Harper's Young People, May 18, 1880 An Illustrated Weekly

[Begun in No. 19 of Harper's Young People, March 9.]

ACROSS THE OCEAN; OR, A BOY'S FIRST VOYAGE.

A True Story.

BY J. O. DAVIDSON.

Chapter XI.

AMONG THE "COOLIES."

They found the city one blaze of lanterns, banners, and many-colored fire-works. All the ships in the harbor were gay with brilliant bunting, and the air echoed with the boom of cannon and the snapping of firecrackers, in honor of the Chinese New-Year. In fact, it was quite a Fourth-of-July celebration; and at night there began such a burst of sky-rockets and fire-balloons that the whole town seemed to be in flames.

Early next morning the Arizona opened her ports to receive cargo; and Frank, being told off to assist, saw for the first time one of the most picturesque sights in the world—a gang of coolies at work. On the other side of the "entering port," beside which he was posted, stood a Parsee merchant, whose long white robe, dark face, and high black cap made him look very much like a cigar wrapped in paper. Along the quivering line of sunlight that streamed through the port came filing, like figures in a magic lantern, an endless procession of tall, sinewy, fierce-looking Malays, and yellow, narrow-eyed, doll-faced Chinamen, carrying blocks of tin, rice sacks, opium chests, or pepper bags, and all moving in time to a dismal tune, suggestive of a dog shut out on a cold night.

Each man shouted his name in passing, and the merchant then handed Frank a short piece of cane. These canes were the "tally sticks," their different colors indicating the nature of the articles counted. At every tenth entry the Parsee cried, "Tally," and Austin, reckoning the sticks in his hand, and finding them correct, answered, "Tally."

Our hero soon found that these were not the only sticks employed. A rice sack burst suddenly, and all the coolies stopped their work to pick it up to the last grain, it being thought far too sacred to be wasted. They were not quite brisk enough about it, however, to please the worthy merchant, who, seizing a stout bamboo, with a shrill yell of "Bree! bree!" (hurry up) laid about him as if he were beating a carpet, till the hold echoed again.

"You take 'tick too; give 'em whack-whack," cried he, offering Austin another bamboo. "Dey no work proper widout 'tick; dat 'courage 'em."

"Hum!" thought Frank; "I don't think it would encourage me much."

The remedy seemed to answer, however, for the coolies at once quickened their movements, grinning as if the whole thing was a capital joke. But it was not long before Frank had to exercise his stick upon a fellow whom he caught in the act of dropping a package

"Very good, my boy; you've done capitally for a first trial. After this I'll rate you as supercargo, and give you a state-room on the officers' deck."

This was promotion indeed, and our hero, tired as he was, "turned in" with a light heart.

Next morning the work began again. Bags, boxes, chests, crowded so fast upon each other that Frank and the Parsee were soon forced to shift to one of the six huge barges that lay alongside, piled high with spices, pepper, and bundles of rattan. Two native servants stood by to fan them, while two others shielded them from the burning sun with huge umbrellas; and this group, together with the long file of black or yellow skinned figures below, pouring into the ship with their burdens like a stream of ants, and still chanting their strange, monotonous song, made a very curious picture.

About two o'clock (the sailors' dinner hour) the gang had a short rest, which the Malays employed in squatting about in groups, and chewing betel-nut. A piece of the nut was folded between two green leaves, and munched vigorously, the result being to cover their mouths with a red froth, which, as Frank thought, made them all look as if they had just had two or three teeth out.

After night-fall the work went on by lamp-light, and a very picturesque sight it was. Tired as they were, the men worked with a will, and by midnight the last package was stowed, the last receipt signed, and the Arizona all ready to sail the next day.

After his hard day's work, Frank slept like a top; but he was aroused soon after sunrise by a knock at his door, and in came a venerable old native in a long white robe, crimson girdle, and hat exactly like a stove-pipe, minus the rim. Shutting the door as carefully as if he were about to confess a murder, he opened a small silk bag, and flashed upon Frank's astonished eyes a perfect heap of precious stones of all sorts and sizes; then holding up the fingers of both hands several times in succession, he uttered the one word "Rupees."[1]

But the price, though low, was far beyond Austin's means. He shook his head, and the old gentleman bowed himself out as politely as if Frank had purchased his entire stock. Five minutes later came a second tap, and another native entered, with a basket of delicious fruits, answering our hero's "How much?" by pointing to a pair of worn-out shoes, and saying, "Can do." Before Austin could recover from his amazement at the idea of a country where men preferred old shoes to hard dollars, the fruit merchant had made his "salam" (bow), and departed with his prize.

He was hardly gone, when a third trader turned up, with a splendid collection of shells and coral, and the same scene was repeated. This time the "Can do" referred to some ragged old flannel shirts and pants that hung on the wall, in exchange for which the dealer handed over the entire contents of his basket. Frank, more puzzled than ever, went to old Herrick for an explanation.

"Well, lad," said the veteran, "these natyve fellers, d'ye see, are divided into so many 'castes,' one above t'other, like men and officers aboard ship, and the lower castes have got to pay toll to the higher 'uns. Now the high-caste crowd are too great swells to touch a furriner's clothes or shoes, though they'll touch his money fast enough; so them two chaps'll be able to keep all you gave 'em, whereas if you'd paid 'em in dollars, they'd ha' had to go halves with the 'upper crust.'"

[to be continued.]

EASY BOTANY.

MAY.

May brings so many wild flowers that the mere names would easily fill all the space I can have.

But the young flower-hunter must get an idea of some of the flowers sure to appear in May, and those who will notice the habits of plants will soon discover where these fair friends dwell, and will learn which selects the valley, which the hill-side, finding that as a general thing they may be looked for with the certainty of being found in their favorite haunts.

Botanical authorities have arranged all known plants in families, and each plant belongs to some floral family, the members of which possess certain qualities in common, making it suitable to class them together; for instance, all the buttercups, anemones, clematis, hepaticas, larkspur, columbine, and many others, belong to the Crowfoot family—a large family, all possessing a colorless but acrid juice, which is, in some of them, a narcotic poison, as hellebore, aconite, larkspur, and monk's-hood. Others are quite harmless, as the marsh-marigold, so well known as cowslips, or the "greens" of early spring. Others have a delicate beauty, as the anemones, hepaticas, and others.

Another family, the Poppy family, takes in all the poppies, the bloodroot, celandine, and others. These have a milky or colored juice, often used medicinally, and from one species of poppy opium is made.

The Crucifers, or Mustard family, have cross-shaped flowers, and abound in a pungent, biting juice, with which we are familiar; and thus we could go on enumerating the distinctive qualities of one hundred and thirty families.

In every month are to be found some peculiarly rare and interesting plants, and May can show a fair array. In cold bogs and swamps of New England the genial airs awaken many a blossom that seems too lovely for such dismal surroundings. But bogs and swamps and wet pastures are well worth exploring, and are justly dear to the botanical heart; for here, springing from a bed of soft black mud, may be seen the pink Arethusa, fair as a rose leaf, the rare Calypso, the singular trilliums, the graceful adder's-tongue, and several species of the remarkable Cypripediums, or lady's-slipper. The beautiful spring orchis, the only orchis blossoming early, of most delicate white and purple tints, flourishes in damp, rich woods, and the Cornus, or dogwood, lights up the shady nooks with level sheets of bloom.

Violets, more than twenty varieties, come on in April, May, and June; but I can specify but one—a charming species of pansy-like beauty, found at Farmington, Connecticut, with the two upper petals of the finest violet tint, and of velvet softness. In moist woodlands in Western Connecticut the staphylea, or bladder-nut, attracts attention by its drooping racemes of white flowers, and later in the season the rich brown seed-vessels are as handsome as the flowers in the spring. All around on the rocky road-side banks and in dry fields the airy wild columbine and pretty corydalis blossoms nod in every breeze, and the ravines on the hills are fringed with the softest frills of exquisite leaves and odd flowers of the Dutchman's-breeches and squirrel-corn, whitish and pinkish, and with the scent of hyacinths.

One other must not be forgotten, though so well known as hardly needing to be named. Who has not searched in dim New England woods, under solemn pines, for the sweet, shy, waxen clusters of this dearest of all the flowery train, hiding under old rusty leaves, but betraying itself by that indescribably delicious fragrance which perfumes the wood paths? Surely all the young hands have been filled with the pilgrim's-flower, the epigæa, the trailing arbutus, the beloved May-flower of olden and of modern time.

In the Middle States many plants are found which New England does not furnish. New Jersey is famed for woodland

FLOWERS OF MAY.

CONSTANCY.

BY S. B.

Little Ruth looked at her dolly one day,
Said: "Dolly, they wish me to give you away;
They say you are old, and I know it's quite true;
But, dolly, dear dolly, I can't part from you.

"Your color has faded, your nose is quite gone,
Yet I love you as well as the day you were born;
You've great cracks on your face, and scarcely a hair,
Yet, dolly, my dear, to me you are fair.

"Though you're hurt, darling dolly, too often, I fear,
But you are so brave that you won't shed a tear;
And although you've one arm, one leg, and no nose,
You're dearer to me because of your woes.

"But what was the hardest and cruelest sting
Was that father once called you a horrid old thing:
He said, 'What a battered and wretched old fright!
Do take her away, pray, out of my sight.'

"And, dolly, he said that a new doll he'd buy;
To find me a nice one he really would try;
She should have two legs, and more than one arm:
I am sure that papa did not mean any harm.

"Pray what would they all say if I asked mamma
To go out and buy me a nice new papa,
Because father dear is old, bald, and gray?
I should like very much to hear what he'd say."

[Begun in Harper's Young People No. 24, April 18.]

THE STORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON.

BY EDWARD CARY.

Chapter VI.

The private life of Washington was very simple. He was very fond of farming, and studied it carefully, as he seems to have studied everything that he took in hand. Some of his letters to Arthur Young, a great English traveller, who was also a writer on farming, are very interesting. In reading them it is easy to forget the General and the public man, and to think only of the painstaking planter, eager to know what was the best way to plant his various crops, or to plough his different fields. He liked shade trees greatly, and had a great many kinds of them at Mount Vernon, set out under his own direction, and some of them with his own hand. Some of my readers may yet see them on the pleasant sloping banks of the Potomac, below the city of Washington. Even among the cares of the camp and the battle-field Washington found time nearly every week to write minute directions to his superintendent, who had charge of his farm, telling him just what work to do each day, and how to do it. When he got back to his home, he took up the task of seeing to things himself with the greatest enjoyment. Every morning after breakfast he mounted his horse and rode about his ample fields, and he seldom let anything prevent his doing so—neither bad weather, nor the claims of visitors, of whom he had a host, nor anything else. He laid out his time on an exact system. Each morning he arose before sunrise to write letters and to read, and on his return from his ride over his estate he again went to his study, and staid there attending to business until three o'clock in the afternoon. At three he dined, and gave the rest of the day and evening to his family and his guests. At ten he went to bed.

But he was not to enjoy this happy, peaceful life very long. His countrymen needed him as much in peace as in war, and soon called him again to public life. After the American States had cut loose from Great Britain, they found that their common affairs did not get on very well. They had borrowed a good deal of money to carry on the war, and the only way to pay it was by each State giving its part. But the people of the various States were jealous of each other, and quarrelled over the amount they ought to pay. There was danger that the States would divide from each other, and then be much less able to defend themselves against foreign governments. Washington dreaded such a thing. He believed that the only means by which the States could keep the freedom they had won was by uniting closely. He wished to see a national government formed, with power to raise money by equal taxes, to pay the common debts, and to make war if need be. He wrote on this subject to many of his friends, who agreed with him.

After a while, by general consent, each State chose some of its ablest men to come together at Philadelphia and make a plan for a national government which should take charge of all public affairs not belonging to any one State by itself. This was done, and a plan was formed in the year 1787, and adopted by the people of all the States. This was called the Constitution of the United States. It set up a government of three parts. First, there was Congress, made up of men chosen, in one way or another, by the people. Congress was to make the laws. Second, there was the President, chosen by the people, who was to see that the laws were carried out and obeyed. The President was to be

Of course the one man in the government who had more to do with it than any other was the President. As soon as it was seen that the new Constitution would be taken by the people, every one turned to General Washington as sure to make the best President. He had shown himself so wise and true in war, how could he be otherwise in peace? People knew that he would try to do his whole duty, and serve the country at any cost to himself. It was the same feeling the boys in school had had forty years before, when they chose him to be their captain, and left all their quarrels to him to settle. So Washington was elected President, and though he disliked to leave his tranquil home, his fields, and his trees and his horses, he felt that it was his duty to do so, and promptly accepted the office.

[to be continued.]

HOW JOHN GOODNOW GOT HIS OWN WAY.

BY MRS. Z. B. GUSTAFSON.

He was all by himself in as pretty a patch of sunny green meadow-land as you could wish to see, yet he had plenty of company. To say nothing of the birds chattering on the fence, the tall thick grass was as full of hopping, fluttering, and creeping things as a wheat beard is of grain. These tiny little creatures seemed to find life so pleasant and comfortable, and the glisten and "swish" of John Goodnow's scythe so very odd and amusing, that they kept only a little out of his way as he mowed, and when he stopped to whet his scythe they flocked around and settled on his boot-legs, on the brim of his hat, and even in the creases of his shirt sleeves, to see how he did it.

John Goodnow was just sixteen. He was a manly boy, strong, straight, and good-looking. He had plenty of spirit and energy, and liked what he was doing well enough; but he had some ideas in his head which made him think he could do something else much—very much—better.

John's father did not happen to think about John as John thought about himself. This very often happens between parents and their children. Your parents are older and wiser than you, but then you boys and girls often think a great deal more, and with more good sense, than you get credit for. When your parents do not think as you do about what you are to be and do in life, it is hard to tell which is wisest, and there is no sure rule to help you out; but I will tell you one little thing that I think it will be good for you to remember; it is very much in your own power to decide for yourself, to get your own way by giving it up, as John did.

"I wish father could see this as I do," John thought.

He had put the whetstone in his pocket, and was once more leaning to the scythe.

"Of course I can be a farmer, and of course farmers are as necessary as Presidents; and a farmer can be a President, and eat potatoes and corn in the White House, instead of hoeing and hilling them in the field. But I want to be a lawyer, and that settles it for me. I just wish it would do as much for father. He did look queer when I told him I didn't believe a lawyer that was always hankerin' after a farm would amount to much in lawyerin'. Mother said, 'Do let the boy have his way; it's his life he's got to live, you know, not yours.'

"She's so sensible, and just the best mother in the world. I made up my mind, when she said that, that if I did get my way, I'd just like to be the one to fix Uncle Si. Stingy old fellow! I'd make him pay mother what he owes her. Guess he knows it, an' that's why he looks at me so sour, and tells father to 'keep him at the plough; he'll never come to nuthin' moonin' over them lyin' lawyer books.'"

John smiled, with a bright, mischievous look, as if he had already won the case against his uncle.

Then he whistled till he came to the end of the swath. He liked the sweet, fresh smell that rose from the cut grass.

"I know farming is good, useful work," he thought, "and pleasant, when any one likes it; but I want to do what I can do best, and I'm sure it's law. When things happen, I want to know how they happen, and who was wrong, and how to fix things so that they'll happen right. It just makes me tingle all over when I can get hold of a case, and read up all about it, and I can talk it over with, mother. She's smarter'n a steel-trap, and might have been a lawyer herself. But I can't show off to father at all. He shuts right down on me so—almost makes me think I don't know anything, after all. He's a real good father, though, and I hate to disappoint him."

John set his lips, and his young face looked troubled. He cut the swath very neatly to the edge of the brook as he went along.

"I told him I'd say no more about it now," John went on thinking, as he looked at the pretty rippling stream, which kept up such a merry little song over its round pebbles, "and I promised him I'd stick to the farm for this year, and do my best to like it, and so I will. Mother said, 'It isn't because he doesn't like you to be a lawyer; it's because he thinks you aren't old enough to judge, and he thinks good farming is the best and noblest work in the world, and that you can't help liking it if you try. But he won't stand in your way a moment, my boy, when he sees that you know your own mind. You just yield to him first, and he'll yield to you last.'"

It was nearing noon, and the sun was hot. John lifted his hat just enough to wipe his forehead; then resting the scythe upon the bank, he leaned against its curving handle. He looked well as he stood there, like a boy who would one day be a man of purpose, and will to carry out his purpose. He was tired, just tired enough to make rest sweet. He looked across the little hollow at the foot of the meadow toward his home. He was very hungry, and glad to see a little girl coming down the path through the hollow with a pail in her hand. "Thank goodness! there's Kitty coming with the lunch. I'm hungry enough to eat a crow, feathers and all. I know just what's in that pail—ham sandwich, a big slice of brown-bread, bottle of milk or sweetened water, and some of mother's apple-pie, with a slice of cheese. Hurry up!" he shouted aloud, in a strong, pleasant voice—"hurry up, Kitty dear; I'm as hungry as a cat."

When the end of the year came, Mr. Goodnow did not wait for John to speak. On New-Year's Eve, just before bed-time, he laid down his paper, crossed the room, put his hand on John's shoulder, and, as if only an hour instead of seven months had passed since he had last spoken of what he wished John to be, he said, "Well, my boy, speak out: will ye be farmer or lawyer?"

John rose quickly, and looked at his father. "I will be a lawyer, if I can," said he. "But, father, I do wish you could like it;" and his voice trembled a little.

"I do like it—I like it very much," said Mr. Goodnow, quickly; "for if ye can do so well as ye have done at a work ye don't take to, I'm sure ye'll prove a master-hand at what yer heart's so sot on. Ye've helped me in my way, and I'll help ye in yourn. Ye shall have the best schoolin' in law that money can buy, and ye've shown ye'll do the rest yourself. Happy New-Year, my boy!" Mr. Goodnow held out his hand, and John took it with a grip that made his father wince and smile at the same time.

Then John went to his mother, who, of course, knew all about it, and was as happy,

"Mother."

Under the books on the table lay a flat package which his mother did not know about, as Mr. Goodnow had slyly placed it there the last thing before John went up to bed. John untied it, and found a fine picture of Horace Greeley, and this note from his father:

Many years have passed away since John talked with himself as he mowed the home meadow on that pleasant summer morning. If I should tell you the real name of John Goodnow, you would know at once how well his good mother's wish had been granted in the noble career of her well-known son. And there isn't a father in the land prouder of his son than Farmer Goodnow of his son, Judge ——.

CAMPING OUT.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

"What am I a-stoppin' for? Why, this 'ere's the eend of the road. It's as fur as I can git, even with one hoss and a buckboard."

It looked like it, for the wood road had been getting dreadfully scrubby for a mile or so.

"Wade, was it like this when you and your father and the rest were here before?"

"A good deal like it. How far are we from Pot Lake now, Mr. Jones?"

The queer-looking old teamster was busily unfastening several small packages from the broad "buckboard" of his rude wagon, but he looked gruffly up to say, "'Baout a mile 'n' a half."

"It's all of that, Sid, but it's of no use to grumble. We've got to foot it the rest of the way. It's a plain enough path."

"Foot it! And lug all that?"

"Guess you'll be glad there ain't any more of it afore ye git thar."

Mr. Jones was right, for they were both of them glad already, considering how warm a day it was.

Neither of the boys was much over sixteen, but Wade Norton looked the older of the two, although his companion was fully as tall and strong. Standing together, they made a good "specimen pair" of vigorous, bright-eyed, self-reliant youngsters.

In three minutes more Mr. Jones and his pony and his buckboard were out of sight among the trees, and Sid and Wade were left to their own resources.

It was seven miles due south, and a good deal longer by the road, to the nearest clearing, and all to the north of them was wilderness—woods, lakes, and mountains.

"Now, Wade, how'll we divide the load? There's a heap of it."

"Guess we won't divide it. I'll show you—here's the hatchet."

"Go ahead. I'm a greenhorn yet. What are you going to do?"

Wade was too busy to answer, but he quickly had a pair of very slender ash saplings hacked down, trimmed clean, and laid side by side about two feet apart. To these he tied a couple of cross-sticks, six feet from each other. Then he spread his blanket on the ground, laid the frame in the middle, folded the blanket across, and pinned it firmly.

"Looks like a litter," said Sid.

"That's what it is. Put the tin box of hard-tack in the middle. It's the heaviest thing we've got; weighs ten pounds. Now the bacon; that only weighs five. Now the other things. The guns ain't loaded; lay 'em along the sides. And the fishing-rods. Now we're ready."

One boy in front between the poles, and one behind, and it was a pleasant surprise to Sid to find how easy it worked. Still, it was a dreadfully long and warm mile and a half over that rough forest path before they came out on the slope that led down to the blue waters of Pot Lake.

"It's just beautiful," said Sid, as they set down their load for a rest and a look.

"Hist! Let me get my gun."

A cartridge was slipped in like a flash; and then there came another flash, and a report.

"Thought you said it was unsportsmanlike to kill a partridge sitting?"

"So it is, my boy; but it's a question of dinner. Our breakfast was an early one. Look at 'em, will you?"

Sid was looking, and there was a very strong suggestion of dinner in that pair of barely full-grown young birds. Fat, plump, the very thing for a boy whose breakfast had been eaten early. There was a sort of natural "open" on that side of the little lake, and Wade led the way straight to it.

"Just as I expected. The old shanty's knocked all to pieces. The boards and the nails are there, though. They may be good for something."

"What next? Shall I unpack?"

"Hold up, Sid. Yes, there's the spring. Down yonder; that's where we'll pitch our tent."

"Needn't do that, yet awhile."

"First thing always. We're not in camp till the tent's up."

"Go ahead. Don't you wish you had the tent poles here now?"

"Not if I had 'em to carry besides the other things. We can cut all we want."

As they talked they walked, and they were now standing by the spring, on the slope, not more than a hundred yards from the shore.

"There's the place for the tent."

"Isn't one spot as good as another?" asked Sid.

"You don't want to sleep slanting, do you? That isn't all, either. That little hump of ground in front of it's a tiptop fire-place."

"Don't look much like one."

"You'll see. Come on and let's cut some tent poles."

Two five-foot sticks, each with a "crotch" at the upper end, were soon set in the ground about six feet apart, and a ridge pole laid across them.

"You haven't set 'em deep enough," said Sid. "They'd go over too easy."

"No they won't. The strength of a tent is in the canvas and pegs, not in the poles," said Wade.

He was unrolling the great square piece of strong but light "cotton duck," and in a moment more it was flapping over the poles.

"Stretch it well, and peg it strong. That tent won't blow down."

"Can't stand up in it."

"That isn't what it's for. In with the supplies. The sun's as bad as rain would be, for part of 'em, spite of the tin boxes."

"Nothing extra—not even butter."

"Butter? There's one roll of it, but the bacon's the butter for us. Now for the butcher-knives. We must ditch our tent."

"What for?"

"To drain away the water, if it rains. We must cut a V."

The apex of the V was cut pretty deeply on the slope above the tent, and the arms were cut around it till they led out below.

"Water doesn't run up hill," said Sid. "We're drained. What next?"

"Fire."

"A day like this? Are you going

"Of course we will. But it takes an hour for an open fire to be fit to cook by. Got to have plenty of coals and ashes."

Fuel was plentiful enough, and a rousing fire was speedily blazing on the little hump of ground, a rod in front of the tent.

"Not near enough to set anything on fire. If that hump hadn't been there, we'd have made one."

As it was, he had levelled it on top a little, and the surface so made was barely two feet across.

Sid was a little curious about such a fire-place, but decided to wait and see what his friend meant.

Wade's father was an old army officer, and had taken his boy with him on more than one "camping-out" excursion, while Sid was taking his very first lesson.

"That'll do. Now for some fish. You go ahead, while I pluck the partridges."

"Guess not. I can do that as well as you can. Give me one of 'em."

It was easy work to strip the tender game and hang it in the tent, but the boys were thoroughly tired of mere "going into camp" by the time they started for the lake.

"Hullo, Sid! If there isn't the old dug-out floating yet!"

"That thing out there by the snag? We can't get at her."

"Can't we? Can't you swim as far as that? I can."

"Swim? Oh yes, of course we can. Shall you go now?"

"Why, no; not till we get in fish enough for dinner."

"That's it. We're Indians. Got to fish, hunt, or starve—or live on hard-tack and bacon."

Pot Lake was a great place for trout, and both of the boys knew how to handle a rod.

"No three-inchers; none of your speckled minnows," shouted Sid, as he landed a half-pound beauty.

"Here comes a bigger one. Oh, but isn't this fun?"

"Better fun than going into camp."

"Or tramping through the woods with a load. But don't you begin to feel hungry?"

"Begin? Well, you may say begin if you want to. Seems to me I began a little while after breakfast," replied Sid.

They had caught more fish than any two boys could eat; but Sid's first remark on reaching the tent with them was, "I do hate cleaning fish."

"Clean fish? Out here in the woods? While we're Indians? You wait till I find a bass-wood tree."

There were plenty of lindens, or bass-woods, in that vicinity, and the broad flat leaves were as good as brown paper to wrap up a trout in, fold over fold.

The fire had now burned long enough to supply Wade with a heap of hot ashes, which he raked out on one edge of it. All the little coals were carefully poked aside, the leaf-covered trout were put down and smothered an inch deep in their ashy bed, and then a pile of glowing cinders was raked over them.

"They'll cook, Sid. You go to the lake for a kettle of water, while I get out the frying-pan and the coffee-pot."

"Frying-pan! We won't need any bacon with all those fish and the partridges."

"We'll only broil one bird, but we must have some hard-tack. I'll show you."

Sid went for the water, but when he got back Wade was putting the frying-pan on a bed of coals, with a couple of thin slices of bacon in it.