ong ago there lived a Grecian youth named Rhœcus. Just outside the city where Rhœcus dwelt was a wood. This wood was very old. Some said there were oaks in the forest that had been growing for a thousand years.

One day Rhœcus was passing through the wood. Before him he saw a noble oak about to fall. He ran and propped its mossy trunk with great branches that he took from the ground.

As he was turning away, he heard a soft voice say, "Rhœcus." There beside the tree stood a beautiful dryad.

"I am the spirit of this tree," she said. "As long as it lives, I live. When it falls, I die. You, Rhœcus, have just saved my life. Ask what you will and it is yours."

Rhœcus gazed at the dryad with wonder and awe. "You are the fairest being I have ever seen. Give me your love," he cried.

"You shall have it, Rhœcus," replied the dryad sadly. "Meet me here an hour before the sunset."

With a happy heart and a gay step Rhœcus went on his way to the town. He had won a most beautiful bride. To celebrate his joy, he thought he would play a game of dice with his friends.

The game took all his thought, for he was most unlucky. He lost once, twice, and even a third time. He forgot all about the dryad. The sun sank lower and lower and still he played on.

At last a bee entered the window and brushed against his forehead. Rhœcus shook it off. Again and again the bee returned. At last Rhœcus, in anger, struck the little creature and wounded it. Away flew the bee and Rhœcus, looking after it, saw the red sun setting over the trees of the thousand-year-old forest. He was too late!

Through the city and out of its gates he rushed. He sped across the plain and entered the wood. At the tree no fair dryad awaited him. But he heard a voice saying sadly, "Ah, Rhœcus, you forgot your promise to me. You drove away with a cruel blow my little messenger who sought to remind you of me. Because you have been harsh to the little bee, your punishment is this: You shall never see me again."

"Ah, no! sweet spirit," cried Rhœcus. "Forgive me this once. I will never sin again."

"Alas! it cannot be. Farewell," sighed the dryad. And Rhœcus saw her no more.

In that hour he changed from a happy youth to a sad and lonely man. All his life he longed to see the dryad whom he had lost for ever.

King Solomon and the Ants

When the great company had passed, there was the ant hill unharmed in the path.

The Queen said, "Happy, indeed, must be your people, wise King. I shall remember the lesson. He only is noble and great who cares for the helpless and weak."

The Story of Pegasus

On the tenth day he gave his letters to the King. The King opened them and read. Then his face changed. He went into the next room and bowed his head upon his hands. He was greatly troubled. His son-in-law had asked that Bellerophon should be killed.

"But he has just eaten my bread," said the King of Lycia. "He is my guest. I cannot kill him." He thought for some time and then spoke again: "I will not kill him myself. I will send him to fight the Chimæra."

Now the Chimæra was a terrible monster that roamed the fields of Lycia. It had the body of a lion and it had three heads. These heads were those of a lion, a goat, and a dragon. With its fiery breath the Chimæra burned up everything that came near it.

Bellerophon was troubled when he heard the orders of the King of Lycia. He went to ask the advice of the wisest man of that country. The wise man said: "Bellerophon, if you can ride Pegasus, you will kill the Chimæra easily."

"What is Pegasus?" said Bellerophon.

"Pegasus is a winged horse. His home is on Mount Olympus. But no one has tamed him except Athene, the goddess of wisdom. I should ask her help."

Bellerophon prayed in the temple of Athene and then fell asleep. He dreamed that Athene herself stood by him. He saw her grey eyes, her golden hair, and her glistening armour. He thought she put a golden bridle into his hand.

When he awoke, he found it was no dream, for he held a golden bridle.

He hastened at once to a certain spring where Pegasus often came to drink. There stood the spirited steed. Bellerophon drew near. Pegasus spread his strong wings and was just about to fly when Bellerophon held out the bridle. Then the noble horse bent his head and walked up to the young man. He knew that the golden bridle came from his mistress.

Bellerophon slipped the bridle upon Pegasus and they soared high into the air. Pegasus was as swift as an eagle.

The next day Bellerophon fought with the ugly Chimæra. With the help of Pegasus he easily slew the monster.

Then the King of Lycia gave him other hard tasks. But he did them all easily, with the help of his winged horse. At last the King gave Bellerophon his daughter as a wife.

And now, just when he was happiest, trouble came to Bellerophon. He grew proud and vain. He thought that with his winged horse, he could do anything.

One day he said, "I should like to visit the gods on Mount Olympus. I can reach their home easily. I should like to see Jupiter and Mars face to face."

He mounted Pegasus and turned his head toward the highest heaven.

"This is too great daring," said Jupiter; "Bellerophon must be punished."

Jupiter sent a gadfly to sting Pegasus. The noble horse reared. He thought his master had struck him and was furious with pain and anger. Bellerophon lost his seat and fell to the earth.

All the rest of his days he went about a blind and lame old man.

Thus the gods punished his too great daring.

The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe

The heart of the mother-wolf was touched, for she thought of her own little ones at home, and how sad it would be to see them so helpless and lonely and forgotten. So she picked the baby up in her mouth carefully and ran with him to her den in the rocks at the foot of the mountain. Here the little one, whose name was Ailbe, lived with the baby wolves sharing their breakfast and dinner and supper, playing and quarrelling and growing up with them. The wolf-mother took good care of him and saw that he had the best of everything, for she loved him dearly, indeed. And Ailbe grew stronger and stronger, taller and taller, handsomer and handsomer every day, living his happy life in the wild woods of green Ireland.

Ailbe leaves his Forest Home

Now one day, a year or two after this, a hunter came riding over the mountain on his way home from the chase, and he happened to pass near the cave where Ailbe and the wolves lived. As he was riding under the trees he saw a little white creature run across the path in front of him. At first he thought it was a rabbit; but it was too big for a rabbit, and besides, it did not hop. The hunter jumped down from his horse and ran after the funny animal to find out what it was. His long legs soon overtook it in a clump of bushes where it was hiding, and imagine the hunter's surprise when he found that it had neither fur nor horns nor four feet nor a tail, but that it was a beautiful child who could not stand upright, and whose little, bare body ran on all-fours like a baby wolf! It was little Ailbe, the wolf-mother's pet, who had grown so fast that he was almost able to take care of himself. But he was not quite able, the hunter thought; and he said to himself that he would carry the poor little thing home to his kind wife, that she might take care of him. So he caught Ailbe up in his arms, kicking and squealing and biting like the wild little animal he was, and wrapped him in a corner of his great cloak. Then he jumped on his horse with a chirrup and galloped away out of the woods toward his village.

But Ailbe did not want to leave his forest home, the wolf-den, and his little wolf-brothers. Especially he did not want to leave his dear foster mother. So he screamed and struggled to get away from the big hunter, and he called to the wolves in their own language to come and help him. Then out of the forest came bounding the great mother-wolf with her four children, now grown to be nearly as big as herself. She chased the fleeting horse and snapped at the loose end of the huntsman's cloak, howling with grief and anger. But she could not get the thief, nor get back her adopted son, the little smooth-skinned foundling. So after following them for miles, the five wolves gradually dropped farther and farther behind. And at last, as he stretched out his little arms to them over the hunter's velvet shoulder, Ailbe saw them stop in the road panting, with one last howl of farewell. They had given up the hopeless chase. And with their tails between their legs and their heads drooping low, they slunk back to their lonely den where they would never see their little boy playmate any more. It was a sad day for the wolf-mother.

But the hunter carried little Ailbe home with him on the horse's back. And he found a new mother there to receive him. Ailbe never knew who his first mother was, but she must have been a bad, cruel woman. His second mother was the kind wolf. And this one, the third, was a beautiful Princess. For the hunter who had found the child was a Prince, and he lived in a grand castle by a lake near Tipperary, with hundreds of servants and horses and dogs and little pages for Ailbe to play with. And here he lived and was very happy; and here he learned all the things which in those days made a little boy grow up into a wise and great man. He grew so wise and great that he was made a Bishop and had a palace of his own in the town of Emly. People came to see him from far and near, who made him presents, and asked him questions, and ate his dinners.

But though he had grown so great and famous, Ailbe had never forgotten his second mother, the good wolf, nor his four-footed brothers in their coats of grey fur. And sometimes when his visitors were stupid and stayed a long time, or when they asked too many questions, or when they made him presents which he did not like, Ailbe longed to be back in the forest with the good beasts.

Ailbe finds the Wolf-Mother again

A great many years afterward there was one day a huge hunt in Emly. All the lords for miles around were out chasing the wild beasts, and among them was the Prince, Ailbe's foster father. But the Bishop himself was not with them. He did not see any sport in killing poor creatures. It was almost night, and the people of Emly were out watching for the hunters to return. The Bishop was coming down the village street on his way from church, when the sounds of horns came over the hills close by, and he knew the chase was nearing home.

Louder and louder came the tantaratara! of the horns, and then he could hear the thud of the horses' hoofs and the yelp of the hounds. But suddenly the Bishop's heart stood still. Among all the other noises of the chase he heard a sound which made him think—think—think. It was the long-drawn howl of a wolf, a sad howl of fear and weariness and pain. It spoke a language which he had almost forgotten. But hardly had he time to think again and remember before down the village street came a gaunt figure, flying in long leaps from the foremost dogs who were snapping at her heels. It was Ailbe's wolf-mother.

He recognized her as soon as he saw her green eyes and the patch of white on her right foreleg. And she recognized him too—how I cannot say, for he had changed greatly since she last saw him, a naked little sun-browned boy. But, at any rate, in his fine robes of purple and linen and rich lace, with the mitre on his head and the crozier in his hand, the wolf-mother knew her dear son. With a cry of joy she bounded up to him and laid her head upon his breast, as if she knew he would protect her from the growling dogs and the fierce-eyed hunters. And the good Bishop was true to her. For he drew his beautiful velvet cloak about her tired, panting body, and laid his hand lovingly on her head. Then in the other, he held up his crook warningly to keep back the ferocious dogs.

"I will protect thee, old mother," he said tenderly. "When I was little and young and feeble, thou didst nourish and cherish and protect me; and now that thou art old and grey and weak, shall I not render the same love and care to thee? None shall injure thee."

Then the hunters came tearing up on their foaming horses. Some were angry, and wanted even now to kill the poor wolf, just as the dogs did which were prowling about snarling with disappointment. But Ailbe would have none of it. He forbade them to touch the wolf. And he was so powerful and wise and holy that they dared not disobey him, but had to be content with seeing their prey taken out of their clutches.

But before the hunters and their dogs rode away, Saint Ailbe had something more to say to them. And he bade all the curious towns-folk who had gathered about him and the wolf listen. He repeated the promise which he had made to the wolf, and warned everyone henceforth not to hurt her or her children, either in the village or in the woods or on the mountain. And, turning to her once more, he said:

"See, mother, you need not fear. They dare not hurt you now you have found your son to protect you. Come every day with my brothers to my table, and you and yours shall share my food, as once I so often shared yours."

And so it was. Every day after that, so long as she lived, the old wolf-mother brought her four children to the Bishop's palace and howled at the gate for the porter to let them in. And every day he opened to them, and the steward showed the five into the great dining-hall where Ailbe sat at the head of the table, with five places set for the rest of the family. And there, with her five children about her in a happy circle, the kind wolf-mother sat and ate the good things which the Bishop's friends had sent him. But the child she loved best was none of those in furry coats and fine whiskers that looked like her; it was the blue-eyed Saint at the top of the table in his robes of purple and white.

But Saint Ailbe would look about him at his foster mother and his brothers and would laugh contentedly.

"What a handsome family we are!" he would say. And it was true.

Who was the Mightier?[22]

FANNY E. COE

looskap, the Indian chief, had returned from the warpath. His foes were slain or scattered. No other tribe of red men dared to stand before him.

Glooskap was very proud of what he had done. "My work is over," he often said to himself. "Whom else is there for me to conquer? No one."

One day he walked through the village. He was a tall fierce figure with brightly painted body and brilliant headdress of feathers.

He stopped to speak to an old squaw. He said aloud what he had often thought, "My work is over, my enemies are dead. Whom is there for me to conquer?"

The old squaw raised her hand and pointed toward the wigwam. "There sits one whom no man will ever conquer!" she said.

Glooskap took one stride to the wigwam and raised the canvas door. Within, seated on the floor, was a fat, happy baby. He was happy because he was sucking a bit of maple sugar. He opened his bright black eyes, and stared hard at the gay feathers of the chief.

"Who is he?" asked Glooskap.

"It is the mighty Wasis. But leave him in peace. Otherwise you will be in sore trouble."

Now the Indian chief had never married. He knew nothing of children and their ways. But he thought, as is the manner of such, that he knew everything.

So he knelt on one knee, held out a hand, and smiling sweetly, said, "Baby, come to me!"

Wasis smiled, but did not stir.

Again the chief smiled kindly and said in a coaxing tone, "Baby, come to me."

Wasis looked again at the chief. Then he took a bite of the maple sugar.

Glooskap then arose, frowning; he stamped his foot angrily, and he spoke savagely. "Baby, come to me."

Wasis dropped his maple sugar. "Goo, goo!" he said; "Goo, goo! Goo, goo, goo!"

"These must be his war-cries!" thought the chief. "I'll teach him who is master and must be obeyed."

So he sang his terrible war-songs; he drew his knife and leaped into the air; he roared his orders to Wasis again and again. "Come to me: come to me!"

This was too much for the baby. His little face puckered and grew red. Then he opened his mouth and uttered shrieks so ear-piercing that their like had never been heard before. At least so the chief thought. He rushed from the wigwam and fled a mile before he stopped to breathe deeply.

Meanwhile Wasis had found his maple sugar and was calm again. "Goo, goo!" he said; "Goo, goo! Goo, goo, goo!"

And to this day when you see a baby crowing and saying "Goo, goo!" remember he is thinking of the time when he overcame the Indian chief who had conquered all the world. For of all created things the Baby alone is master.

Hans the Shepherd Boy

"No," said Hans, "I cannot do that. The sheep do not know your voice—and——" Then he stopped.

"Can't you trust me?" asked the hunter.

"No," said Hans. "You have tried to make me break my word to my master. How do I know that you would keep your word?"

The hunter laughed. "You are right," he said. "I wish I could trust my servants as your master can trust you. Show me the path. I will try to get to the village alone."

Just then several men rode out of the wood. They shouted for joy.

"Oh, sir!" cried one, "we thought you were lost."

Then Hans learned to his great surprise that the hunter was a Prince. He was afraid that the great man would be angry with him. But the Prince smiled and spoke in praise of him.

A few days later a servant came from the Prince and took Hans to the palace.

"Hans," said the Prince, "I want you to leave your sheep to come to serve me. I know you are a boy whom I can trust."

Hans was very happy over his good fortune. "If my master can find another boy to take my place, then I will come to serve you."

So Hans went back and tended the sheep until his master found another boy. After that he served the Prince many years.

Nathan and the Bear

Now they were all in a hurry to reach the warm barn. They walked along the road as fast as they could.

"I think I will go by the wood path," said Nathan to himself. "It is only half as far, and I know every step of the way."

So he ran on before the cows, and let down the bars into the wood path.

The cows went on after him. They, too, knew every step of the path. Nathan often took them home that way. The end of the wood path was near the door of the barn.

It was very still in the woods. The dry leaves rustled as the cows walked through them. There was no other sound. The trees looked big and black.

Nathan whistled as he walked. He had never been in the woods after dark before. He was glad that he was not far from home.

Once the black cow stepped on a long, dry branch. The other end of the branch flew up in Nathan's face and made him jump.

"What a baby I am!" said he. "There is nothing to be afraid of. I can see the lamp in our kitchen now."

Nathan was now on the top of the hill. The trees were cut down on one side of the path. He could look across a cornfield to his home.

He whistled more loudly than ever and walked bravely on.

"I wonder if there are any bears in these woods," he was thinking. "Tom Shaw's father saw a bear on the mountain last week. Tom says he would like to meet one. I should run if I heard a bear coming."

Nathan stopped a moment to listen. His heart beat fast. He could feel it thump, thump, thump against his jacket. But there was no sound except the breaking of twigs and the rustling of leaves under the heavy step of the cows.

"Home at last!" said Nathan.

His father heard him open the great gate, and came out with a light.

Nathan stood aside to let the cows go through the gateway. He always counted them as they went through.

One, two, three, four, five—one, two, three, four, five—Nathan rubbed his eyes. Then he counted again. One, two, three, four, five, six! Where did the sixth cow come from? Was it a cow? It looked more like a dog.

"Father!" cried Nathan. "Here's a bear with the cows!"

Mr King laughed. He had opened the barn door. The cows were going in, one by one.

"What a boy you are!" he said. "You and Tom Shaw—why, it is a bear!"

Yes, it really was a bear. Mr King swung the lantern close, to make sure.

When the bear saw the bright light, he turned slowly; then he went back through the gateway across the road, into the wood path.

"Let me get my gun!" cried Mr King. "Take the lantern, Nathan!"

"Oh, don't shoot him, father!" begged Nathan. "Please don't shoot him. He came all the way through the woods with me, and he did not hurt me at all."

The boy was almost crying. He was holding his father's arm with both hands.

"Please don't shoot him!" he said again.

"Well," said Mr King, "I don't like to let a bear go like that. He seems gentle enough, but he might do some harm. Where did you find him, Nathan?"

"I did not find him," said the boy, still holding fast his father's arm. "He must have been in the woods. I was counting the cows just now, and there he was! I wish you would let him go. He was good to me when he might have hurt me. I think it would be mean to shoot him now."

"It is strange that the cows were not frightened," said Mr King. "I suppose the old fellow was cold. He thought you looked as if you were a kind boy, Nathan."

Nathan knew that his father would not go after the bear now. He laughed gaily as he went into the barn.

"I wish Tom Shaw had been here," said he. "I think I shall come home by the road to-morrow night. I am not very fond of bears, after all."

The Man on the Chimney

"He will starve if he stays there, and he will be killed if he tries to climb down," they said sadly.

Just then the wife of the man appeared. She did not cry, scold, or fret. Instead, she said to herself, "What can I do to save him? There must be some way."

Soon a bright idea came to her, and she shouted to her husband:

"John! John! Unravel your stocking! Begin at the toe!"

John understood at once. He took off the coarse yarn stocking that she had knitted for him, cut off the toe, and began to unravel the yarn.

When he had pulled out a long piece, he tied the end around a small piece of brick. This he very carefully let down to the ground.

How eagerly the men below seized upon it. They fastened the yarn to a ball of twine which John's wife had fetched. Then they shouted:

"Pull up the yarn till you get the twine."

Soon John called to them:

"I have it."

They next fastened the twine to the heavy rope and shouted:

"Pull up the twine till you get the rope."

"All right," said John, and in a very few minutes he held the stout rope in his hand. With its aid, he let himself safely down to the ground. How they all cheered as his foot touched the earth!

Do you think he left the remnant of his stocking on the chimney-top? No, indeed. He brought it down, buttoned under his coat. It was a precious keepsake. He often showed it to his children, as he told them the wonderful story of how his life had been saved by their mother.

Pocahontas

"Bring him here," said the chief, and Captain John Smith was brought before Powhatan.

The chief received the prisoner in his wigwam, and talked with him, asking him many questions.

Captain Smith told the Indians that the earth was round, and that the sun chased the night around it. He said that the sun that set in the west at night was the same sun that rose in the east in the morning. He showed them his compass and told them how it guided him through the forest.

At last the Indians began to fear him, thinking that so wise and powerful a man might do them some harm. So, after holding him as a prisoner for many days, they decided to put him to death.

In the meantime Captain Smith and Pocahontas had become the best of friends. He told her many stories of his childhood in a land across the sea—of the blue-eyed, fair-haired boys and girls, of their toys and games, their homes and schools, and how they learned to read and write.

So when Pocahontas learned that her dear friend must die, she felt very sad, and tried to think of some way of saving his life.

And she did save his life, for just as Captain Smith was to be killed, the child threw her arms about his neck, and begged her father to spare the white man's life, for her sake.

Powhatan loved his little daughter, and wished to please her in everything, so he promised to set the prisoner free, and to send him at once to his friends.

Pocahontas often visited Captain Smith, and learned to know and love his friends. In later years she went to England to see the fair-haired boys and girls and the homes and schools he had told her about during his captivity.

The Day Kit and Kat went Fishing

She looked across the road which ran by the house, across the canal on the other side, across the level green fields that lay beyond, clear to the blue rim of the world, where the sky touches the earth. The sky was very blue; and the great, round, shining face of the sun was just peering over the tops of the trees, as she looked out.

Vrouw Vedder listened. The roosters in the barnyard were crowing, the ducks in the canal were quacking, and all the little birds in the fields were singing for joy. Vrouw Vedder hummed a slow little tune of her own, as she went back into her kitchen.

Kit and Kat were still asleep in their little cupboard bed. She gave them each a kiss. The twins opened their eyes and sat up.

"Oh, Kit and Kat," said Vrouw Vedder, "the sun is up, the birds are all awake and singing, and grandfather is going fishing to-day. If you will hurry you may go with him! He is coming at six o'clock; so pop out of bed and get dressed. I will put up some lunch for you in the yellow basket, and you may dig worms for bait in the garden. Only be sure not to step on the young cabbages that father planted."

Kit and Kat bounced out of bed in a minute. Their mother helped them to put on their clothes and new wooden shoes. Then she gave them each a bowl of bread and milk for their breakfast. They ate it sitting on the kitchen doorstep.

Soon Kit and Kat were digging for worms. They did just as their mother said, and did not step on the young cabbages. They sat on them, instead. But that was an accident.

Kit dug the worms, and Kat put them into a basket, with some earth in it to make them feel at home.

When grandfather came, he brought a large fishing-rod for himself and two little ones for the twins. There was a little hook on the end of each line.

Vrouw Vedder kissed Kit and Kat good-bye.

"Mind grandfather, and don't fall into the water," she said.

Grandfather and the twins started off together down the long road beside the canal.

The house where the twins lived was right beside the canal. Their father was a gardener, and his beautiful rows of cabbages and beets and onions stretched in long lines across the level fields by the roadside.

Grandfather lived in a large town, a little way beyond the farm where the twins lived. He did not often have a holiday, because he carried milk to the doors of the people in the town, every morning early. Some time I will tell you how he did it; but I must not tell you now, because if I do, I can't tell you about their going fishing.

This morning, grandfather carried his rod and the lunch-basket. Kit and Kat carried the basket of worms between them, and their rods over their shoulders, and they were all three very happy.

On the Dyke

They walked along ever so far, beside the canal. Then they turned to the left and walked along a path that ran from the canal across the green fields to what looked like a hill.

But it wasn't a hill at all, really, because there aren't any hills in Holland. It was a long, long wall of earth, very high—oh, as high as a house, or even higher! And it had sloping sides.

There is such a wall of earth all round the country of Holland, where the twins live. There has to be a wall, because the sea is higher than the land. If there were no walls to shut out the sea, the whole country would be covered with water; and if that were so, then there wouldn't be any Holland, or any Holland twins, or any story. So you see that it was very lucky that the wall was there. They called it a dyke.

Grandfather and Kit and Kat climbed the dyke. When they reached the top, they sat down a few minutes to rest and look at the great blue sea. Grandfather sat in the middle, with Kit on one side, and Kat on the other; and the basket of worms and the basket of lunch were there, too.

They saw a great ship sail slowly by, making a cloud of smoke.

"Where do the ships go, grandfather?" asked Kit.

"To England, and America, and China, and all over the world," said grandfather.

"Why?" asked Kat. Kat almost always said "Why?" and when she didn't, Kit did.

"To take flax and linen from the mills of Holland to make dresses for little girls in other countries," said grandfather.

"Is that all?" asked Kit.

"They take cheese and herring, bulbs and butter, and lots of other things besides, and bring back to us wheat and meal and all sorts of good things from the lands across the sea."

"I think I'll be a sea captain when I'm big," said Kit.

"So will I," said Kat.

"Girls can't," said Kit.

But grandfather shook his head and said:

"You can't tell what a girl may be by the time she's four feet and a half high and is called Katrina. There's no telling what girls will do, anyway. But, children, if we stay here we shall not catch any fish."

On the Pier

They went down the other side of the dyke and out upon a little pier that ran from the sandy beach into the water.

Grandfather showed them how to bait their hooks. Kit baited Kat's for her, because Kat said it made her all wriggly inside to do it. She did not like it. Neither did the worm!

They all sat down on the end of the pier. Grandfather sat on the very end and let his wooden shoes hang down over the water; but he made Kit and Kat sit with their feet stuck straight out in front of them, so that they just reached to the edge—"So that you can't fall in," said grandfather.

They dropped their hooks into the water and sat very still, waiting for a bite. The sun climbed higher and higher in the sky, and it grew hotter and hotter on the pier. The flies tickled Kat's nose and made her sneeze.

"Keep still, can't you?" said Kit crossly. "You'll scare the fish. Girls don't know how to fish."

Pretty soon Kat felt a queer little jerk on her line. She was perfectly sure she did.

Kat squealed and jerked her rod. She jerked it so hard that one foot flew right up in the air, and one of her new wooden shoes went—splash!—right into the water!

But that wasn't the worst of it! Before you could say Jack Robinson, Kat's hook flew around and caught in Kit's clothes and pricked him.

Kit jumped and said, "Ow!" And then—no one could tell how it happened—there was Kit in the water, too, splashing like a young whale, with Kat's hook still holding fast to his clothes in the back!

Grandfather jumped then, too, you may be sure. He caught hold of Kat's rod and pulled hard and called out, "Steady, there, steady!"

And in one minute there was Kit in the shallow water beside the pier, puffing and blowing like a grampus!

Grandfather reached down and pulled him up.

When Kit was safely on the pier, Kat threw her arms around his neck, though the water was running down in streams from his hair and eyes and ears.

"Oh, Kit," she said, "I truly thought it was a fish on my line when I jumped!"

"Just like a g-g-girl," said Kit. "They don't know how to f-f-fish!" You see his teeth were chattering, because the water was cold.

"Well, anyway," said Kat, "I caught more than you did. I caught you!"

Then Kat thought of something else. She shook her finger at Kit.

"Oh, Kit," she said, "mother told you not to fall into the water!"

"'T-t-t-was all your fault," roared Kit. "Y-y-you began it! Anyway, where is your new wooden shoe?"

"Where are both of yours?" screamed Kat.

Sure enough, where were they? No one had thought about shoes, because they were thinking so hard about Kit.

They ran to the end of the pier and looked. There was Kat's shoe sailing away toward England like a little boat! Kit's were still bobbing about in the water near the pier.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" shrieked Kat; but the tide was going out and carrying her shoe farther away every minute. They could not get it; but grandfather reached down with his rod and fished out both of Kit's shoes. Then Kat took off her other one and her stockings, and they all three went back to the beach.

On the Beach

Grandfather and Kat covered Kit up with sand to keep him warm while his clothes were drying. Then grandfather stuck the twins' fish-poles up in the sand and tied the two lines together for a clothes-line, and hung Kit's clothes up on it, and Kat put their three wooden shoes in a row beside Kit.

Then they ate their luncheon of bread and butter, cheese and milk, with some radishes from father's garden. It tasted good even if it was sandy. After lunch grandfather said:

"It will never do to go home without any fish at all."

So by-and-by he went back to the pier and caught one while the twins played in the sand. He put it in the lunch-basket to carry home.

Kat brought shells and pebbles to Kit, because he had to stay covered up in the sand, and Kit built a play dyke all around himself with them, and Kat dug a canal outside the dyke. Then she made sand-pies in clam-shells and set them in a row in the sun to bake.

They played until the shadows of the dyke grew very long across the sandy beach, and then grandfather said it was time to go home.

He helped Kit to dress, but Kit's clothes were still a little wet in the thick parts. And Kat had to go barefooted and carry her one wooden shoe.

They climbed the dyke and crossed the fields, and walked along the road by the canal. The road shone, like a strip of yellow ribbon across the green field. They walked quite slowly, for they were tired and sleepy.

By-and-by Kit said, "I see our house"; and Kat said, "I see mother at the gate."

Grandfather gave the fish he caught to Kit and Kat, and Vrouw Vedder cooked it for their supper; and though it was not a very big fish, they all had some.

Grandfather must have told Vrouw Vedder something about what had happened; for that night, when she put Kit to bed, she felt his clothes very carefully—but she didn't say a word about their being damp. And she said to Kat: "To-morrow we will see the shoemaker and get him to make you another shoe."

Then Kit and Kat hugged her and said good-night, and popped off to sleep before you could wink your eyes.

The Honest Farmer