\nMarco, which, since it came into the possession of our government, has\nbeen renamed Fort Marion.\n\n[Illustration: THE SPANISH COAT-OF-ARMS.]\n\nThe old fort is not a ruin, but is one of the best-preserved specimens\nof the style of fortification of the Middle Ages. We cross the moat and\nthe drawbridge, and over the stone door-way we see the Spanish\ncoat-of-arms, and under it an inscription stating that the fort was\nbuilt during the reign of King Ferdinand VI of Spain, with the names and\ntitles of the dons who superintended the work. It took sixty years to\nbuild the fort, and nearly all the work was done by Indians who were\ncaptured and made slaves for the purpose. Passing through the solemn\nentrance, we come to an open square surrounded by the buildings and\nwalls of the fort, which, in all, cover about an acre of ground. On the\nright is an inclined plane which serves as a stairway to reach the\nramparts where the cannon were placed. The _terre-plein_, or wide, flat\nsurface of the ramparts, makes a fine walk around the four sides of the\nfort from which we can have views of land and sea. At each corner was a\nwatch-tower, three of which remain; and into these one can mount, and\nthrough the narrow slits of windows get a view of what is going on\noutside without being seen himself. At one end of the fort is the old\nSpanish chapel, and all around the square are the rooms that used to be\noccupied by the officers and the soldiers. Into the chapel the condemned\nprisoners used to be taken to hear their last mass before being marched\nup to the north rampart and shot.\n\nDown in the foundations of the fort are dungeons into which no ray of\nsunlight can enter. After the fort came into the possession of our\ngovernment, a human skeleton was found in one of the dungeons, chained\nto a staple in the wall; and in another dungeon, without door or window\nand completely walled up, there were discovered two iron cages which had\nhung from the walls, each containing a human skeleton. The supports of\none of the cages had rusted away, and it had fallen down, but the other\nwas still in its place. A great many romantic stories were told about\nthese skeletons, and by some persons it was supposed that they were the\nremains of certain heirs to the Spanish throne whose existence it was\ndesirable utterly to blot out. One of the skeletons was that of a woman\nor girl. The cages and skeletons have been removed, but we can go into\nthe dungeons if we take a lantern. Anything darker or blacker than these\nunderground cells cannot be imagined. I have seen dungeons in Europe,\nbut none of them were so hopelessly awful as these.\n\nIn another part of the fort is a cell in which Osceola, the celebrated\nIndian chief, was once imprisoned, in company with another chief named\nWild Cat. There is a little window near the top of the cell, protected\nby several iron bars; and it is said that Wild Cat starved himself until\nhe was thin enough to squeeze between two of the bars, having first\nmounted on the shoulders of Osceola in order to reach them. Whether the\nstarving part of the story is true or not, it is certain that he escaped\nthrough the window.\n\nWhen I last visited San Marco, it was full of Indian prisoners who had\nbeen captured in the far West. Some of them were notorious for their\ncruelties and crimes, but in the fort they were all peaceable enough. It\nwas one of these Indians, a big, ugly fellow, who lighted me into the\ndungeon of the skeleton-cages.\n\nThis fort, which is in many respects like a great castle, is not built\nof ordinary stone, but of coquina, a substance formed by the\naccumulation of sea-shells which, in the course of ages, have united\ninto a mass like solid rock. On Anastasia Island, opposite St.\nAugustine, there are great quarries from which the coquina stone is\ntaken, and of this material nearly the whole town is built. It is\ninteresting to visit one of these quarries, and observe how in the\nupper strata the shells are quite distinct, while the lower we look down\nthe more and more solid and stone-like the masses become.\n\nThe harbor of St. Augustine is a portion of the sea cut off by Anastasia\nIsland. Southward, the Matanzas River extends from the harbor; and in\nall these waters there is fine fishing. On the sea-beaches there is good\nbathing, for the water is not too cold even in winter. St. Augustine is\nan attractive place at all seasons of the year, and its three superb\nhotels--the Ponce de Leon, the Alcazar, and the Cordova--are among the\nmost celebrated in America. In winter people come down from the North\nbecause its air is so warm and pleasant, and in summer people from the\nSouthern States visit it because its sea-breezes are so cool and\nrefreshing. It is a favorable resort for yachts, and in its wide, smooth\nharbor may often be seen some of the most beautiful vessels of this\nclass.\n\nSt. Augustine is not only a delightful place in which to stay, but it is\neasy to reach from there some points which are of great interest to\ntravelers. The great St. John's River is only fourteen miles away, and\nis connected with the town by a little railroad. At Tocoi, the river\nterminus of the railroad, people who wish to penetrate into the heart of\nFlorida, with its great forests and lakes and beautiful streams, can\ntake a steamer and sail up the St. John's, which, by the way, flows\nnorthward some two hundred miles. In some parts the river is six miles\nwide, resembling a lake, and in its narrow portions the shores are very\nbeautiful.\n\nAbout forty miles above Tocoi the Ocklawaha River runs into the St.\nJohn's, and there are few visitors to St. Augustine who do not desire to\ntake a trip up the little river which is in many respects the most\nromantic and beautiful stream in the world. At Tocoi we take a small\nsteamboat which looks like a very narrow two-story house mounted upon a\nlittle canal-boat, and in this we go up the St. John's until we see on\nthe right an opening in the tree-covered banks. This is the mouth of the\nOcklawaha, and, entering it, we steam directly into the heart of one of\nthe great forests of Florida. The stream is very narrow, and full of\nturns and bends. Indeed, its name, which is Indian, signifies \"crooked\nwater\"; and sometimes the bow of the boat has even to be pushed around\nby men with long poles. Of course we go slowly, but no one objects to\nthat, for we do not wish to hurry through such scenery as this. On each\nside we see green trees with their thick evergreen foliage, with vines\nand moss hanging from many of them, and the ground beneath covered with\nthe luxuriant shrubbery which grows in these warm regions.\n\nSometimes we can see through the trees into the distant recesses of the\nforest, and then again we are shut in by walls of foliage. Now and then\nwe may see an alligator sunning himself on a log, and as our boat\napproaches he rolls over into the water and plumps out of sight.\nWater-turkeys, whose bodies are concealed in the bushes, run out their\nlong necks to look at us, presenting the appearance of snakes darting\nfrom between the leaves; while curlews, herons, and many other birds are\nseen on the banks and flying across the river. In some places the stream\nwidens, and in the shallower portions near the banks grow many kinds of\nlilies, beautiful reeds, and other water-plants. For long distances\nthere is no solid ground on either side of the river, the water\npenetrating far into the forest and forming swamps. Near the edge of the\nriver we frequently see myriads of tree-roots bent almost at right\nangles, giving the trees the appearance of standing on spider-legs in\nthe water.\n\nSometimes the forest opens overhead, but nearly all the way we are\ncovered by a roof of green, and at every turn appear new scenes of\nbeauty and luxuriance. Occasionally the banks are moderately high, and\nwe see long stretches of solid ground covered with verdure. There is one\nspot where two large trees stand, one on each bank, close to the water,\nand the distance between the two is so small that as our boat glides\nthrough this natural gateway there is scarcely a foot of room to spare\non either side.\n\nAlthough the river is such a little one that we are apt to think all the\ntime we are sailing on it that we must soon come to the end of its\nnavigation, we go on more than a hundred miles before we come to the\nplace where we stop and turn back. The trip up the Ocklawaha requires\nall the hours of a day and a great part of a night; and this night trip\nis like a journey through fairyland. On the highest part of the boat is\na great iron basket, into which, as soon as it becomes dark, are thrown\nquantities of pine-knots. These are lighted in order that the pilot may\nsee how to steer. The blazing of the resinous fuel lights up the forest\nfor long distances in every direction, and, as may easily be imagined,\nthe effect is wonderfully beautiful. When the fire blazes high the scene\nis like an illuminated lacework of tree-trunks, vines, leaves, and\ntwigs, the smallest tendril shining out bright and distinct; while\nthrough it all the river gleams like a band of glittering silver. Then,\nas the pine-knots gradually burn out, the illumination fades and fades\naway until we think the whole glorious scene is about to melt into\nnothing, when more sticks are thrown on, the light blazes up again, and\nwe have before us a new scene with different combinations of illuminated\nfoliage and water.\n\nIt often happens that during the night our little steamer crowds itself\nto one side of the river and stops. Then we may expect to see a splendid\nsight. Out of the dark depths of the forest comes a glowing, radiant\napparition, small at first, but getting larger and larger until it moves\ndown upon us like a tangle of moon and stars drifting through the trees.\n\nThis is nothing but another little steamboat coming down the river with\nits lighted windows and decks, and its blazing basket of pine-knots.\nThere is just room enough for her to squeeze past us, and then her\nradiance gradually fades away in the darkness behind us.\n\n[Illustration: FORT MARION--VIEW FROM WATER-BATTERY.]\n\nWe travel thus, night and day, until we reach Silver Springs, which is\nthe end of our journey. This is a small lake so transparent that we can\nsee down to the very bottom of it, and watch the turtles and fishes as\nthey swim about. A silver coin or any small object thrown into the water\nmay be distinctly seen lying on the white sand far beneath us. The land\nis high and dry about Silver Springs, and the passengers generally go on\nshore and stroll through the woods for an hour or two. Then we reembark\nand return to St. Augustine as we came.\n\nIt must not be supposed that St. Augustine contains nothing but\nbuildings of the olden time. Although many parts of the town are the\nsame as they were in the old Spanish days, and although we may even find\nthe descendants of the Minorcans who were once its principal citizens,\nthe city now contains many handsome modern dwellings and hotels, some of\nwhich are exceptionally large and grand. Hundreds of people from the\nNorth have come down to this city of orange-scented air, eternal\nverdure, and invigorating sea-breezes, and have built handsome houses;\nand during the winter there is a great deal of bustle and life in the\nnarrow streets, in the Plaza, and on the sunny front of the town. Many\nof the shops are of a kind only to be found in semi-tropical towns by\nthe sea, and have for sale bright-colored sea-beans, ornaments made of\nfish-scales of every variety of hue, corals, dried sea-ferns, and ever\nso many curiosities of the kind. We may even buy, if we choose, some\nlittle black alligators, alive and brisk and about a foot long. As to\nfruit, we can get here the best oranges in the world, which come from\nthe Indian River in the southern part of Florida, and many sorts of\ntropical fruits that are seldom brought to Northern cities.\n\nIf St. Augustine were like most American cities, and had been built by\nus or by our immediate ancestors, and presented an air of newness and\nprogress and business prosperity, its delightful climate and its natural\nbeauties would make it a most charming place to visit. But if we add to\nthese attractions the fact that here alone we can see a bit of the old\nworld without leaving our young Republic, and that in two or three days\nfrom the newness and busy din of New York or Chicago we may sit upon the\nramparts of a medieval fort, and study the history of those olden days\nwhen the history of Spain, England, and France was also the history of\nthis portion of our own land,--we cannot fail to admit that this little\ntown of coquina walls and evergreen foliage and traditions of old-world\nantiquity occupies a position which is unique in the United States.\n\n\n\n\nCATCHING TERRAPIN\n\nBY ALFRED KAPPES\n\n\nIn the shoal waters along the coast south of Cape Henlopen, terrapin are\ncaught in various ways. Dredges dragged along in the wake of a sailing\nvessel pick them up. Nets stretched across some narrow arm of river or\nbay entangle the feet of any stray terrapin in their meshes; but these\nrequire the constant attendance of the fisherman to save the catch from\ndrowning. In the winter, in the deeper water, the terrapin rise from\ntheir muddy quarters on mild sunny days and crawl along the bottom. They\nare then taken by tongs, their whereabouts being often betrayed by\nbubbles.\n\nThe method shown in the drawing is resorted to only in the spring and in\nwater not over a foot or two in depth. Turtles will rise at any noise,\nand usually the fisherman only claps his hands, though each hunter has\nhis own way of attracting the terrapin. One hunter whom I saw when I\nmade the drawing uttered a queer guttural noise that seemed to rise from\nhis boots.\n\n[Illustration: CATCHING TERRAPIN IN THE SPRING.]\n\nWhatever the noise, all turtles within hearing--whether terrapin or\n\"snapper\"--will put their heads above water. Both are welcome and are\nquickly sold to the market-men. The snapper slowly appears and\ndisappears, leaving scarcely a ripple; and the hunter cautiously\napproaching usually takes him by the tail. The terrapin, on the\ncontrary, is quick, and will descend in an oblique direction, so that a\nhand-net is needed unless he happens to come up near by. If he is near\nenough the man jumps for him. The time for hunting is the still hour at\neither sunrise or sunset.\n\n\n\n\n\"LOCOED\"\n\n(_A story of a Texan girl._)\n\nBY EDWARD MARSHALL\n\n\nJohn Fredding had laughingly taken his sister Martha as a partner in his\nTexas saddle store. She made a good partner although she was only\nthirteen years old. There were other women on the ranch (the saddle\nstore was only an adjunct of the big cattle-ranch itself), but the\ngrandmother was very old, and the servant-girl was Welsh and would not\nlearn to speak more English than was required in the daily routine of\nhousework.\n\nNot far away was the town of Amarilla (pronounced Ah-ma-ree-ah). There\nwere plenty of women and girls there, but Martha knew none of them well\nexcept the preacher's daughter, Scylla. Martha and Scylla were great\nfriends. They saw each other as often as Martha could get time and\npermission to ride in to Amarilla. Scylla could seldom visit the ranch,\nfor she was an invalid. When she had been a very little girl, a horse\nhad kicked her. She was ill for many weeks, and after the doctor had\ntold her parents that she would live, he had added that she might never\nhave full use of her right side again. It was partially paralyzed.\n\nBut Martha was seldom lonely. For in the daytime there was always\nsomething to do around the ranch or store. She had her pet calf to\nattend to, for one thing. He was given to her by a cow-boy who bought a\nsaddle from her brother one day, and who cried that evening when Martha\nplayed \"Home, Sweet Home\" for him on her guitar. The calf was in several\nrespects remarkable. In the first place, he was almost black--an unusual\nthing among Texas cattle. In the second place, he was not quite black,\nfor he had a white spot on his forehead shaped almost exactly like\nMartha's guitar. That was why they called him \"Gitter.\" In the third\nplace, Martha had taught him several tricks. He had learned to low three\ntimes when he was thirsty, and twice when he was hungry; he would stand\non his hind legs and paw the air with his front legs for a moment when\nMartha cried, \"Up, Gitter!\" and he would lie down and roll over on the\ngrass when she commanded \"Down, Gitter!\" She had a cat that would climb\nup on her shoulder whenever he got the chance, and a clever dog that\nliked the cat. She had two horses, also. One of them was an ordinary\n\"cow-pony,\" but the other was a big black Spanish horse who seemed to\nlove Martha as well as she loved him. When she was on his back he never\nvaried his long, swinging, graceful gallop by jumping or shying, but if\nany one else rode him, he was apt to make them hold fast when he went\naround corners. His name was \"Dan.\" Martha thought almost as much of the\ncow-pony, though, as she did of Dan, and called him \"Texas,\" after the\ngreat State she lived in.\n\nHer brother, too, did many things to make her happy. In the long winter\nevenings he often read to her for hours, or taught her new airs on the\nguitar, of which he was a master; and sometimes, when summer came, they\ntook long rides off on the prairie together. These occurred when there\nwas a band of cow-boys camped near by, and John generally combined\nbusiness with pleasure by talking with them about cattle and saddles.\nBut that did not detract at all from Martha's enjoyment of the rides.\nShe always carried her guitar swung over her shoulder by a strap when\nshe went out with her brother to see the cow-boys.\n\n[Illustration: \"SOMETIMES WHEN SUMMER CAME THEY TOOK LONG RIDES ON THE\nPRAIRIE TOGETHER.\"]\n\nThe little girl's life was a queer one, but then, she was a queer little\ngirl and among queer people. For instance, there was \"Mister Jim,\" who\ncame up to the store every few weeks to lay in supplies. Mister Jim was\none of the men who were hired to keep wild animals out of the Canon. The\nCanon was a favorite place for Amarilla's excursions and picnics, and\nwas very beautiful; but it communicated with other canons into which\npicnics could never penetrate, and in which there were wild beasts of\nmany kinds. To prevent these unpleasant visitors from wandering where\nthey were not wanted, men were stationed at various places to shoot\nthem. Mister Jim was the one nearest to Martha's home, and he was\nMartha's stanch friend. He never went to the ranch without some gift for\nher--the soft pelt of an animal he had shot, the gay wings of a strange\nbird, or some crystal or stone he had found in his explorations of the\nCanon. Martha returned his admiration. He lived in a cave, and that\ninterested her--she thought she might like to try it herself some time.\nShe considered his clothes very grand and impressive. In the Canon he\nwore a leather suit; but when he visited the ranch he was always\ndressed in black velvet trimmed with gold braid, and wore a high,\npointed hat wound with red ribbons like those of the seldom-appearing\nMexican cow-boys, only much finer.\n\nBut the \"loco men\" were Martha's favorites. There were three of\nthem--Big Billy, Little Billy, and One-eyed Saylo. Why Saylo was called\n\"one-eyed\" was a mystery, for he had two of the very best eyes for\nspying the hated loco-weed ever known in that region. Loco-weed grows,\nwhen unmolested, to a height of sixteen or eighteen inches, and its\nqueer leaves shine and sparkle in the sunlight like silver and crystals.\nIts effects on horses or cattle that happen to eat it are worse than\ndeadly. One good, big meal of loco-weed will ruin an animal forever.\n\nA locoed horse, once locoed, is locoed until he dies. Apparently he may\nrecover wholly, but he is not a safe animal to ride, for at any moment\nhe may stagger and fall, or go suddenly mad. A locoed horse is almost\ncertain to show it when he becomes heated by rapid traveling or hard\nwork. The great danger from locoed cattle is, that they will begin to\ntumble around in the midst of a herd and frighten their fellows into a\nstampede.\n\nAs it can work such ruin, in order to avoid the danger of having their\nanimals locoed, the ranchmen, in those regions where the weed is\nplentiful, hire men to search for it, cut it down, and destroy it. Of\nthese men who make their living in searching for the dreaded loco-weed\nand destroying it wherever found were Big Billy, Little Billy, and\nOne-eyed Saylo.\n\nOne summer night John told Martha to get her guitar, while he saddled\nTexas and his own pony for a ride. In a few moments they were galloping\nover the prairie on their way to a cow-boy camp about three miles away.\nWhen they reached it, they found all the five men, but one, rolled up\nfrom top to toe in their tarpaulins, and asleep on the prairie. The one\nwho was awake welcomed them in effusive cow-boy style, and then with a\n\"Wake up, you-uns! Yar's John Fredding an' 'is little woman!\" kicked\neach of his sleeping companions into consciousness with his foot. They\nwere all glad to see John and Martha, for they knew them of old.\n\nIn the twinkling of an eye the smoldering fire was livened into a cheery\nblaze, the visitors' ponies were picketed, and the men were grouped\naround Martha and the fire. For a little while John talked business\nwith them; but, before long, one of the men arose and, deferentially\ntaking off his broad hat to Martha, asked her if she wouldn't give them\na \"chune.\" The music of her guitar was indescribably sweet, there in the\nlittle oasis of light in the prairie's desert of darkness, and for a\ntime the men sat silently, with their hands clasped about their knees,\nenjoying it. Then she struck into a rollicking cow-boy song, and they\njoined in shouting it out. It is a favorite among the cow-boys of\nsouthern Texas, and begins thus:\n\n  I'd rather hear a rattler rattle,\n  I'd rather do a Greaser battle,\n  I'd rather buck stampeding cattle,\n  Than\n  Than to\n  Than to fight\n  Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.\n\n  I'd rather eat a pan of dope,\n  I'd rather ride without a rope,\n  I'd rather from this country lope,\n  Than\n  Than to\n  Than to fight\n  Than to fight the bloody In-ji-ans.\n\nAfter that came \"I'm Gwine Back to Dixie,\" and \"'Way Down Upon the\nSuwanee River,\" and then John said it was time to start home again. Loud\nwere the protests of the cow-boys, and when John and Martha went, the\nwhole party went with them except one man, who was left to watch the\ncattle. They were \"full of sing,\" as one of them put it, and it was a\njolly ride back to the ranch. When it was finally reached, the cow-boys\ngave them a \"send-off\" that could have been heard a mile away. They\nshouted and yelled like the wild \"In-ji-ans\" they had sung about, and as\nthey wheeled around to gallop back to camp, they fired all the charges\nin their revolvers into the air as a parting courtesy. Then there was a\nmad scamper of horses' hoofs, the yells grew fainter, and the cow-boys\nwere gone.\n\nWhen John went into the house he found two letters which had been\nbrought up by some passing friend from Amarilla. One of them was from an\nold schoolmate of his, who had become a professor in a Northern college,\nasking for some loco-weed, to be added to the college botanical\ncollection. The other was from Scylla's father, saying that if it would\nbe convenient he would bring his little daughter out to the ranch in a\nfew days for a long-promised visit to Martha. This second letter sent\nMartha to bed a very happy little girl.\n\nSeveral days passed before Scylla arrived at the ranch; but when she did\ncome there was great rejoicing. After she was comfortably ensconced in\nher wheeled chair on the porch, she held a mimic reception. John and\nMartha did the honors, and every human being within call was introduced\nto the little invalid. In the store there were a dozen leather-decked\ncow-boys, and Scylla felt quite like a queen as each one scrambled up to\nher, and with his broad sombrero in one hand took her tiny fingers in\nthe other as he turned red and tried to say something polite. Nor did\nher impromptu court end with that. After the introductions were over,\nall the visitors sat down on the porch or the grass before it, while\nMartha exhibited her pets to her friend. Gitter, the calf, was put\nthrough all his tricks, the cat was placed in Scylla's poor little arms,\nwhere he purred contentedly, and the dog chased sticks thrown by whoever\ncould find any to throw. After Gitter had been led away, Martha came up\nfrom the stables with her two horses--Texas and Dan. Big black Dan was\ninclined to frisk a bit and jump about at the unusual scene; but\nlittle Texas worked his way right into Scylla's heart by marching\nsteadily and straight up to her, despite Martha's laughing pulls on the\nlariat looped about his neck. With ears pricked forward, he made\nfriendly overtures to the new-comer on the spot. He poked his nose into\nher lap and rubbed it against her hands and ate sugar from her fingers.\n\n[Illustration: MARTHA RIDES DAN OVER THE HURDLE.]\n\n\"Oh, I wish I could ride him!\" said Scylla.\n\n\"He never was so cordial before, not even with me,\" said Martha.\n\nThen she suddenly thought of something, and after intrusting her horses\nto one of the cow-boys, went and talked it over in whispers with her\nbrother, Scylla's father, and the doctor, who had been discussing\npolitics together on one end of the porch. After this mysterious\nconversation had lasted a little while, Martha danced back to Scylla, so\nhappy that she \"just _had_ to hop.\"\n\n\"Oh, Scylla!\" she exclaimed, \"you _can_ ride him. Your papa says so and\nthe doctor says so and Brother says so. John is going to fix up one of\nmy saddles for you with an extra strap to keep you from falling, and\nTexas likes you so much he will be gentle and careful as he can be, I\nknow. And the doctor says he thinks it will do you good, if John and I\nkeep close by you all the time, so there won't be any danger.\"\n\nThe following days at the ranch were very pleasant ones for Martha and\nher visitor. In the morning after the work was done--Martha always did\nsome of the light house duties--they would watch with never-flagging\ninterest the great herds of cattle as they were driven on their way for\nshipment from Amarilla, and gossip as girls do. Sometimes the cattle\npassed quite near to the house, but oftener they were half a mile or\nmore away on the prairie--sometimes so far that the great herds seemed\nto be mere black blots moving over the dun brown of the Texas grass.\n\nEvery afternoon the two girls went riding, escorted either by John or\none of the men employed about the ranch. John had fixed one of Martha's\nsaddles so that poor little Scylla could not fall, and Texas seemed to\nbear his tiny burden with more than ordinary care. At first they rode\nvery slowly, and for only a few moments at a time; but Scylla gained\nstrength daily, and by the end of the second week had improved so much\nthat she could ride for an hour without great fatigue, and Texas was\noccasionally allowed to start his gentle gallop.\n\nIt was as they were returning from one of these rides that Scylla's\nsharp eyes spied the figure of a horseman rushing out to them from the\nranch. He waved his hat and yelled, firing his revolver between whoops\nand generally conducted himself like a madman. Martha recognized him at\nonce.\n\n\"It's One-eyed Saylo,\" she said. \"He always acts like that--he thinks it\nwouldn't be showing proper respect to a lady unless he wasted half a\ndozen cartridges and showed off his horsemanship.\"\n\nSaylo acknowledged his introduction to Scylla with great ceremony, and\nthen told John that he had come to bring the loco-weed for the college\nprofessor. By dint of much searching and hard riding he had gathered a\ngunny-sack full of it.\n\nThen, as they rode slowly toward the ranch, he told John how the cattle\nin the whole region seemed to be getting \"panicky.\" All the cow-boys he\nhad met had had the same story to tell. It was only by the most careful\nhandling that they were able to keep their herds from stampeding.\n\nBy this time the little cavalcade had reached the ranch. After Scylla\nhad been lifted from the saddle and carried to her seat on the porch,\nMartha, full of the irrepressible good spirits of a healthy girl, had a\nlong frolic with her big black horse. She took his saddle off, and let\nhim enjoy the luxury of a long roll on the grass, and then she made him\ndo all his tricks. First he shook hands with great dignity--\"just to\nshow that this was friendly fun,\" Martha said. Then she replaced the\nsaddle, clambered to its easy seat, and put him through his paces. He\nwalked, slow and stately, with much self-consciousness, as a real\nSpanish horse should; he trotted, he loped, he paced, and went\nsingle-foot, greatly to the admiration of the three spectators. Martha\nkept her seat with perfect ease and grace.\n\nTwo posts near the house Martha had turned into the uprights of a\njumping-hurdle with bars which could be placed at various heights. Over\nthese bars that afternoon, Dan, with Martha sticking to his back like a\nburr, jumped many times, surpassing, to the delight of both girls, his\nprevious best record.\n\nJohn, in the meantime, was busy in the shop, where One-eyed Saylo had\nfollowed him to gossip with the workmen about the all-absorbing topic of\nsaddles and bridles. Martha had finished her fun, led Dan away and\npicketed him, and was sitting by Scylla's side talking about that happy\nday when health and strength should have come back to the preacher's\nlittle daughter, when the men came out again. The gunny-sack of\nloco-weed was lying at the side of the porch, and both girls watched\nJohn and Saylo with interest as they shook out and examined its\ncontents.\n\n\"So they all want some of this stuff to look at an' study, up No'th, do\nthey?\" said Saylo, and added: \"I reckon we-all wouldn't be so\nover-flowin' with grief ef they'd take all th' loco thar is in th' State\no' Texas.\"\n\nJust then the Welsh servant blew loud and long on a great tin horn, and\nthey all went in to supper. Saylo and John had picketed their ponies,\nSaylo intending to ride in to Amarilla that night, and John having in\nview a visit to the camp of cow-boys four or five miles away. Martha had\ntethered Texas near the other ponies, because he was \"such a sociable\nlittle beast.\"\n\nIt was nearing sundown when supper was over. One-eyed Saylo vaulted into\nhis saddle after elaborate good-bys and went off toward Amarilla in a\nwild canter, and John prepared to start off on his saddle mission to the\ncow-boys. His pony and Texas stood with heads hanging dejectedly down,\nclose together, as far away from the house as their long lariats would\nlet them go, when John, carrying on his arm a new saddle that he wanted\nto try, went toward them. As he walked away from the house he called\ncheerily: \"Come, Mattie,--want to go along?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; I'll stay here with Scylla to-night,\" she answered.\n\n\"Why can't she go too?--it's too nice an evening to stay at home. I'll\nride as slow as you like, and it isn't far.\"\n\nBoth girls were delighted at this.\n\n\"Isn't he good to poor little me!\" Scylla exclaimed to Martha as John\nfixed her on Texas's back.\n\nMartha ran around, brought Dan, and in a very few moments they were\nriding leisurely toward the setting sun.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe evening was perfect. As the great, clean-cut disk of the sun dropped\nslowly below the far-off edge of the prairie, the breeze that had been\nbusy all day rustling the prairie-grass died away, and the silence was\nso complete that they all stopped involuntarily \"to listen to it.\" They\nhad ridden until they were three or four miles from the ranch, when\nthey paused again, this time to hear the crooning of far-away cow-boys.\nThey were between two great herds of cattle. One, on the left, was half\na mile away; and the moon, which now shed a great white light over the\nprairie showed it only as a black mass. Those cattle had been \"bedded\"\nfor the night--that is, two cow-boys had ridden around and around them\ndriving them closer together so that they would be easy to watch, and\nmuch less likely to be restless. The other herd was a little nearer, and\nthe cow-boys were bedding it as the trio from the ranch approached. The\ncamp-fire flickered between the riders and the herd, and its flaring\nlight seemed to make the cow-boys and cattle nearest it lurch back and\nforward in and out of the gloom while their changing shadows danced\nfantastically over the prairie. Here the three riders paused again to\nlisten. Closer by, the cow-boys' crooning would have sounded harsh and\nunmusical, but at this distance it shaped itself into a plaintive, minor\nmelody that was very pleasing. For many moments they waited and enjoyed\nit in silence. Then suddenly a quick gust of wind and a low, muttering\nrumble of thunder made them turn quickly and look at the sky behind\nthem.\n\nA bank of dead black clouds was rising on the eastern horizon.\n\nJohn stopped, gazed at it ruefully for a moment, and said:\n\n\"There's a big thunder-storm coming; but we can get home all right\nbefore it strikes us. You girls ride slowly back. I'll rush to the camp\nand tell the boys to stop in in the morning. I'll overtake you before\nyou've gone far.\"\n\nWith that he was off at a brisk canter toward the herd.\n\nMartha and Scylla did as he told them. The rising but still distant\nclouds, lighted on their edges by the moon, added greatly to the beauty\nof the night, and both the girls appreciated the sight. They walked\ntheir horses and talked girlish nonsense. John had promised to take\nMartha to the North the next winter, and she told Scylla some of the\nwonderful things she had heard about the great cities and the curious\nthings to be seen up there.\n\nSuddenly Scylla interrupted her with:\n\n\"Martha, I believe there's something the matter with Texas--he's\ntrembling all over.\"\n\n\"Oh, I guess not,\" said Martha; \"he's just tired. Texas has had a\npretty hard day of it. But yet, he doesn't often get tired.\"\n\nShe rode up close to Scylla and put her hand on Texas's neck. It was wet\nwith sweat, although he had hardly gone faster than a walk since he had\nleft the ranch.\n\nAnd, sure enough, he _was_ trembling slightly.\n\n\"There is something the matter with him, I know,\" said Scylla.\n\n\"Stop a minute and take my reins; I'll get off and see what it is,\" said\nMartha. \"You're right. Texas is trembling like a leaf. Perhaps we'd\nbetter wait here for John.\"\n\nThere was an anxious little quaver in her voice as she dismounted and,\ngoing in front of Texas, took his head between her hands. There was no\nlonger any doubt that the horse was sick, and very sick. His eyes closed\nsleepily, and his head dropped low. Then he suddenly began to sway and\ntotter on his feet.\n\n\"Oh, Martha, I'm afraid!\" cried Scylla.\n\nMartha was badly frightened, too, but she acted instead of saying\nanything. She rushed to Scylla's side and hastily unbuckled the straps\nthat held the weak little body in the saddle.\n\n\"Quick, jump into my arms!\" she commanded as the last buckle fell\njinglingly downward and Texas gave another alarming sidewise lurch. With\nmore strength than she supposed she had, she half lifted, half pulled\nScylla out of the saddle and eased her, almost fainting, to the ground.\nIt was none too soon, for in an instant more Texas had fallen with a\ngroan and lay quiet on the prairie.\n\nThis lasted only for a few seconds; then with an unsteady stagger the\nlittle horse scrambled to his feet. For another instant he stood quiet;\nthen he began to tremble again and looked around toward the girls. But\nthe pony's eyes had changed; they were wild and blood-shot. With a mad\nsnort he started off on a wild run into the gloom.\n\nFor a moment the girls were too surprised to speak. Scylla was\nsobbing on the ground, and Martha stood by her. She had the reins\nof Dan's bridle in her hand, and gazed dumfounded after the\nrapidly-disappearing Texas. Finally she turned to her companion:\n\n\"Oh, Scylla,\" she said, \"I'm so glad I got you off his back!\"\n\n\"What do you think is the matter with him?\" Scylla asked.\n\n\"I can't imagine, unless--yes, that's it--he's locoed! Oh, my poor\nlittle Texas! My dear, gentle little pony! You ate that loco-weed Saylo\nbrought for the college professor!\"\n\nNow Martha was crying, too, for she knew that her pony was lost to her.\n\n\"They--they left it lying by the porch,\" she went on, \"and--you ate it\nwhile we were at supper. Oh, my little Texas!\"\n\nMartha had forgotten everything but her grief, but soon she remembered\nthat there was a storm coming and that Scylla must be taken home in some\nway. At first she tried to lift her to Dan's high back, but she was not\nstrong enough. Then she thought of his education, and commanded him to\nlie down. He was nervous and excited and did not, at first, obey her,\nbut finally she coaxed him into getting down on his knees. Then, with\ngreat pains and trouble, she pulled and lifted Scylla into the saddle.\nAs Dan struggled to his feet again, it was hard work to keep the little\ninvalid from falling, but it was done. Then Martha led him slowly toward\nthe ranch. The exciting events that had just passed had made her\nnervous, and for the first time in a long while she felt afraid.\n\n\"Oh, I wish John would hurry and catch up with us!\" she exclaimed.\n\"Please don't fall, Scylla--hang on to the pommel tight.\"\n\nScylla, who had stopped crying, told Martha not to worry, that she would\nnot fall; and the slow journey over the prairie continued silently for a\nminute or two. Every once in a while Martha turned back and looked\ntoward the flickering camp-fire of the cow-boys. An exclamation of\nsurprise was drawn from her when she failed to see it shining in the\ndistance, and she stopped. Then, faintly, she heard shouts and the\nthumping of racing hoofs on the prairie.\n\n\"John is coming at last,\" she said.\n\nBut then she realized that more than one animal's hoofs were drumming\ndesperately on the turf. While she stood wondering if some of the\ncow-boys were coming home with John, she heard the hoof-beats merge into\na steady roar. Even the shouts of the men which she had just heard were\ndrowned in this dull, threatening rumble. For just an instant she\nthought it was thunder, and then her quick reasoning told her the truth.\n\nThe herd had stampeded!\n\nThat she and Scylla were directly in its path she was certain, for the\ncamp-fire had, a moment before, been between them and the herd and\nwas now invisible. It had either been trampled out or was hidden by the\nadvancing mass of cattle.\n\n[Illustration: \"JUST THEN ANOTHER FLASH CAME AND SHOWED A COW-BOY\nLEANING FAR OVER THE NECK OF HIS PONY, RIDING FOR HIS LIFE.\"]\n\nMartha well knew what it meant to be in the path of a stampede; but,\nstrangely enough, all her fear left her. She was puzzled, that was all.\nHad she been alone, she could easily have escaped by jumping on Dan's\nback and riding hard. Dan could have distanced the cattle, even when\nthey were stampeding. But now she had helpless Scylla to take care of.\n\nThe advancing thunder-clouds had wholly hidden the moon and put the\nprairie in inky darkness. At first Martha thought of starting Dan away\nwith Scylla and trusting to Providence to keep the little invalid on his\nback, while she remained to face the danger alone; then she thought of\ntrying to ride with her. But she knew Scylla could not possibly keep her\nplace in the saddle of the horse while he ran, even if she herself\nshould mount him too and try to hold Scylla on.\n\nShe stepped back to Scylla's side. There was a deathly doubt in her\nheart as to whether she was doing the right thing; but she had made a\ndesperate resolve. Scylla had heard the thunder of the approaching herd\ntoo, and was too frightened to speak. Martha held her arms up toward\nher just as the first flash of lightning came.\n\n\"Come, Scylla,\" she said, \"slide off into my arms. The herd has\nstampeded and is coming toward us, but I will try to save us both.\"\n\nWithout a word Scylla did as she was told, and in a few seconds was half\nkneeling, half lying on the ground.\n\nThen Martha struck Dan as hard as she could with her flat hand.\n\n\"Hey up, Dan!\" said she, \"run! run! _You_ needn't stay here, too!\"\n\nThe horse galloped off into the darkness.\n\nJust then another lighting-flash came and showed a cow-boy leaning far\nover the neck of his pony, riding for his life. He passed only a dozen\nyards from them, but did not see them. Behind him Martha could dimly see\ntwo or three other riders coming toward them at desperate speed, while\nstill beyond she caught a glimpse of the tossing horns and lurching\nheads of the cattle.\n\nWithout a moment for thought, and as coolly as if she had nothing in the\nworld to fear, she bent over trembling Scylla, unfastened the waistband\nof her dress-skirt and pulled it deftly from under her. Then she quickly\nremoved her own and took one of the bright-colored garments in each\nhand.\n\nJust then the storm broke furiously. The night was suddenly lighted by\nlightning-flashes that followed one another so closely they seemed to\nmake one long, lasting flare. The cow-boys had all passed, and Martha\nsaw that the herd was scarcely two hundred yards away.\n\nShe stepped directly in front of Scylla's prostrate form and raised the\nskirts.\n\n\"Scream, Scylla, scream!\" she cried.\n\nThen, while the driving rain fell in torrents, and the lightning made\nthe prairie as light as day, she stood straight up and waved those\nskirts wildly about her head, and shouted at the top of her voice.\n\nShe was dimly conscious that her shouts shaped themselves into a prayer\nthat her brother was safe, and that the herd might divide and pass them.\nHer face was as pale as paper. Her long hair was tossed about by the\nwind, and by her own violent motions.\n\nThe foremost of the cattle was only a hundred yards away now. She could\nsee the lightning shining on his horns and in his red, rolling eyes. He\nwas coming straight toward her. Louder she shouted and more wildly she\nswung the skirts. Would he crush her, or would he turn aside? She felt\nan almost overpowering impulse to turn and run away, but that would mean\ncertain death. Her only hope was to keep her position firmly, and to\nswing her skirts and scream. If the first steer swerved and passed her,\nhis followers might do so too.\n\nHe seemed of mammoth proportions as he lurched toward her. His head was\nlowered, and his great hoofs pounded the ground like trip-hammers.\nCloser! Closer! He was not twenty feet away. His big, crazy eyes seemed\nto look straight into hers. Closer! Closer!--Then he changed his course\na trifle. In an instant he had passed her like a great fury. Others were\nonly a few feet behind him, and back of them was the compact mass of the\nherd. She screamed louder and redoubled her waving. The thunder in the\nheavens, and the thunder of the hoofs, drowned her voice so that she\ncould not even hear it herself. A dozen cattle passed her. Fifty cattle\npassed her. She was in the midst of the herd which seemed to make a\nsolid, living wall on each side of her. The earth trembled beneath the\nhammering of the hoofs. Her throat seemed ready to burst, and she was\ncertain that no sound came from her lips. It seemed a long time since\nthat first one had plunged toward her, but still the maddened beasts\nadvanced with lowered heads and lunging bodies. They did not seem to\nturn aside, and each instant she expected to be struck down and trampled\nunder their feet. She could not even try to scream any longer, but still\nshe waved the skirts.\n\nAt last, slowly, she saw that the herd was thinning. Short gaps began to\nappear between the animals. She knew that the herd had nearly passed.\nThen the living walls on each side melted away behind her, and only\nstragglers were left. Then these, too, were gone. The stampeding herd\nhad passed her, and she was still alive.\n\nShe turned dizzily toward Scylla.\n\nThe little invalid--the cripple--was standing straight up, close behind\nher. For a second Martha doubted her eyes. The storm still raged, and\nshe thought it was a vagary of the lightning. She held her hands out,\nthough, and convinced herself that it was true. Scylla was standing on\nher feet, for the first time in many years. The two girls threw their\narms around each other, and sank to their knees on the prairie. As they\nsaid a prayer of thanks together, the uneven glare of the lightning,\nwhich had kept up almost uninterruptedly ever since a few seconds before\nthe cattle reached them, died away. One or two feeble flashes followed,\nand then the storm had passed.\n\nMartha took Scylla's face between her hands and kissed her. Then she\nsaid:\n\n\"Wasn't it awful?\"\n\n\"Oh, Martha,\" Scylla answered, \"I thought every second that we'd be\nkilled, but there you stood as brave as a lion, and waved those dresses\nright in the faces of the cattle. You saved both our lives. I lay here\non the ground for a minute after you took my skirt, and then I got up.\"\n\n\"You _got up_, Scylla! How could you, all alone?\"\n\n\"I don't know, Martha, but I felt as if I _must_. I tried to rise once,\nand fell back. Then the cattle came and I tried again, and all the\nweakness seemed to be gone, and I stood right up behind you and stayed\nthere while the herd went by. I don't feel as I used to--I feel as if\nthe paralysis had all gone. See, I can get up again,--don't help\nme,--all alone.\"\n\nAnd, sure enough, Scylla scrambled to her feet. She stood a little\nunsteadily on them, but she stood. They were so glad it was true that\nthey did not try to understand it.\n\nAfter Scylla's new-found strength had been rejoiced over for a moment,\nthey began to wonder how they could get home. They knew that they could\nnot walk--Martha was terribly tired, and Scylla, even if she could stand\nup, was not equal to the long tramp back to the ranch, of course. They\nwere dripping wet. The elation that followed their escape, and the\ndiscovery of Scylla's great good fortune, was followed by a nervous\nbreakdown on the part of both girls, and they cuddled in each other's\narms on the wet grass, sobbing and frightened, to wait for morning to\ncome.\n\nHardly half an hour had passed before they heard horses. Martha stood up\nand saw the shadowy form of a rider away off to the right. She tried to\nscream, but her overstrained voice was hoarse and husky. Scylla called\nout as well as she could, but the horseman rode on. By and by they\nchanged their course, however, and came near enough for the girls to\nmake their presence known.\n\nAs the horses approached, Martha recognized in the foremost one the big\nblack form of Dan. Her brother John was on his back, and with him were\nmen from the ranch.\n\nThere were tears in the eyes of the big men as they lifted the girls in\ntheir arms, and started home. They had not expected to find them alive.\n\nBefore they went to sleep, the thrilling story of Martha's bravery had\nbeen fully told, and to it had been added the news of Scylla's strange\nrecovery.\n\nThe next day the doctor was called in to see about it. He gravely shook\nhis head, and said it was strange, but that such things had happened\nbefore. The great mental excitement of the stampede had wrought what\nseemed a miracle.\n\nHer recovery after that was rapid. When John and Martha went North the\nnext winter, Scylla went with them, and was able to walk about almost as\neasily as Martha herself.\n\nA few days after the stampede, the bruised body of poor Texas was found\nwhere he had been trampled to death by the herd. What was left of the\nloco-weed that had wrought his ruin was burned, and the Northern college\nprofessor is still without his specimens.\n\n\n\n\nA DIVIDED DUTY\n\nBY M. A. CASSIDY\n\n\nThe Magill residence was situated near the highways connecting Knoxville\nand Chattanooga. Encamping armies had burned every splinter of fencing,\nand so the cleared space was thrown into one great field, encircled by a\ngigantic hedge of oak and pine. Near the center of the cleared land, on\na little eminence, was a farm-house. It was a long, one-story building,\nrunning back some distance, its several additions having been\nconstructed as the family required more room. A little to the right, and\nextending the full length of the house, was a row of negro cabins--there\nbeing a passway between the two as wide as an ordinary road. The yard\nsloped gently to the roadway and railroad; near the latter, another rise\nbegan, which extended back to the woodland and commanded an extensive\nview of the surrounding country.\n\nOne afternoon, early in the autumn of 1864, Mrs. Magill and her son\nHarry, a comely lad of thirteen, sat on the front veranda, and talked of\nwhat a happy reunion there would be when their loved ones should return\nfrom the war. And on this glorious autumnal afternoon the hearts of the\nwidow and her son were happy in anticipation.\n\nMrs. Magill had two sons in the war. One wore the Blue, the other the\nGray. John, the eldest of three boys, had enlisted in Wheeler's\nConfederate cavalry, in the second year of the war; and, a year later,\nThomas had joined the Federals under General Burnside at Knoxville. Both\nwere known as brave and dashing soldiers, and both had been promoted,\nfor gallantry, to captaincies. This family division was a source of\ngreat grief to Mrs. Magill. Dearer to her than Union or Confederacy were\nher children; and from their youth she had trained them in the ways of\npeace. And now, in their manhood, two of them, under different flags,\nwere arrayed against each other in a deadly and unnatural strife. She\noften heard from both her soldier boys, and their inquiries after the\nwelfare of each other were full of tenderness. Harry, as is usual with\nyounger brothers, fairly worshiped both of them. He was no less troubled\nthan his mother when they went away to fight on opposite sides. Their\ncontrary action left him in doubt as to which side he should take. Every\nboy of his acquaintance was ardent in espousing one side or the other.\nBut what could he do, since he had a brother in each army? Should he\nbecome a rebel, Thomas might be displeased; and he loved Tom too well to\nwillfully incur his displeasure. Should he decide to remain loyal to the\nUnion, John might resent it; and he could not think of offending one\nwhom he held in such high esteem. \"What shall I do?\" he asked himself a\ngreat many times a day. The war spirit in him was becoming rampant, and\nmust have scope. He at length took the perplexing question to his\nmother. She promptly advised him to remain neutral. But somehow Harry\ngot it into his head that neutrality was something very different from\nmanliness. So he made up his mind to be one thing or the other,\nor--happy thought!--why not be both? And, after puzzling over the\nquestion a long time, he settled on the novel idea of making himself\nhalf \"Rebel\" and half \"Yankee.\" In pursuance of this plan, he persuaded\nhis mother to make him a uniform, half of which should be blue, and the\nother half gray. She made it of a Federal and a Confederate overcoat;\nand Harry was a queer-looking little fellow as he went about the\ncountry, clad in his blue-gray uniform, the U. S. A. buttons on one\nside, and the C. S. A. on the other. The boys called him a \"mongrel\";\nand neither the Federal nor Confederate commands of boy soldiery would\nallow him in their ranks. This was a source of great mortification to\nHarry; but he was seriously in earnest, and fully resolved to carry out\nhis campaign of impartial affection. His being cut by the other boys,\nwho could afford to take a decided stand because they did not have a\nbrother on each side, reduced him to the necessity of playing \"war\"\n(about the only game indulged in by Southern boys at this time) alone.\nWhen he put up his lines of corn-stalk soldiers, to play battle, it was\nobserved, by his mother, that both sides always won an equal number of\nvictories. Harry was not sure that the war could ever end at this rate\nof even fighting; but arrayed as he was, in the colors of both armies,\nhis inclination was to be true to both. There were generally tears in\nhis mother's eyes, when she saw that two of the corn-stalk soldiers, the\ntallest and straightest of them all, representing John and Thomas, were\nalways left standing, even after the most furious of contests, in which\nall the others had fallen.\n\nHarry had left off playing quite early, on the afternoon of which I\nwrite, and had joined his mother on the veranda. They had not been long\ntogether when something unusual attracted their attention.\n\nA short distance down the railroad a body of cavalrymen had dismounted,\nand soon they were as busy as ants, tearing up the track. One squad\npreceded the others and loosened the rails by drawing the spikes; then\ncame another squad that placed the ties in great heaps; after this came\na third that kindled fires beneath them. The ties were rotten and dry,\nand, in a very few moments, there were scores of bright, hot fires. Soon\nthe rails were at a red heat near the center, the ends being\ncomparatively cool. While in this state a number of men would take the\nrails and bend them around telegraph poles or any solid objects that\nwere near. The soldiers twisted the rails into fantastic shapes; and\nwhen they were through with their work of destruction, they seemed\nperfectly satisfied that none of the old material could be used in\nreconstructing the road. Harry and his mother had observed the\noperations of these men with much interest for some time, when suddenly\nthey saw one of them mount his horse, and ride toward the house.\n\n\"He is a rebel!\" exclaimed Harry, who stood watching the approaching\nhorseman.\n\n\"Surely you are mistaken, Harry. There can be no Confederates here,\"\nsaid Mrs. Magill, \"the Federals are too near.\"\n\nWhile yet the soldier was some distance from the house, the boy's face\nlighted up with joy, as he exclaimed:\n\n\"Oh, mother, I do believe it's John!\"\n\n\"John? Where is he?\" asked his mother, running to where the boy stood.\n\n\"Why, there, on the horse! He's coming home! He's coming home!\" And thus\nexclaiming, Harry danced around the veranda like an Indian lad in a\nfirst war-dance. Then he ran to meet his brother in gray. Mrs. Magill\nwas thrilled with sensations of joy and fear: joy, because she was\nabout to see again her eldest son, after a painful separation of two\nyears; fear, because of the nearness of the Federals. When within a\nshort distance of his brother, Harry stopped and waited there, prepared\nto give the military salute due one of his brother's rank. But that\nsalute was never given; for almost at the same instant that Harry\nstopped, Captain John Magill reined up his horse quite suddenly, drew a\npistol from its holster, and looked suspiciously toward a clump of trees\non the hill-top. Harry turned his eyes to learn what had startled his\nbrother. He beheld a score or more of men in blue uniforms, partly\nconcealed by the clump of trees; and it was evident that these were the\nvanguard of a larger body of Federals. Captain John Magill wheeled as\nsuddenly as he had halted, and galloped back to the Confederates engaged\nin demolishing the railroad. As fast as he could run, Harry followed.\nMrs. Magill comprehended the situation; and, spell-bound, she stood on\nthe veranda, with arms outstretched, a statue of anguish and expectancy.\n\nWhen Captain John Magill reached his comrades, he gave the alarm, and\n\"there was mounting in hot haste.\" The two hundred raiders had time\nonly to form an irregular line of battle, when twice as many Federals\nappeared on the hill-top. It was evident that there was going to be a\nlively skirmish. Harry singled out John, who rode up and down the line\ngiving commands, and running to him, he clasped him around a leg with\nboth arms, enthusiastically exclaiming:\n\n\"Howdy, John! Don't you know me?\"\n\nThe young captain looked down at the joy-beaming face of his little\nbrother, but, as he had never seen the little fellow in his fantastic\nuniform, for a moment failed to recognize him.\n\nA shade of disappointment flitted over Harry's face as he said:\n\n\"I am your little brother Harry; and I'm just as much Rebel as Yankee.\"\n\nCaptain John Magill laughed as he leaned over and grasped Harry's hand.\n\n\"Why, Harry! What on earth are you doing here? Get up behind me, and I\nwill gallop home with you before the firing begins,\" said John,\nevidently alarmed for the boy's safety. Placing his foot on that of his\nbrother, Harry clambered up behind. By this time the lines were in range\nof each other, and a lively fusillade at once began. Harry behaved\nmanfully under fire, and entreated his brother to allow him to stay\nuntil the fight was over. But the elder brother was intent on taking him\nto a place of safety, so putting spurs to his horse he rode swiftly\ntoward the house. His plan was to return the boy to his mother, and then\nrejoin his comrades. But the Confederates did not know his intentions;\nand seeing their Captain making his way rapidly to the rear, with this\nstrangely-clad boy behind him, they of course thought him retreating,\nand they followed pell-mell.\n\nCaptain John Magill saw the effect of his movement, and, halting, made\nan effort to rally his men. But the Confederates were thoroughly\nstampeded, and they dashed madly away. The shouting Federals were now at\nclose range, and the bee-like song of the bullets could be heard on\nevery side. Hastily placing Harry in front of him, to shield him as much\nas possible from the enemy's fire, he followed his men, now some\ndistance in advance. When they reached the house, Mrs. Magill stood pale\nand motionless, expecting every moment to see her children fall.\nGlancing back, Captain John Magill saw that a moment's delay would make\nhim a prisoner; so as he dashed past his mother he cried out, \"Don't be\nuneasy. I'll take care of Harry\"; and then he was gone like the wind,\nhis pursuers not a hundred yards behind him. Then a complete change came\nover Mrs. Magill. Impelled by the great love of a mother, she ran into\nthe yard, and stood calmly in the way of the advancing Federals, whose\ncourse lay between the cabins and the house--as if to stop, with her\nfrail form, the impetuous charge.\n\nOn they came like a hurricane. The mother did not move. Her eyes were\nclosed and her lips compressed. Very near her sounded the hoof-beats. A\nmoment more and she expected to be trampled to death beneath those\nhurrying feet; but she hoped--yea, and prayed--that her death might\nsomehow delay the Federals until her sons should escape.\n\n\"Halt! Halt!\" The command was in thunder tones, and was echoed and\nre-echoed along the charging line. The soldiers pulled with all their\nmight on the bits, and many a horse was thrown back on his haunches.\nOpening her eyes Mrs. Magill saw that the Federal captain, bending over\nher from his saddle, was her son Thomas.\n\n\"Oh, Thomas!--would you kill John and Harry!\" she exclaimed, and then\nfell fainting in his arms. Laying her tenderly on the veranda, he\ndirected a surgeon to attend her, and mounting his horse, rode rapidly\nin the direction taken by his brothers. Soon he saw them a quarter of a\nmile ahead. Taking a white handkerchief he held it aloft, and digging\nthe spurs deep into his horse's flanks, he rode with increased speed,\nall the time hallooing at the top of his strong voice. John heard; but,\nthinking it a summons to surrender, he urged his horse forward, hoping\nto gain the sheltering wood. But the horse, in attempting to jump across\na washout, stumbled and fell; and John found himself rolling on the\nground with Harry in his arms. Rising, he placed Harry behind him, and\ndrew his sword, determined to sell their lives dearly. Imagine his\nsurprise when he beheld but one pursuer, and that one holding on high an\nemblem of peace. In a moment more, he recognized his brother. Their\nmeeting was affectionate. Harry was beside himself with joy. He had\nreally been under fire, with \"sure-enough bullets\" singing about his\nears! This was something of which none of the boys who had scorned his\nblue-gray uniform could boast!\n\n\"Our brother is a brave little fellow. He did not once flinch when your\nbullets were singing around us,\" he heard John say to Thomas, and this\npraise elated the boy very much.\n\n\"Let us return to mother. She is very anxious,\" said Thomas.\n\nJohn gazed inquiringly at his brother in blue.\n\n\"You need have no fear,\" said Thomas. \"I will be responsible for your\nsafety.\"\n\nSo the two soldier brothers, leading their horses, and each holding one\nof Harry's hands, walked up to the house.\n\n\"I see you wear the gray, Harry; that's right,\" said John, with a\nmalicious glance at Thomas.\n\n\"He is true blue on this side,\" said Thomas, laughing heartily, as the\nludicrousness of Harry's uniform dawned upon him.\n\nAn affecting meeting was that between mother and sons; and something on\nthe cheeks of the brave men who were present \"washed off the stains of\npowder.\"\n\nWhen parting time came, the sun rested, like a great ruby, above the\ncircling wood of crimson and gold; and when the brother in blue stood\nhand in hand with the brother in gray, all nature seemed to smile in\nanticipation of the time when a fraternal grasp should reunite the North\nand South.\n\nThis day was the turning-point in Harry's life. Thenceforth all his\ninclinations were to become a soldier. After the war, he was educated by\nJohn and Thomas; and, passing his examination triumphantly over three of\nthe boys who had derided him, he was appointed to West Point. He is now\nLieutenant Henry Magill, U. S. A.\n\nHis brothers still treasure the little blue-gray uniform as the memento\nof a \"divided duty.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE \"WALKING-BEAM BOY.\"\n\nBY L. E. STOFIEL\n\n\nIn 1836 the steam-whistle had not yet been introduced on the boats of\nthe western rivers. Upon approaching towns and cities in those days,\nvessels resorted to all manner of schemes and contrivances to attract\nattention. They were compelled to do so in order to secure their share\nof freight and passengers, so spirited was the competition between\nsteamboats from 1836 to 1840. There were no railroads in the West\n(indeed there were but one or two in the East), and all traffic was by\nwater. Consequently steamboat-men had all they could do to handle the\ncrowds of passengers and the tons of merchandise offered them.\n\nShippers and passengers had their favorite packets. The former had\ntheir huge piles of freight stacked upon the wharves, and needed the\nearliest possible intelligence of the approach of the packet so that\nthey might promptly summon clerks and carriers to the shore. The\npassengers, loitering in neighboring hotels, demanded some system of\nwarning of a favorite steamer's coming, that they might avoid the\ndisagreeable alternative of pacing the muddy levees for hours at a time,\nor running the risk of being left behind.\n\nWithout a whistle, how was a boat to let the people know it was coming,\nespecially if some of those sharp bends for which the Ohio River is\nfamous intervened to deaden the splashing stroke of its huge\npaddle-wheels, or the regular puff, puff, puff, puff, of its steam\nexhaust-pipes?\n\nThe necessity originated several crude signs, chief among which was the\nnoise created by a sudden escapement of steam either from the rarely\nused boiler waste-pipes close to the surface of the river, or through\nthe safety-valve above. By letting the steam thus rush out at different\npressures, each boat acquired a sound peculiarly its own, which could be\nheard a considerable distance, though it was as the tone of a\nmouth-organ against a brass-band, when compared with the ear-splitting\nroar of our modern steamboat-whistle. Townspeople of Cincinnati and\nelsewhere became so proficient in distinguishing these sounds of steam\nescapement that they could foretell the name of any craft on the river\nat night or before it appeared in sight.\n\nIt was reserved for the steamboat _Champion_ to carry this idea a little\nfurther. It purposed to catch the eye of the patron as well as his ear.\nThe _Champion_ was one of the best known vessels plying on the\nMississippi in 1836. It was propelled by a walking-beam engine. This\nstyle of steam-engine is still common on tide-water boats of the East,\nbut has long since disappeared from the inland navigation of the West.\nTo successfully steam a vessel up those streams against the remarkably\nswift currents, high-pressure engines had to be adopted generally. In\nthat year, however, there were still a number of boats on the\nMississippi and Ohio which, like the _Champion_, had low-pressure\nengines and the grotesque walking-beams.\n\nOne day it was discovered that the _Champion's_ escapement-tubes were\nbroken, and no signal could be given to a landing-place not far ahead.\nA rival steamboat was just a little in advance, and bade fair to capture\nthe large amount of freight known to be at the landing.\n\n\"I'll make them see us, sir!\" cried a bright boy, who seemed to be about\nfourteen years old. He stood on the deck close to where the captain was\nbewailing his misfortune.\n\nWithout another word, the lad climbed up over the roof of the\nforecastle, and, fearlessly catching hold of the end of the walking-beam\nwhen it inclined toward him with the next oscillation of the engine,\nswung himself lithely on top of the machinery. It was with some\ndifficulty that he maintained his balance, but he succeeded in sticking\nthere for fifteen minutes. He had taken off his coat, and he was\nswinging it to and fro.\n\nThe plan succeeded. Although the other boat beat the _Champion_ into\nport, the crowd there had seen the odd spectacle of a person mounted on\nthe walking-beam of the second vessel, and, wondering over the cause,\npaid no attention to the landing of the first boat, but awaited the\narrival of the other.\n\nThe incident gave the master of the _Champion_ an idea. He took the boy\nas a permanent member of the crew, and assigned him to the post of\n\"walking-beam boy,\" buying for him a large and beautiful flag. Ever\nafterward, when within a mile of any town, the daring lad was to be seen\nclimbing up to his difficult perch, pausing on the roof of the\nforecastle to get his flag from a box that had been built there for it.\nBy and by he made his lofty position easier and more picturesque by\nstraddling the walking-beam, well down toward the end, just as he would\nhave sat upon a horse.\n\nThis made a pretty spectacle for those upon shore who awaited the boat's\narrival. They saw a boy bounding up and down with the great seesawing\nbeam. For a second he would sink from view, but up he bobbed suddenly,\nand, like a clear-cut silhouette, he waved the Stars and Stripes high in\nthe air with only the vast expanse of sky for a background. The vision\nwas only for an instant, for both flag and boy would disappear, and--up\nagain they came, before the spectator's eye could change to another\ndirection! This sight was novel--it was thrilling!\n\n\"I used to think if I could ever be in that young fellow's place, I\nwould be the biggest man on earth,\" remarked a veteran river-man. Like\nthousands of others along the Mississippi and Ohio, he remembered that\nwhen a child he could recognize the _Champion_ a mile distant by this\nunique signal.\n\n[Illustration: \"HE WAVED THE STARS AND STRIPES HIGH IN THE AIR.\"]\n\nAfter a while, though, other steamboats operating low-pressure engines\ncopied the idea, and there were several \"walking-beam boys\" employed on\nthe rivers, and their flags were remodeled to have some distinctive\nfeature each. It was a perilous situation to be employed in, but I am\nunable to find the record of any \"walking-beam boy\" being killed or\ninjured in the machinery. On the other hand, the very hazard of their\nduty, and the conspicuous position it gave them, made them popular with\npassengers and shippers, and so they pocketed many fees from\nKentuckians, confections from Cincinnati folks, bonbons from New Orleans\nCreoles, and tips from Pittsburgers.\n\nBut at length, in 1844, the steam-whistle was introduced, and the\n\"walking-beam boys\" were left without occupation.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CREATURE WITH NO CLAWS\n\nBY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS\n\n\n\"W'en you git a leetle bit older dan w'at you is, honey,\" said Uncle\nRemus to the little boy, \"you'll know lots mo' dan you does now.\"\n\nThe old man had a pile of white oak splits by his side and these he was\nweaving into a chair-bottom. He was an expert in the art of \"bottoming\nchairs,\" and he earned many a silver quarter in this way. The little boy\nseemed to be much interested in the process.\n\n\"Hit 's des like I tell you,\" the old man went on; \"I done had de\nspeunce un it. I done got so now dat I don't b'lieve w'at I see, much\nless w'at I year. It got ter be whar I kin put my han' on it en fumble\nwid it. Folks kin fool deyse'f lots wuss dan yuther folks kin fool um,\nen ef you don't b'lieve w'at I 'm a-tellin' un you, you kin des ax Brer\nWolf de nex' time you meet 'im in de big road.\"\n\n\"What about Brother Wolf, Uncle Remus?\" the little boy asked, as the\nold man paused to refill his pipe.\n\n\"Well, honey, 't ain't no great long rigamarole; hit's des one er deze\nyer tales w'at goes in a gallop twel it gits ter de jumpin'-off place.\n\n\"One time Brer Wolf wuz gwine 'long de big road feelin' mighty proud en\nhigh-strung. He wuz a mighty high-up man in dem days, Brer Wolf wuz, en\n'mos' all de yuther creeturs wuz feared un 'im. Well, he wuz gwine 'long\nlickin' his chops en walkin' sorter stiff-kneed, w'en he happen ter look\ndown 'pon de groun' en dar he seed a track in de san'. Brer Wolf stop,\nhe did, en look at it, en den he 'low:\n\n\"'Heyo! w'at kind er creetur dish yer? Brer Dog ain't make dat track, en\nneeder is Brer Fox. Hit's one er deze yer kind er creeturs w'at ain't\ngot no claws. I'll des 'bout foller 'im up, en ef I ketch 'im he'll\nsholy be my meat.'\n\n\"Dat de way Brer Wolf talk. He followed 'long atter de track, he did, en\nhe look at it close, but he ain't see no print er no claw. Bimeby de\ntrack tuck 'n tu'n out de road en go up a dreen whar de rain done wash\nout. De track wuz plain dar in de wet san', but Brer Wolf ain't see no\nsign er no claws.\n\n[Illustration: \"BRER WOLF MAKE LIKE HE GWINE TER HIT DE CREETUR, EN\nDEN----.\"]\n\n\"He foller en foller, Brer Wolf did, en de track git fresher en fresher,\nbut still he ain't see no print er no claw. Bimeby he come in sight er\nde creetur, en Brer Wolf stop, he did, en look at 'im. He stop\nstock-still and look. De creetur wuz mighty quare-lookin,' en he wuz\ncuttin' up some mighty quare capers. He had big head, sharp nose, en bob\ntail; en he wuz walkin' roun' en roun' a big dog-wood tree, rubbin' his\nsides ag'in it. Brer Wolf watch 'im a right smart while, he act so\nquare, en den he 'low:\n\n\"'Shoo! dat creetur done bin in a fight en los' de bes' part er he tail;\nen w'at make he scratch hisse'f dat away? I lay I'll let 'im know who\nhe foolin' 'long wid.'\n\n\"Atter 'while, Brer Wolf went up a leetle nigher de creetur, en holler\nout:\n\n\"'Heyo, dar! w'at you doin' scratchin' yo' scaly hide on my tree, en\ntryin' fer ter break hit down?'\n\n\"De creetur ain't make no answer. He des walk 'roun' en 'roun' de tree\nscratchin' he sides en back. Brer Wolf holler out:\n\n\"'I lay I'll make you year me ef I hatter come dar whar you is!'\n\n\"De creetur des walk roun' en roun' de tree, en ain't make no answer.\nDen Brer Wolf hail 'im ag'in, en talk like he mighty mad:\n\n\"'Ain't you gwine ter min' me, you imperdent scoundul? Ain't you gwine\nter mozey outer my woods en let my tree 'lone?'\n\n\"Wid dat, Brer Wolf march todes de creetur des like he gwine ter squ'sh\n'im in de groun'. De creetur rub hisse'f ag'in de tree en look like he\nfeel mighty good. Brer Wolf keep on gwine todes 'im, en bimeby w'en he\ngit sorter close de creetur tuck 'n sot up on his behime legs des like\nyou see squir'ls do. Den Brer Wolf, he 'low, he did:\n\n\"'Ah-yi! you beggin', is you? But 't ain't gwine ter do you no good. I\nmout er let you off ef you 'd a-minded me w'en I fus holler atter you,\nbut I ain't gwine ter let you off now. I'm a-gwine ter l'arn you a\nlesson dat 'll stick by you.'\n\n\"Den de creetur sorter wrinkle up he face en mouf, en Brer Wolf 'low:\n\n\"'Oh, you nee'n'ter swell up en cry, you 'ceitful vilyun. I'm a-gwine\nter gi' you a frailin' dat I boun' you won't forgit.'\n\n[Illustration: \"WELL, SUH, DAT CREETUR DES FOTCH ONE SWIPE DIS AWAY, EN\n'N'ER SWIPE DAT AWAY.\"]\n\n\"Brer Wolf make like he gwine ter hit de creetur, en den----\"\n\nHere Uncle Remus paused and looked all around the room and up at the\nrafters. When he began again his voice was very solemn.\n\n--\"Well, suh, dat creetur des fotch one swipe dis away, en 'n'er swipe\ndat away, en mos' 'fo' you can wink yo' eyeballs, Brer Wolf hide wuz\nmighty nigh teetotally tor'd off 'n 'im. Atter dat de creetur sa'ntered\noff in de woods, en 'gun ter rub hisse'f on 'n'er tree.\"\n\n\"What kind of a creature was it, Uncle Remus?\" asked the little boy.\n\n\"Well, honey,\" replied the old man in a confidential whisper, \"hit want\nnobody on de topside er de yeth but ole Brer Wildcat.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGEOGRAPHICAL STORIES RETOLD FROM ST. NICHOLAS MAGAZINE\n\nIN SIX VOLUMES\n\nA Series of Books of Adventure, Travel and Description, chiefly in the\nGreat Sections of the United States\n\n  WESTERN FRONTIER STORIES\n  Stories of the early West, full of adventure.\n\n  STORIES OF THE GREAT LAKES\n  Niagara and our great chain of Inland Seas.\n\n  ISLAND STORIES\n  Stories of our island dependencies and\n  of many other islands.\n\n  STORIES OF STRANGE SIGHTS\n  Descriptions of natural wonders, curious\n  places and unusual sights.\n\n  SEA STORIES\n  Tales of shipwreck and adventures at sea.\n\n  SOUTHERN STORIES\n  Pictures, scenes and stories of our Sunny\n  South.\n\nEach about 200 pages. 50 illustrations. Full cloth, 12mo.\n\nTHE CENTURY CO.","title":"Southern Stories: Retold from St. Nicholas","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":29176}