his pocket. Then he turned to the window near which the men sat. The older one addressed him pleasantly.

"You are a son of Mr. Primrose?" he said, offering his hand.

Tom bowed slightly, but took no notice of the extended hand. He lowered the window and fastened it, hoping that the burglars, if they tried to open it, might not at first understand the catch, thus giving more time. He then passed into the hall, noiselessly locking that door also.

Frank was nursing his sprained foot on the back piazza. In answer to Tom's excited inquiries he told him their father had returned home a short time since, had dined, and gone to his room. His mother was in the kitchen canning fruit. Glad not to meet her, Tom sprang up the stairs, and knocking at his father's door, begged to be let in.

"I am bathing, Tom," was the answer; "wait a little."

"Oh, father," pleaded Tom, "do let me speak to you just one minute."

Tom's claims to be heard were usually urgent, so his father only said, "Have a little patience, my boy; in ten minutes I'll hear all you have to say."

Ten minutes! What might not happen in ten minutes! If he waited up there, the criminals might, finding themselves shut in, guess that they were under suspicion, and make good their escape. If he went to call help, his father might, in his absence, run into the very danger he was seeking to save him from.

A bright thought came to him. So long as his father remained in his room he must be safe. Tom turned the key in the door, and locked him in. Then, with all the speed which terror could lend to a boy's nimble feet, he ran to the police station, a few blocks distant, reaching it in a condition which only left him able to convey a general idea that something dreadful was going on at Mr. Primrose's. Two policemen were there. First sending a message to head-quarters for further force, they followed Tom in all haste, a small crowd of by-standers falling into line, and gathering strength as they neared the Primrose domicile. As they came to the gate Tom saw the Accomplice trying to open the window.

"See! they're getting away!" he cried. And the policemen bounded into the house and seized the two men. At this moment a heavy pounding was heard overhead. Tom turned paler than before.

"There must be more of them up stairs," he shrieked; "they are getting after my father."

He tore up the stairs, and found the room still locked; but the pounding kept on. He turned the key with a trembling hand.

"Who locked me in?" exclaimed his father. "Such foolery—" He stopped in surprise as half a dozen men tramped hastily up stairs.

"Are you hurt, Mr. Primrose? Are the rascals in there?"

"Hurt? No. What's the matter? what is all this fuss about?" He stared in amazement at the crowd pressing into the hall. "Is the house on fire?"

"Not a bit, sir; but we've got two of the men in there."

He pushed his way down stairs, and was met by several policemen, who had made their way through the crowd outside. As the principal excitement seemed in the parlor, he turned that way. The eyes of all there were fixed upon two quiet-looking men, who stood with a policeman's hand on a shoulder of each.

"Philip Sanford! What does all this mean?"

"I must ask you that," was the answer. "I came to your house on a friendly visit, and to introduce my nephew, who is desirous of becoming a law student in your office"—motioning toward the younger man—"and I find myself under arrest."

The policemen dropped their hands and looked toward Mr. Primrose. Mr. Primrose looked at them.

"Why are you here, men?" he asked.

"The little chap wanted us pretty badly," said one of them, turning to Tom with a laugh.

"I—thought they were the criminals, papa—had come to hurt you, and I couldn't speak to you, and I locked you up. I didn't know what to do—and you said the burglars were such nice-looking men." A laugh arose at this.

"Go on," said his father; "I don't understand yet."

"The burglars were gone when I got to Homer; they sat behind me on the cars, and talked about being revenged on you, papa; and one of them had that revolver." Tom's voice broke, and he seized his father's hand.

The two criminals laughed heartily.

"I believe I see into it now," said Mr. Sanford. "I said I was coming here to get revenge for the beating you gave me at chess. This revolver"—he took it from his pocket—"was given me this morning by the burglar I have been defending, as a token of his gratitude, as he expressed it, for the able manner in which I had conducted his case. And this poor little fellow"—looking kindly at Tom—"has been suffering agonies of fear for his father's safety ever since I showed it in the cars."

"So, friends," said Mr. Primrose, looking around, "I thank you all for coming to my protection, but you see I do not need it."

The police led the way out, and others followed, with increasing merriment at the mistake which had been made. A shout arose also from the crowd outside as it left the premises.

"I beg your pardon, sir; and yours," faltered poor Tom, with his strongest effort to keep back the tears of mortification at the terrible blunder he had committed.

"No pardon is necessary," said Mr. Sanford. "If my own small boy lives to your age, the best I can wish for him is that he may be as brave and energetic as you have been to-day, and as faithful in watching for his father's safety, even if it sometimes leads him into a mistake. You'll take my hand now, my boy, won't you?"

Tom grasped it, and then escaped to his room. There lay his pocket-book, just where he had left it when he changed his clothes in the morning. He threw himself on the bed and cried till sleep came to relieve his troubles.

When he awoke it was twilight, and his mother was beside him.

"Come, dear," she said, "they are all waiting for you. Yes, you must go down," as Tom shook his head: "they will not go to tea till you go down. And look at this—your father received it about an hour ago."

It was a telegram from Homer, and read thus:

"Have caught the men, and shipped to Hancock County.

"Carroll."

"THE HUNT IS UP, THE MORN IS BRIGHT AND GRAY."—Shakspeare.

THE HUNTING SEASON.

BY W. A. LINN.

The boy whose fortune it is to live in the country looks forward to the advent of autumn with eagerness, if happily he belongs to that large class of boys who have a passion for hunting. There are some people who object to this trait in the character of boys, as indicative of cruelty, but I doubt if they fully understand the trait. Very few hunters, old or young, take pleasure in the mere act of killing birds and animals. If this was the chief end in view, they could secure it without days of toilsome tramping. A hunter's pleasure is made up of a great deal more than success in filling his bag. If he is to be really an expert in his work, he must study carefully the habits of the game which he pursues, become acquainted with the country over which he is to hunt, and submit to long practice with his gun or rifle.

The most common object of pursuit with boy hunters in our New England and Middle States is the rabbit. The more mature sportsman may look with scorn on the "cotton-tail" if he pleases, and rejoice more over one dead quail than the capture of a dozen rabbits. Not so the boy. With boys, size counts in a good many ways. Then, too, in rabbit-hunting, boys get a variety of sport. They can find time after