one.

They were not followed by any spring from the cougar. Only by a growl and an angry tearing at the gravel, and then there was no danger that any more big-horns, living or dead, would ever be stolen by that panther.

"Well, Steve, if this isn't the biggest kind of sport! Never saw anything better in all my life."

"A buck, a big-horn, and a painter before sundown."

"It'll be sundown before we get them all in. We'd better start for some ponies and some help. Tell you what, Steve, I don't care much for it myself, but the Lipans would rather eat that cougar than the best venison that ever was killed."

"I suppose they would; but I ain't quite Indian enough for that, war-paint or no war-paint."

So, indeed, it proved; and To-la-go-to-de indulged in more than one sarcastic gibe at his less successful hunters over the manner in which they had been beaten by "No Tongue and the Yellow Head—an old pale-face and a boy." He even went so far as to say to Steve Harrison, "Good shot. The Yellow Head will be a chief some day. He must kill many Apaches. Ugh!"

[to be continued.]

THE ROCKS.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.

THE ROCKS TELLING THEIR STORY.

Not long ago I saw some men at work in a stone quarry on Second Avenue, at the corner of Seventieth Street, New York. In this part of the city there are many empty lots not yet built upon. These vacant squares are in some places covered with great masses of rough rocks, that must be cleared away before the houses can be built. So it happens there are stone quarries right in the midst of the city. In talking to you about the sea, you may remember I told you the world is like a great picture-book. Here is one of the leaves lying wide open, where we may read a strange old story. Those of you who live in New York can go up to Seventieth Street and see it; but the men are busy tearing it down, and before you get there, there may be nothing left but a fine row of cellars or a block of houses. Many of you can not visit New York, so I carried my camera to the place, and took a photograph of the rocky wall. The engraver has made a picture from my photograph, and here you can see it. At the left you can look down Seventieth Street, and see part of the rocky hill on the next block. On top is an old shanty, a tree or two, and a tumble-down fence. Directly in front is the solid wall of stone, just as it has lain there for perhaps tens of thousands of years. In the foreground are the broken fragments of rock that have been torn down by the blasts. One of the quarry-men looked up from his work just as I set up my camera, and got nicely caught in the picture.

You must study these rocks. See how they are split into thin sheets and layers. The rocky wall is full of horizontal seams. It looks as if made of thin layers laid one over the other. The middle part of the rock, that is in the shadow of the overhanging layers, is divided into very fine layers, so close together it is hard to tell them apart, yet you can see by the broken edge against the sky that all the rocky pile is in sheets and layers one above the other.

I carried some of the small pieces home, and rubbed them together over a sheet of paper, and soon had a small heap of black and white dust. Here we have two things about these rocks. The picture shows you the rock is arranged in layers. Rubbing the pieces together showed that it was made up of fine dust that when wet would resemble mud or wet sand. These things plainly point to the water. The rock must have come from the sea.

The rain and the frost may have begun the work. The rain wet some old rocks, and the cold turned the water to ice, and the ice worked its thin fingers into every crack, and broke off millions of small pieces. The spring torrents swept this dust into the streams, and these carried it to the sea that then covered all this part of the country. Perhaps it was the surf beating on some ancient shore that ground up the rocks; but of this we can not be so sure as we may be concerning some other rocks we shall see presently. One thing is pretty plain. The loose dust or mud was swept hither and thither by the tides and currents. Very likely the moon arranged all these sheets of stone. The tides rose and fell as the moon swung round the world. Each tide carried up some of the soft glittering and silvery mud, and left it on the shore to dry in the sun. The next tide brought a little more, and laid it over the first sheet. In this way, for perhaps hundreds of years, the moon bid the sea spread carpets of mud and soft sand one over the other upon its floor. Under the shadow of the overhanging part of the rock it seems to be of quite a different kind. Something happened, and the tides and currents brought a different kind of material.

In time the soft mud became pressed together into solid rock, and was lifted above the sea. Perhaps not suddenly, but so slowly that a thousand years passed before it was all dry. Then terrible days came. The rock was bent and twisted by strains and heavings as the earth moved. None of these layers as we see them to-day are level. All are tilted up toward the northeast. Hot rocks, liquid, like melted lead, burst up and filled the cracks with new kinds of stone. The old rocks were frightfully burned, and changed so much that in looking at some of the pieces we can not be quite sure whether they came from the sea or not. For this reason they are sometimes called the changed rocks. However, much of the rock to be found in this part of the city clearly came from the sea; and perhaps the whole of it, except that which has been melted, was born in the ocean.

Afterward the pile of rocks was buried deep under solid ice, that ground and crushed over it as it moved toward the south. To-day you can see where the ice tore off great pieces, and scratched and polished the low hills into their present curious shapes.

I have chosen these rocks on Second Avenue because they tell so much. They show you how to read the great picture-book of the world. How do we know all these things happened? Because we see such things going on to-day all about us. The sea, the ice, the wind, the tides, and the rain are ever at work tearing down and building up. We can see the sea making sand and mud that will one day be solid rock and dry land. Surely these things are worth studying, and you must look about for other rocks, and try to read their story.

Everywhere in New York city, and in many other Eastern cities, you will see a rock that you may be very sure came from the sea. A smooth and beautiful stone that is like a story-book telling of old beaches where the surf beat with terrible fury in great storms, where the tides kept time with the moon, and of long summer days when the sea was smooth, and gentle waves fell on the white sand glistening in the sun. This is the brown stone used in building houses. It is a real sandstone.

Upon the beach you saw the sand arranged in wavy lines and curves by the water. Each creamy wave that ran up the beach left a trace showing just how far it went. The smaller and lighter particles of sand swept along by the water were dropped just at the place where the water stopped for an instant before it turned back. As the wave retreated, you remember the larger grains of sand were to be seen sorted out along the lower edge of the beach.

Look at these blocks of sandstone. Here are the same markings. Look carefully and you will soon find a piece where the sand is arranged in horizontal layers just as the water left it. Perhaps you can count a hundred layers in a single piece of stone. Some will be thick, and full of large grains of sand. There must have been a high tide that day, or perhaps there was a