On leaving Juneau the steamer passed around the lower end of Douglas Island, and then headed northward once more, toward what is called the “Lynn Canal.”
The sun came out, warm and bright, so that although there was a strong southerly breeze, it was calm and comfortable even on the hurricane deck.
An old Alaskan traveler had come on board at Juneau, taking passage to a cannery in which he was interested, farther north. There was also a family of Thlinket Indians, bound for the same port.
The stranger pointed out various objects of interest, as they passed, including many glaciers which sent their white tongues of ice down to the sea front, dividing the dark forest that clothed both mainland and islands as far as the eye could reach.
“That is the largest glacier hereabouts—the Davidson,” he said, “and the most interesting. It’s something like three miles wide at the foot.”
“Oh! that doesn’t seem possible,” exclaimed a passenger standing near by. “It doesn’t look over a dozen rods wide. Are you sure you are right about that, sir?”
“Do you see that dark strip lying between this end of the glacier and the open sea?”
“Where—O, yes! What is it—moss, or low bushes?”
“Those bushes are tall trees. There is a great terminal moraine two miles from front to rear, pushed out by the Davidson, and a whole forest grows upon it. Here, take this glass, and you can see for yourself.”
The skeptical passenger was obliged to own himself in the wrong, and the great, silent glacier—so motionless, yet forever moving toward the ocean—seemed more mysterious and terrible even than the enormous ice-stream of the Selkirks.
The Queen now made her way past the Chilkoot Inlet, where, said Randolph, who had followed Tom’s example in “reading up” Alaska, Schwatka started to cross the mountains and explore the head-waters of the Yukon.
Pyramid Harbor, at the head of Chilkat Inlet, was now reached, and at this point, the farthest northing of the route, or, to be exact, at latitude 59° 13´, the steamer stopped her wheels, while the obliging stranger and the Thlinkets went ashore in a small boat, which tossed perilously on the choppy waves of the Inlet.
Slowly the steamer swung round, and, having picked up the boat on its return, began its southward course. The wind now swept the decks with stinging force, driving the tourists below or into sheltered corners.
Against the western sky towered the mighty peaks of Fairweather and Crillon, lifting their white summits nearly sixteen thousand feet above the sea.
Until late in the evening the Percivals talked, laughed and sang, while the never-ending day still glowed brightly, and the waves tossed their foam caps in the golden twilight.
Thump! Bump! The girls woke next morning to find the ship trembling from stem to stern. Had the Queen run ashore? No, they were going smoothly enough now. It must have been a dream, that that—
Thump!
That was no dream, any way, for they were wide-awake now. Out of her berth jumped Kittie, and, drawing aside the curtain from their little stateroom window, looked out.
What a sight it was! The ship was moving cautiously, at half-speed, up a narrow bay—Glacier Bay, they afterwards heard it called—surrounded by bare and desolate mountains, along whose upper slopes lay dreary banks of never-melting snow, and whose splintered summits were hidden in dull gray clouds. Across the bay, at its upper end, miles away, stretched an odd-looking line of white cliffs. They could not yet make out what gave them that strange, marble-like look. The surface of the water was all dotted over with floating ice, of every size and shape imaginable. Just in front of Kittie’s window (which overlooked the bridge), the Captain, in thick coat and fur cap, was pacing to and fro. Even while she looked, the ship’s bow struck against a good sized iceberg. Again the steamer shuddered, and the girls knew now what it was that had waked them.
“Sta-a-arboard a little!” called Captain Carroll sharply, as another great berg loomed up, just ahead.
“Starboard, sir,” repeated the quartermaster and the second officer.
“Stead-a-a-ay!”
“Steady, sir!”
“Port a bit!”
And so it went on, as the Queen dodged now this way, now that, under the direction of the best pilot and captain on the dangerous Alaskan coast.
It did not take long, you may be sure, for the girls to finish their toilet and rush out on deck to see the fun. One by one the passengers joined them, wrapped in all sorts of heavy ulsters and coats. The air was like that of mid-winter, and the wind blew sharply.
The Queen steamed up as near as the captain dared, and there, about an eighth of a mile distant from the head of the bay, she waited.
Now, indeed, was discovered the true nature of that line of marble cliffs. They were of solid ice, rising to the awful height of three hundred feet above the fretted sea, and stretching across the bay in a mighty wall.
As the passengers gathered, shivering, on the forward deck, and gazed at this wonderful ice-river—the great Muir Glacier of Alaska—some one gave a sudden cry, and pointed to an ice pinnacle just abreast the ship. With a majestic movement the huge mass of glittering ice, larger than a church building, loosened itself from the cliff, and with a crash like thunder, plunged into the sea. A few moments later and the staunch ocean steamer rocked like a little boat on the waves made by the falling berg.
Again and again the ice came tumbling down. Sometimes immense pieces which had broken off from the bottom of the glacier, seven hundred feet below the surface, rose slowly and unexpectedly from the depths, throwing the water high in air. These bottom fragments were not white, but as blue as indigo. From their gleaming sides the water poured in roaring cataracts.
“What are those sailors up to?” sung out Randolph suddenly, pointing to a boat’s crew that was leaving the side of the ship.
“Going to fill the refrigerator, sir,” replied a steward, who caught the question as he passed.
Randolph thought he was joking; but sure enough, the men in the boat grappled a huge floating cake of ice, towed it to the gangway, and made it fast to a tackle and fall, which picked it up and swayed it over on the deck—a fine young berg of beautiful clear ice weighing something over two tons. Quickly it was stowed below, and other pieces followed. Although it was floating in salt water, the ice coming from the glacier was perfectly fresh. In this way about forty tons were taken on board and stored.
After breakfast all who wished to do so went ashore in the steamer’s boats, landing on a gravelly beach about a mile from the foot of the glacier. Bessie was obliged to remain on board with her mother, the rest joining the shore-going party.
Leaving the beach they walked up over slippery rocks, gravel and protruding bits of black ice, until, before they knew it, they were on the glacier itself. Its surface was roughened and stained, and every now and then they came to a wide crack or “crevasse” in the ice, with sloping, treacherous sides, its shadowy depths reaching no one knew how far below. To fall into one would have been almost certain death.
“I wonder how thick this glacier is?” asked some one, peering down into one of these terrible crevasses.
“About a thousand feet,” was the answer. “The front of the glacier is over three hundred feet high, above the sea; that gives about seven hundred beneath the surface.”
“Do you know how long it is, from the source to the front?”
“Upwards of forty miles, I believe. And a mile wide at the mouth.”
They could look up into the far-away, misty mountain valleys, and still the ice stretched beyond the utmost bound of sight.
As the party retraced their steps, the gentleman who had volunteered the information regarding height and distance, narrated the interesting story of the discovery of the glacier by Professor John Muir. He told them how the intrepid Scotchman, on reaching Cross Sound, had hired an ancient native guide and two or three Indians to paddle his canoe up Glacier Bay. As the mountain slopes surrounding the glacier were known to be bare of fuel, the voyagers filled their canoe with dry cedar and pine boughs, that they might have camp-fires to keep them alive in that almost Arctic atmosphere, and to cook their food.
When the Percivals reached the head of the moraine, they were so fortunate as to find the professor himself standing there, talking with friends. He was spending the summer, it seemed, in a rude hut not far below, and in company with some hardy young college students, pursuing new investigations in this marvelous land of ice and granite.
Leaving Professor Muir, after an introduction and a pleasant word or two from the famous explorer, Randolph and the rest descended to the beach, not by the long muddy path by which they had come, but by striking downward through a deep gulley, which brought them scrambling, sliding and laughing to the sand below.
On this narrow strip of seashore, where were lying great blocks of ice stranded by the ebb tide, they walked a mile or more beneath frowning ice-cliffs, to the very foot of the glacier, and indeed under it, for there was a sort of cave formed by the huge pinnacles of clear blue ice, and into this dismal opening the young people penetrated for a few yards, when a crackling sound in the gleaming walls made them rush for the open air again in mad haste. They were just in time to escape an ugly fragment of ice, weighing at least threescore pounds, which had become detached from the ceiling.
After this experience they were glad to walk back to the ship, which was now whistling a recall to its absent children. On the way Kittie stopped to trace, with the tip of her parasol, her name on the smooth sand. She began another, but after printing a large F, rubbed it out, and with a little addition of color to her cheeks, joined the rest, who were now tiptoeing across a narrow plank to the boat.
Steam was up, and the Queen began at once to work southward.
For fifteen miles she wriggled her way out of the icebergs as cautiously as she had wriggled in. Then the broad Pacific came in view, and as the bell in the engine room rang, “Ahead, full speed!” and the ship emerged from the narrow channels and gloomy, landlocked inlets of the North, the great billows softly rocked in their arms the Queen and its passengers, while they sang merrily,
“Out on an ocean all boundless we ride,
We’re homeward bound, homeward bound!”
“What shall we see next?” was the question on every tongue that night; and “Sitka! Sitka!” was the answer.
It was a comfort to get out into the open ocean again. They had sailed so long through narrow passages and between dark, lofty sweeps of mountains, frowning with cliffs of bare rock, or shadowy with silent ranks of pine and fir, that, like the Delectable Mountains in “Pilgrim’s Progress,” the hills seemed about to fall on them and bury the good Queen out of sight under avalanches and icebergs.
All that night the waves of the Pacific rocked them gently, as the ship made its steady way southward. What a volume it would make, if we could have the dreams of this party of a hundred souls on board the Queen for that one night printed—and illustrated!
At six o’clock next morning Randolph went on deck. The steamer was motionless, anchored about half a mile from shore. She was in a bay, which was thickly sprinkled with pretty, wooded islands, as far out as the eye could reach. Fourteen miles away westward, rose the peak of Mount Edgecumbe, its slopes reddened with ancient streams of lava. It was of that exact cone-shape, with its top cut squarely off or “truncated,” that marks a volcanic formation; and indeed, Edgecumbe was smoking away furiously only a generation or two ago.
The shore line was rugged, like all the southern Alaskan coast, with a narrow strip of level land running along the margin of the sea. Following this line the eye presently rested upon a collection of houses—quite a town, it seemed, just ahead. One large, square building was a hundred feet or more above the rest. A sharply-pointed church steeple rose from among the lower roofs of the other buildings. Then Randolph knew it was Sitka, the capital of Alaska.
He had hardly recognized the place when he heard his name called from the water.
Rushing to the side of the vessel, he spied a boat coming swiftly toward the Queen, rowed with a sharp man-of-war stroke by four sailors in neat suits of blue.
In the stern sheets sat—could it be?—yes, Mr. Percival, Tom and Fred, all three waving their caps and shouting wildly.
In another moment the boat was alongside, the gangway steps were let down, and Fred sprang on board. Mr. Percival came more slowly, assisting Tom, who was observed to limp. The sailors passed up several pieces of baggage, the officer in charge touched his cap, and away went the boat toward Sitka. As she receded, Randolph could read on the stern the single word in gilt letters, Pinta.
What wild handshakings and congratulations and volleys of questions followed on the deck of the Queen, you can well guess.
But we must let Tom explain for himself his adventures, his return to civilization, and his unexpected appearance in Sitka harbor that morning.
CHAPTER XI.
FAIR SITKA.
“It was pretty dark and lonesome up there, I can tell you,” said Tom, having described his long tramp and the death of the bear. “The wind rose at about nine o’clock, and cut like knives. Solomon had built the camp so as to face away from the wind, and after supper Fred and I were glad to curl up in our blankets on the fir boughs. Solomon threw half a dozen of his big logs on the fire, and then sat down on our front doorstep to have a smoke.
“I wish you could have heard some of his stories, Randolph! Some years ago, before there was any Canadian Pacific, or even a Northern Pacific railroad, he guided a party across the Chilkoot Pass and down the Yukon. They were on a hunt for a ‘mountain of cinnabar,’ a ‘Red Mountain,’ which an Indian had told about, somewhere in the interior. There were women in the party, and how they ever got through the woods, I don’t see.
“Well, they struck off from the Yukon, after having a brush with the Indians, followed a native map, had to winter in the woods, almost starved to death, and at last found the ‘Red Mountain’ was Mount Wrangell—a volcano, you know, twenty thousand feet high.”
“Did they find their cinnabar?” asked Randolph.
“Only a small quantity. But there was enough outcrop of copper and gold to pay them for the trip. They rafted down the Copper River, after leaving Solomon to locate, and a year or two later sold out at a big profit to some San Francisco capitalists. So far as Solomon knows, the mines have never been worked yet, they are so far inland.”
“Now tell us about your getting home,” broke in Kittie. “We’re more interested in that than in your ‘Red Mountain.’ Did you sleep any, poor boys?”
“Not very much,” laughed Fred. “The mosquitoes settled down to business pretty soon after midnight, and made things lively. Baranov had some pieces of netting, and we put them over our heads, but they didn’t seem to do much good.”
“They say the Alaskan mosquitoes are so intelligent,” remarked Rossiter, “that two of them will hold the wings of a third close to his body, and push him through the meshes of a net. That accounts for their neighborliness in your camp. Go on with the story.”
“My leg hurt so that I couldn’t sleep much,” said Tom, taking up the narrative again. “Whenever I did dose for a few minutes, I would wake up with a start and see Solomon putting on another log. I don’t believe he slept a wink all night.
“Toward morning Fred and I both got a good nap of nearly an hour. When I opened my eyes, I looked for Solomon, but he wasn’t in sight”—
“Then of course he must wake me,” interrupted Fred, “and I had to get up and put wood on the fire, lest that His Royal Highness should feel cold. I had just got a good blaze going when Baranov hove in sight, with a big bear steak in one hand and a string of trout in the other.
“‘Where in the world did you get those fish?’ Tom sung out.
“‘Oh! back here a piece, in a leetle pool I knew about,’ says Solomon. ‘I ’lowed we’ll have a dish o’ fried traouts fer breakfast, ef the brook hedn’t dried up.’”
There was a shout at Fred’s imitation of Baranov’s tone.
“The trout were delicious,” said Tom, when he could make himself heard; “and the flavor of the bear meat was all right, but ’twas tough as leather. After breakfast Solomon skinned the bear in good shape”—
“Where is the skin now?” put in Bess. “I didn’t see it in your bundles.”
“It’s at Juneau,” said Mr. Percival. “Solomon said he’d have it nicely dressed, and as soon as it was cured and prepared for mounting, he would ship it to our Boston address. Tom wanted it for a rug with the head on, and Fred generously yielded all claim to it.”
Kittie smiled such warm approval at his generosity that the young student blushed, and gave Tom a dig to go ahead with his account of their adventures.
“I was so stiff and lame that I could just hobble when we first started, right away after dinner. I knew father and all of you would be worried, but it couldn’t be helped. We managed to get down about three quarters of the way, before it was time to stop for the night. Of course it was ever so much easier going down than up, but it hurt some, you can believe! Solomon helped me over the bad places, and Fred took a double load.
“We camped right beside the brook we had followed up the day before, and started on again before sunrise next morning. Just as we reached the clearing above Juneau, we met a dozen men, with father at their head, starting up the mountain after us.”
“What I want to know,” broke in Randolph, “is how you ever got to Sitka as soon as we did?”
“Why, father made inquiries for a doctor, and was told the best one in Juneau was the surgeon of the Pinta. She’s a Government steamer, you know, stationed on this coast to look after our sealing and fishery interests and the like. Dr. Parks was awfully kind, and a splendid doctor, I guess, by the way he treated my bear scratch. He put some kind of a liniment on, then bound it all up in good shape, and wouldn’t take a fee, either—not a cent. When he heard our story, he told father the Pinta was going to run over to Sitka that very day, starting before noon. If we liked, he believed the captain would take us on board, and we could meet you there instead of waiting for you at Juneau, and leaving you to worry all that extra time.
“We said good-by to Baranov—I don’t know how much father insisted on paying him—went on board the little Pinta, arrived safe and sound at Sitka, and here we are!”
As soon as Tom had finished his story, he was showered with questions, and it was an hour longer before the party, having taken breakfast, assembled on deck to witness the approach to the wharf. Another boat from the south, much smaller and dirtier, headed for her moorings at the same time.
The Queen, like a true King’s Daughter, permitted the other to pass her and make fast to the wharf. In stately wise, Her Majesty then moved quietly up beside her companion, and the Percivals landed over the latter’s decks.
I will not try to describe Sitka for you; in the first place, because other people have written and printed a great deal about it, which you can find for yourselves in the books on Alaska on the third shelf of the fourth alcove of your Public Library; and secondly, because Rossiter Selborne gave his mother so concise an account of his impressions of the place, that I shall put a part of his letter into this chapter, as I did at Banff.
After describing the buildings about the wharf, he told how he and one or two others walked directly up the main street to the famous church of Sitka; continuing as follows:
“The little church, long ago built by the Russians (from whom, you know, the United States bought Alaska for about seven million dollars in 1867), was a quaint building, with a solemn guardian, who demanded a small fee before he permitted us to enter. There was an altar arranged after the requirements and ceremonies of the Eastern Catholic church; some fine priestly robes, and a really beautiful painting of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Services are still held in the church every Sunday.
“Coming out of the church we walked along the narrow streets, looking at the houses built of squared logs by the Russians many years ago. The building on the hill was of logs like the rest, and proved to be the castle of stern old Governor Baranov. I found pieces of bear’s fur still sticking to the walls, where the great hides had once been nailed up, to keep out the bitter cold of winter.
“Such funny times we had buying trinkets of the Indians, squatting in a long row on the broad sidewalk! All the English the Indian squaws seemed to know was, ‘One tollar!’ ‘Two tollar!’
“I must not forget to tell you about the Mission School. You walk to it along the curving, sandy beach, near which the school buildings stand, about half a mile from the wharf. Such fine, intelligent faces the boys and girls have, compared with the natives outside! It is beautiful to see the human, the divine, driving the animal look out of the dark faces, the eyes kindling with light, the whole, God-given soul waking up before your very eyes. The old fairy story of the fair princess, Sleeping Beauty, brought to life by the kiss of a prince, is pretty; but it will hardly move one, after seeing the wonderful awakening of a poor, Sitkan woman-child, at the touch of loving hands—at the sound of her Father’s voice, speaking through the noble men and women who are doing his work in these desolate Northern lands.
“A little paper, the ‘Northern Star,’ is printed at the school, and gives all the latest items of news concerning it. It costs fifty cents a year, and the gentle lady who conducted us through the buildings was so pleased when two or three of us subscribed. Of course the paper comes irregularly in the winter, when the sea-passages are dangerous with fogs and icebergs; but you are sure to get all your numbers sooner or later.
“I wish you could have seen Mr. Percival sitting in the Mission Parlor, holding a dot of a Thlinket child on each knee! One of them was named Marion, and the other had a long, funny Indian name that I forgot the beginning of, before she’d got to the end of it.
“The scholars had a prayer meeting at the close of day, and sang our dear, familiar hymns with strange words to them. Here is one verse of ‘I am so glad that Jesus loves me,’ in the Thlinket tongue:
“‘Hä ish dickeewoo ŭhtoowoo yŭkeh
Hä een ukkonniknooch dookoosăhŭnne,
Thlēkoodze ut dookookwoo kädā häteen:
Uh yŭkeh klŭh hutsehunne Jesus.
Cho. Uhtoowoo yŭkeh Jesus hŭtsehŭ,
Jesus hutsehun, Jesus hutsehun;
Uhtoowoo yŭkeh Jesus hutsehun;
Jesus kluh hutsehun.’
“It seems as if Our Father must smile tenderly when he hears such uncouth sounds. Yet he understands them all, and answers each shyly murmured Sitka prayer, just as he does the ‘Now I lay me,’ lisped by New England baby lips.
“The long, beautiful Northern day drew to a close. We left the bustling town, and walking past the Mission School, kept on around the shore of the bay. Now the path wound in and out of the forest; now it emerged upon the beach, where the ripples softly patted the sand and laughed and played together. Before long we reached the banks of Indian River, and crossed it by a rustic foot-bridge. The air was fragrant with odors of balsam fir and all the cool, delicious scents of the forest. We turned back toward the ship. Although it was near the hour of ten, the western sky was all golden with sunset. Against it rose the delicate spire of the Russian church, and the sturdy bulk of the castle. Out across the bay the gulls and ravens wavered their slow way among the islands.”
CHAPTER XII.
THE “CHICHAGOFF DECADE.”
“We have two whole days before us,” said Kittie the next morning, as she promenaded up and down the deck with Fred, “and the steamer is going right over the same path we took in coming. Can’t we get up something new so as to have some fun?”
“We might have charades, or tableaux,” suggested Fred. “But we should have to stay below, getting ready for them.”
“And we’ve had ’em all before,” interpolated Tom, who was stretched out at his ease in a steamer chair.
“It’s going to be pretty foggy, I’m afraid,” said Randolph, joining the group. “They say that will delay us, for we shall have to run half-speed, or stop altogether. Do you see how thick it begins to look ahead?”
They had left Sitka in the early morning, and had only Juneau to touch at—probably in the night—before reaching the coaling station of Nanaimo, on Vancouver’s Island.
“Why don’t you get up a paper?” suggested Mr. Percival. “That’s what Arctic explorers do, I believe, when they are frozen in for the winter.”
“Good, good!” cried Pet. “And everybody in our party must contribute—except me!”
There was a laugh at this, and Kittie, seizing her friend around the waist, gave her a little impromptu waltz which set her hair flying and eyes dancing more merrily than ever.
“What shall we call it?” was the next question.
“‘The Alaskan Herald.’”
“‘The Northern Light.’”
“‘The Illustrated Totem Pole’”—this from the wounded warrior in the chair.
All these names being rejected, they decided to leave the choice of names to the editor, to which position Mr. Selborne was unanimously chosen.
“All contributions,” he announced, “must be in my hands at five o’clock this afternoon. The paper will then be put to press, and will be read aloud at precisely eight o’clock, on deck, in front of Stateroom 2 (Mr. Percival’s), if the weather permits; if not, in a corner of the lower cabin, after the supper table has been cleared.”
All that day the literary circle thus suddenly formed were hard at work at their manuscripts; and many were the gales of laughter in which the girls indulged, as they compared notes from time to time. The editor, it should be said, had laid down the rule that any contribution might be in verse or prose, but if the latter, it should not contain over twelve hundred words.
One by one in the course of the afternoon, the manuscripts, signed by fictitious names, were dropped into a box provided by the editor, who was busy, meanwhile, not only with his own contribution, but in arranging an artistic heading for the sheet which was to form the first page of the paper. He had also furnished all the aspiring authors and authoresses with sermon paper of uniform size, so that the whole collection might afterward be bound together, if desired.
Evening came at last, and to the gratification of all concerned, the fog lifted, so that there was a bright sunset, which would render out-of-doors reading easy until after ten o’clock. The party accordingly met at the appointed spot on deck, having kept their plan a profound secret among themselves, so as not to have strangers present at the reading.
Mrs. Percival sat just within the door of her stateroom, while the rest grouped themselves outside in various comfortable attitudes. The editor, with a formidable-looking flat package in his hand, took his position on the seat by the rail, where the light was favorable for reading.
“I will first,” he said, “pass round the title page of this unique periodical, merely premising that its simple and musical title was suggested in part by the name of the island, the wood-clad shores of which we were passing when the idea of the paper was first promulgated.”
The title sheet was accordingly inspected and praised, with shouts of laughter, by the circle of authors. Fortunately it has been preserved, and can be given here in fac-simile, just as it came from the hand of Rossiter and of his sister, who, he admitted, had helped him by drawing the lifelike designs with which it was embellished.
The title chosen, as you see, was the “Tri-Weekly Chichagoff Decade.”
“Why ‘Tri-Weekly’?” asked Pet and Mr. Percival together.
“Because,” replied Mr. Selborne, in his gravest tones, “it has greatly interested your editor to see you all try weakly to produce”—
The rest of the sentence was drowned in a chorus of outcries and laughter.
“But,” persisted Mr. Percival, “do you expect to sail these waters again, in just ten years from now? Else, why is it the ‘Decade’?”
“Oh! that, sir, merely indicates that it is a deck aid to cheerfulness.”
Here Tom collapsed and fell over upon Randolph, murmuring that it was enough to give a weakly-chick-a-cough to hear such puns. But such ill-timed levity was promptly suppressed.
Mr. Selborne now squared his shoulders, and opened the reading with a short editorial, which he called his
SALUTATORY.
It is seldom that an editor finds himself in the position of one who greets his friends with one hand and bids them farewell with the other; who combines, as it were, his welcoming and his parting bow; who enters the room and backs out of it simultaneously; who, in short, is obliged to write at one and the same moment, his Salutatory and Valedictory.
Such is the novel and mildly exciting task of the present incumbent of the editorial chair of the “Decade.” We greet most heartily the host of subscribers who are sure to flock to its standard; and we beg to assure them of the integrity of its aims, and the sound financial basis of this enterprise. We pledge ourselves to endeavor, at any cost, to maintain the high standard we have set up, and so long as the “Decade” is published, to suffer no unworthy line to disgrace its fair pages.
At the same time we feel obliged to give notice that this is the last issue of the paper. Circumstances over which we have no control compel the proprietors to suspend its publication. The editor, in resigning his position, wishes to express his deep sense of the obligation under which his readers have placed him, in the universal and constant support they have given him and his assistants, from the very inception of the enterprise, and the kindly criticism with which he has always been favored.
The editorial was received with a round of subdued applause, which subsided the more quickly that the little circle around the reader saw curious eyes cast in their direction, and an evident inclination on the part of other passengers to share in the fun, which was, however, of too personal a nature to admit a general public.
“The opening piece,” remarked Mr. Selborne, “is contributed by a noted historian, who of late seems to have given his most serious attention to verse. I am glad to have the opportunity of laying before you this exquisite production, which gives an accurate review of our travels thus far, and, as the dullest reader must admit” (“Don’t look at me!” put in Tom), “blends instruction with poetry with the most delightful result. The poem is entitled—with no reference, I believe, to the farming interests of the Territories—
WESTWARD, HO!
An Historico-Poetical Review.
BY HERODOTUS KEATS MACAULAY, A. E.
“What does ‘A. E.’ stand for?” asked Mrs. Percival.
“‘Animated Excursionist,’ I presume, ma’am.”
“Alaskan Editor,” “Expatriated Amateur,” and various other suggestions were kindly offered by the boys, but were frowned down by the older members, who now called for the poem itself.
“One bright summer morning in early July
Our party assembled in Boston, to try
Of travels abroad an entirely new version
Afforded by Raymond & Whitcomb’s Excursion.”
“Hold on!” shouted Tom, who was privileged by his lameness. “That’s an ad. Herodotus Keats wants a free ticket next year. Who is he, I wonder?”
“Thomas,” remarked Fred, eying him severely through his glasses, “don’t display your ignorance of the great authors, nor interrupt with ribald comments. Go on, please, Mr. Selborne.”
“I know now, any way,” muttered the Irrepressible. The editor paid no further attention to him, but resumed the reading:
“The train was on hand in a place you all know well,
The Causeway Street depot marked “Boston & Lowell”;
It started, and cheers rose above lamentation
As, waving our hands, we rolled out of the station.
The daisies were white in the fields around Boston,
Like meadows in autumn with garments of frost on;
And fair were the skies over Merrimac’s stream,
As onward, still onward, with rattle and scream,
We flew o’er the rails ever faster and faster,
With never a thought of impending disaster.”
“But there wasn’t any disaster—unless the historian foresaw, in his prophetic soul, a certain bear”—
“Oh! let up, Ran. That’s poetical license. Macaulay couldn’t find anything else to rhyme with ‘faster.’”
“Arriving at Weirs, on Lake Winnepesaukee,
Our iron steed stopped, and became sort of balky,
Backed, snorted and started again with such speed
That some of us nearly ‘got left’ then, indeed!
At the Pemigewasset we halted to dine,
Then northward we sped to the Canada line,
Where Thomas was homesick until pretty soon he
Began to sing sadly of dear ‘Annie Rooney.’
In Montreal all the attractions were seen;
We dizzily whirled down the falls of Lachine
Till we hardly knew whether ’twas Memphremagog or
The turbulent rapids of far Caugnawauga.”
“Oh!” groaned Tom.
“And now came the splendid Canadian Pacific—
Through scenes now sublime, now tame, now terrific,
Past forests of fir, and along the wild shore
And storm-beaten crags of Lake Sup-e-ri-or.
There was such an outcry at this that the captain, who was facing the bridge, looked back to see what was the matter.
“All right, Captain,” sung out Randolph. “No iceberg in sight—only a queer kind of ore.”
“I’m glad it isn’t mine,” remarked Tom.
“The Winnepeg grasshoppers followed Miss Bess
Entangling themselves in each silken tress,
Nor struggled for freedom, for when they were caught
They thought them but meshes the sunbeams had wrought.
“We halted at Banff, where the Bow and the Spray
Come leaping from cradles of snow far away;
And joining white hands, the bridegroom and bride
Glide silently down toward the sea side by side.
“Again we have entered our palace on wheels,
And cry out anew, ‘How homelike it feels!’
The ‘Nepigon’ broad and the stately ‘Toronto’
We can never forget, not e’en if we want to;
Nor ‘Calgary’ sturdy, and fair ‘Missanabie’;
But nearest our hearts, there can no better car be
Throughout the whole world, whatever befall,
Than faithful old ‘Kamloops,’ the dearest of all.
“At Glacier we saw the great river of ice,
And a bear almost ate up a boy in a trice;
While one of the girls gave her poor little ankle
A twist and a wrench, whose twinges still rankle!
At last we arrive at our long journey’s end;
The continent crossed, at Vancouver we send
One glance of regret and a farewell combined
O’er the car we are leaving forever behind.
“At our next stopping place we had to try hard
To pronounce the name of our hotel ‘Dri-árd’;
Victoria’s awfully English, you know,
And nothing that’s ‘Yankee’ was found high or low,
Except our excursionists, everywhere seen
Until they embarked, northward bound, on the Queen.
We sailed and we sailed, through channels and reaches,
Past wild, rocky shores and verdure-clad beeches,
Until we emerged from the tortuous tangle
And moored at the dreary old wharf of Fort Wrangell,
Where many a totem pole reared its proud head,
Once gorgeous in trappings of sable and red.
“At Juneau we halted—ah! how can I tell
Of all the adventures that shortly befell
Two hunters, who started out boldly to kill
Any sort of a beast that roamed on the hill.
Their perils and hardships, when distant from Juneau
And lost in the woods, I am sure that you do know
Enough that on meeting the enemy there,
Venerunt, viderunt, vicerunt—a bear!
“Since then our startling events have been fewer;
We’ve mounted the glacier that’s named after Muir,
And trembled to see its blue pinnacles fall
In fragments before us, like Jericho’s wall.
We saw all we could in the fair town of Sitka,
But could not go far for want of a fit car,
And now we’re sailing o’er Frederick’s Sound,
On board the good Queen safe and well,
Homeward bound!”
The applause which followed this effusion was tremendous. It was suggested that the last half of the journey had been rather slighted; but Mr. Selborne explained that he had it direct from the author that this disproportionate treatment was caused by lack of time in which to fill out the poem as originally sketched.
“The next piece,” he continued, “was in the nature of an epic. It was certainly personal in its bearings; but so was every epic, and too much delicacy in an editor always results in an insipid periodical.”
The curiosity of his auditors having been thus aroused, he gravely read:
THE BEAR-HUNTER’S FATE.
BY AN OLD SUBSCRIBER.
Tom, Tom, the valiant one,
Shot a bear and away he run;
The bear was fleet,
Poor Tom was beat,
And Bruin stepped upon his feet.
“Is that what Kittie manes by my ‘fate’?” shouted Tom, laughing good-naturedly with the rest. “Sure I knew something was brewin’ when I saw her writing!”
“The contribution I have now to read,” said the editor, as soon as silence was restored, “is accompanied with an apology from the author, stating that for lack of original material he has drawn largely upon such printed sources as were at his command, in giving you a brief account of
MYSTERIOUS ALASKA.
BY DARWIN FITZ-AGASSIZ THOMPSON.
The interior of Alaska is at present one of the few remaining habitable spots on the surface of the globe, which remain practically unexplored by the white man.
A few years ago Central Africa held this distinction, but Speke, Grant, Du Chaillu, Livingstone, Stanley, and dozens of others have now penetrated those somber jungles, the land of mystery, the fabled abode of hideous monsters, giants and dwarfs, and soon a transcontinental railroad will connect Zanzibar with Stanley Pool and the mouth of the Congo.
Within half a dozen years, Alaska has been similarly assailed, and at this very moment there are bands of intrepid men camping here and there in that lonely interior, and calling upon the hitherto impenetrable forests and desolate tundras to deliver up the secrets they have held for untold ages.
Doubtless many wonderful discoveries await these explorers and their successors. New plants will be found, mountains of precious ore, a vast wealth of timber and water-power, and, it may be, strange creatures hitherto unknown to science.
It is believed by many that the mastodon, whose skeleton rears itself high above the elephant’s, in our museums, is not entirely extinct, but actually roams the tangled thickets of inner Alaska. It is stated that Professor John Muir himself lends countenance to this belief, asserting that he has seen the bones of these mighty animals, with the fresh flesh adhering to them. Certain it is that the great, curved tusks of the mammoth (as it is sometimes called) are found all over the southwestern slope of Africa, and that natives report encounters with huge living animals with similar tusks.
An animal which is unnamed, save by the coast hunters hereabouts, is the “Mt. St. Elias bear,” such as was shot by members of our party last week.
The head is very broad, and the fur a silvery gray. The skin is highly prized, not only for its rarity, but for its beauty, and Indians have been known to refuse a hundred dollars for one. They sometimes hang up such a skin in front of the “big house” of their village, as a talisman to aid them in future hunting, such is its magic power.
Within a few years the American bison, once so familiar in all stories of Western adventure, has become almost wholly extinct. A few individuals are said to lurk in the meadows and high tablelands of Alaska; but soon they must rank with the mastodon.
I have had time to but touch upon the mysteries of our great Northwestern Territories. Little by little its marvels, its wealth, its beauties will unfold to modern research, and the schoolboy of a generation hence will look back with incredulous wonder upon the maps, the charts and the scientific works upon Alaska that alone are available to-day.
“I know who wrote that,” said Randolph, looking meaningly at the editor.
The latter, however, took no notice of the implication, and, turning over the next sheet in the pile, read aloud the following poem, which was unsigned:
A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Only a bird on a bough of fir—
Look, can you see his feathers stir,
And hear his wee notes, soft and low,
Echoes of songs of long ago?
I am not bearing my cross, you see,
For the cross itself is bearing me.
When birds are frightened, or suffer loss,
Alone in the darkness, they fly to a cross,
And never are heard to moan, “I must,”
But always twitter, “I trust! I trust!”
For not a fluttering sparrow can fall
But into His hand, who loveth all.
Lord, hear thy children while they pray,
Make us thy sparrows this Christmas Day.
“Bessie wrote that,” whispered Pet, glancing at the little Captain, who did not deny the authorship, but smiled a little as she nestled closer to her father’s side.
“While I am reading verse,” remarked Mr. Selborne, “I may as well read, though a little out of course, another short poem about sparrows.
SPARROWS.
From the orchard, sweet with blossoms,
From the waving meadow-grasses,
From the heated, dusty pavement
Where a tired city passes,
Rise the happy sparrow-voices,
Chirps and trills, and songs of gladness—
Bits of sunshine, changed to music,
Brightening, scattering clouds of sadness.
At the first fair flush of dawning,
At the twilight’s last faint shining,
Sparrows sing, through storm and darkness,
Never doubting nor repining.
Fluttering to and fro, wherever
Faith is fainting, life is dreary,
Bear they each his little message
To the hopeless and the weary:
“Sparrows trust their Heavenly Father;
Centuries ago he told us
We should never fall unheeded;
In his love He would enfold us.
“So we cast our care upon Him,
Never fearing for to-morrow;
And we’re sent by Him to help you,
When your sky is dark with sorrow.”
“I think the assistant editor knows who wrote that,” said Mr. Percival, glancing toward Adelaide with a smile. “Mr. Selborne, it is getting rather late. How many more articles have you in the——?”
“Three, sir; and one of them is very short, being a four-line poem or quatrain. Shall I read it now?”
“If you please.”
“This poem is printed so neatly that the writer has evidently spent as much time upon it as the producers of some of the longer pieces,” the editor remarked, holding the sheet for all to see.
EXCELSIOR.
BY A. M. ATEUR.
’Tis said that in life the most exquisite rapture
Lies not in possession, but striving to capture.
Be sure that the proudest success is in vain
That helps not a loftier conquest to gain.
“Very well, Tom,” said Fred Seacomb approvingly. “The sentiment does you credit, my son. I recognize the authorship, however, by the style of print rather than the high moral tone of the poem.”
Tom laughed with the rest, and to cover his retreat called for the next piece, which he knew must be by Pet, as every one else but Mr. Percival was accounted for; and his was pretty sure to be a story.
Mr. Selborne’s voice became very gentle as he read the story of
THE THREE WISHES.
“O, dear! I wish I were a tall palm-tree on the borders of a desert, where caravans and missionaries and pilgrims would rest in my shade. Then I should really be of some use in the world.” That is what the Pine said.
“O, dear! I wish I lived away up on a mountain-top, where the wind always blows cold and clear, and the snows lie deep in winter. People would come from far countries to visit the mountain, and I would be a guide by the way. Then I should really be of some use in the world.” That is what the Palm said.
“O, dear! I wish I were a palm-tree down in the valley, where birds might build their nests in my boughs, and artists would make beautiful pictures of me. Then I should really be of some use in the world.” That is what the little stunted Fir said, on the mountain-top.
Days and weeks came and went. The Pine waited impatiently, and rustled all its branches in the autumn winds, and let fall its brown needles, until a thick carpet of them lay about its trunk on the mossy ground. And out from the moss peeped a few rough green leaves. The Pine noticed that they were shivering in the November wind, and pityingly dropped a few more needles around them.
When the storms of winter came, it stretched its broad, evergreen boughs above the leaves, and sheltered them with its shaggy trunk.
The long, cold months passed at last, and it was spring. Still the Pine grieved and sighed because it could be of no use in the world.
To be sure it had protected the timid, furry leaves so well that they had lived, and now bore in their midst a cluster of small pink blossoms.
Just before sunset a man with coarse, roughened features and a bad look in his face, came and threw himself down on the ground beneath the Pine. His fists were clenched, for he was very angry about something, and, although the Pine never knew it, he was being tempted to a terrible crime.
As the man lay there thinking evil thoughts, and almost making up his mind to the wicked deed, he caught a breath of fragrance which made him for a moment forget his anger.
It reminded him of home, of his boyhood, of a wee sister with blue eyes and waving golden hair, with whom he used to wander into the pine-woods near the old farmhouse and gather flowers.
He looked about him, and his eye fell upon the pink flowers.
“Mayflowers!” he murmured half-aloud. And stretching out his hand he gathered them and held their pure, sweet faces up to his own.
The fierce look left his eyes, and a strange moisture came instead. His lips quivered. He was thinking now of his mother. She had left her children for a far country while they were still tiny creatures. But he could remember her face as she lay in the darkened room, resting so peacefully.
And some one—was it the little blue-eyed sister?—had placed a bunch of Mayflowers—
The man rose, and placing a small green spray of pine with the blossoms, carried them away in his big rough hand.
And the wicked deed was never done.
The Palm sheltered many weary travelers; but the greatest good it did was after it died.
One day a stranger arrived and cut the tall tree down. From its broad leaves a hundred fans were made, and many were the fevered, throbbing brows that were cooled by the Palm as its leaves, now hundreds of leagues apart, waved to and fro above the sufferers. So the Palm, although it never knew it, was permitted to do the work of the Master, refreshing and healing those who were sick with all manner of diseases.
As to the Fir, it tried to keep a brave heart, but it became more and more discouraged as not only months but years rolled by, and it grew no bigger, and could not see that it was of any use in the world.
“So homely am I, too!” it whispered to itself, glancing down at its little thick, gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.
Its only comfort was in giving a shelter to such small birds, and even insects, as were blown about on these heights by the fierce mountain tempests. Once it had a whole night of real joy, when a white rabbit, caught by the storm miles away from home, crouched under its boughs and lay there snugly, a warm, sleepy ball of white fur, till the sun called it home in the morning.
“O, Schwesterchen, seh ’auf! ’S ist ein Tannenbaum!”
Of course all firs understand German, and our little friend knew the child said, “O, little sister, look here! It’s a fir-tree!”
The next word it heard filled it with delight. It was the girl who spoke this time, hardly above her breath, “Weihnachtsbaum!” which was only a queer way of saying, “Christmas-tree!”
They were, in fact, the children of a German peasant, who lived in a small hut far down the mountain-side.
The Fir did not know it, but in reality the peasant had been unfortunate of late, and had grown so cross and surly that he declared he would have no Christmas in his house that year. And Hans and Gretchen had wandered away mournfully on the mountain-side to talk it over.
The Fir was so glad they talked German! If it had been French, now, I don’t believe it could have understood them at all.
“It is such a little one!” said Hans.
“And it has such lovely crosses at the end of its boughs!” said Gretchen.
(The Fir never knew before that it had crosses. But there they were, sure enough.)
“Let’s cut it down and try,” said both together.
So Hans swung his small ax sturdily, and down came the tree. That is, it was too short to fall. It just tipped over on its side a little.
Well, to make the story short, the Fir was carried down and decked out in such simple ways as they could provide without spending any money.
When the peasant saw it for the first time on Christmas Eve—they had kept it for a surprise—he clapped his hands with delight, in spite of all his surliness. And that night, for the first time for many weeks, he brought out the old leather-covered Bible and read a chapter before bed-time.
And what chapter was it?
Why, the story of the first Christmas Eve, when Christ was born in Bethlehem.
As there was now but one article left, all knew that it must be Mr. Percival’s.
They therefore composed themselves to listen with much interest to the story entitled
GETTING SQUARE WITH HIM.
BY THE OLDEST INHABITANT.
“Let that girl alone!”
The speaker was a tall, slightly-built boy of perhaps sixteen. His eyes flashed, and his fists clenched nervously.
“Let that girl alone, I say, or”—
“Well, or what?” sneered a coarse-looking fellow, some two or three years older than the first. “You needn’t think you own this town, Winthrop Ayre, if you did come from Boston!” And he once more advanced toward a neatly-dressed girl, who was timidly cowering in a corner by a stone wall and a high fence, to avoid the touch of her rough tormentor. The latter was supported by two more of his kind, and all three were evidently trying to frighten her by their fierce looks and rude words.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mort Lapham!” exclaimed Winthrop indignantly, placing himself directly in front of the frightened girl. “Deacon Lapham’s son might be in better business than insulting girls in the street.”
“So you want to put your finger in the pie, do you? Here, fellows, let’s give him a lesson!”
Winthrop noticed that the attention of all three was now upon him alone, and motioned to the girl to run. She moved slowly a few steps down the street, and then stopped. Meanwhile the big bully raised his hand and tried to slap the city boy in the face. Winthrop warded off the blow easily, and retreated into the corner where the girl had been. “You’d better keep away, Mort,” he said quietly, though his cheeks were hot; “and you, too, Dick and Phil. I don’t want to fight, and now you’ve let the girl go, there’s nothing to fight about, that I know of.”
“Coward!” cried Mort, enraged at missing his blow. “Don’t you wish you had your Sunday-school teacher here to take care of you! She wouldn’t let any one hurt you, would she, Sonny?”
The color in Winthrop’s face deepened, but he said nothing. He was rapidly turning over the question in his mind, whether Miss Kingsbury would want him to turn his cheek if three boys struck him at once.
A tingling blow on that exact spot put to flight his meditations. His fist drew back impulsively, but he would not strike yet. He was in splendid training, this boy, and still stood entirely on the defense, knowing that the true hero is not he who fights for himself, like a brute creature, but for somebody else.
“Coward!” hissed Mort Lapham once more, cautiously keeping out of reach of the other’s arm. “Hit him again, Phil!”
As the three closed about him, a determined look in their ugly faces, the girl who had lingered irresolutely at a few paces distance, gave a low cry for help, and rushed up to the group as if to protect her protector.
“Take that!” shouted Mort, throwing out his hand and striking her, perhaps harder than he really meant to, full in the face.
Before he had time to see the effect of his blow, there was a crash between his eyes, and the earth seemed suddenly flying up into the sky. As he lay on the ground half-stunned, Winthrop, who felt that it was at last time to act, turned fiercely on his other opponents. Surprised by the suddenness of his attack, they forgot the superiority of their numbers, and started backwards. Another nervous blow from the slender young athlete, and Phil was on his back beside his leader, while Dick Stanwood, tripping over a stone—purposely or not the boys never knew—went down ingloriously with the rest. Above them stood young Ayre, like Saint Michael over his enemies, panting and glowing.
“Oh! are you hurt?” asked the girl, hurrying up to “Saint Michael,” and laying her hand on his arm.
Winthrop laughed. “Well, I’m able to walk,” he said reassuringly. Then: “Let’s leave these rascals to come to their senses. May I see you home?”
The girl flushed prettily in her eagerness. “You are so kind,” she said. “I live just the other side of that hill, and if you’ll come in a few minutes and see grandpa, I’ll be very much obliged.”
“But your forehead,” added Winthrop, as they walked along the dusty road side by side, leaving their three late assailants to sneak off in the opposite direction; “I’m afraid that fellow hurt you, though I don’t believe he meant to strike you so hard.”
“Oh! it isn’t much. I haven’t told you who I am,” she added shyly. “I know about you and your sister Marie, over at the Elms. Your Uncle Ayre and my grandfather are dear friends.”
“Then you must be ‘Puss’ Rowan!”
“Yes,” she laughed; “though it’s rather saucy for you to say it. My real name is Cecilia.”
“Excuse me, Miss Cecilia.”
“O, dear me! Don’t call me that, or I shall think you are speaking to somebody else. ‘Puss’ I’ve always been, and ‘Puss’ I must be, I suppose!” And she gave a comical little sigh, ending in another ripple of laughter, which was very pleasant to hear.
“Yes,” she went on, more soberly, “I’ve heard how your sister was ill, and you brought her here for her health, to stay all summer. May I come and see her? She’s just about my age, grandpa says.”
“Do! It will do her good, I’m sure,” replied Winthrop warmly, glancing at his companion’s pretty face and sunny curls.
Puss blushed a little, and suddenly became very demure. “Here’s grandpa’s, where I live,” she said, pausing before an old, gambrel-roofed house. “Won’t you come in?”
All the houses in Taconic were pleasant inside and out. This one looked particularly so.
“Thank you; just for a minute,” said Winthrop, walking up with Puss between two rows of lilac bushes. The girl led him into a cool, old-fashioned parlor, which had shells on the mantel-piece, and great, irregular beams in the ceiling.
Mr. Rowan, a silvery-haired gentleman, with much stately dignity and kindly manner, soon entered, and talked pleasantly with the boy, of his uncle’s younger days and Winthrop’s own affairs. Altogether a half-hour passed very quickly, and Winthrop was sorry to feel obliged to take his leave.
Puss went down to the gate with him.
“Be sure to tell your sister I am coming to-morrow,” she said. “And you’ll call again here yourself, won’t you? I shall not soon forget how you took care of me!”
Winthrop drew himself up and lifted his hat in elegant city fashion; which, however, only made Puss laugh and shake her curls.
“It’s no use to be the least bit dignified with me,” she said merrily, “for I don’t know what to do back. We just shake hands, here in the country, and say good-by.”
“Good-by,” said Winthrop, taking her little brown hand with mock solemnity.
“Good-by,” laughed Puss, “that’s better. Don’t forget your message!”
As Winthrop walked rapidly toward his uncle’s house, he went over and over the exciting events of the afternoon. He had only arrived about a week before, but he had already come in contact with the three boys who had been amusing themselves by rudely teasing Miss Cecilia Rowan, the gentlest and prettiest girl in the village. They were notorious, he had soon found, for their ill-behavior and rough manners, and had even been suspected of certain petty thefts in the neighborhood. Winthrop could not help feeling that he should hear from them again.
The meeting between his sister and Puss Rowan took place the very next day, and the two girls were almost immediately warm friends. As Winthrop had predicted, Puss’s bright face and winsome ways won the heart of the pale city maiden at once, and “did her good,” too.
One or two pleasant afternoons they passed together, and several delightful trips were planned. One of these was a small lunch party, to a favorite spot for the village young folks, called “Willow Brook.” It was about four miles from Taconic Corner, and the road to it lay through deep woods, adding an enjoyable drive to and fro, to the pleasures of the day.
Willow Brook is a noisy little stream that comes dancing down from a spur of the White Mountains, finding its way through a heavy growth of spruce and fir, over half a dozen granite ledges, and so onward until it reaches the upper Taconic meadows, where it suddenly becomes demure and quiet; but, nevertheless, is all dimples when the wind whispers to it through the sedges, or teases for a romp under the shadow of the birch-trees that line its bank here and there. At length it reaches a small picturesque valley, where the hills, though by no means lofty, perhaps remind it of its mountain childhood; for there it pauses, and holds in its bosom the pictures of the gently rising uplands, with their peacefully browsing flocks of lambs—and gathers white lilies, and so rests a while from its journey. At times, it is true, a dimple of the old-time fun, or an anxious shadow as it hears the roar of machinery and busy life beyond, hides the treasured secrets of its heart, but as the ruffled brow smooths, you can see again in those quiet depths, lambs, lilies, fleecy clouds, alike snowy white and beautiful.
The mill had stood at the foot of “Lily Pond,” where the road crossed the stream, nobody knows how long. There was an old-fashioned dam, built of a few logs and a good deal of earth and rock, now overgrown with grass and bushes up to the very sluiceway of the mill. The waste-board, over which the water flowed in a thin, glistening sheet in the early spring when the pond was high, was scarcely more than ten feet long. About a hundred feet further down the stream was a shady grove of willows and other trees, growing down close to the water’s edge. Toward this spot Winthrop with his sister, Puss and her father rode merrily enough that hot July day. Mr. Rowan did not go down to the grove at once, but, having let the young people jump out with their baskets at the Lily Pond Bridge, drove on to a neighbor’s to transact some business, promising to join the party at lunch a half an hour later. Winthrop assisted his sister carefully down over a steep embankment to the willows, Puss springing ahead and calling to her companions that she had found “a lovely place right beside the water.”