the painstaking Scoutmaster used to take and train his boys. A proud boy indeed was Ned when with his troop he marched with the Veterans and Military to St. John's on "Decoration Day" to place a wreath on the graves of the Canadian heroes who gave their lives for Queen and Country in the Rebellion of '85. His chest would expand, his head would be lifted high, and his step assume a manly stride, as the band of "The L.B.D.'s," in which one of his chums was playing, would strike up "The Maple Leaf Forever," or "Pork, Beans and Hard-tack, Hard-tack, Tra-la-la-la!"

But the greatest day of all the year to Ned was the Sixth of July. That was the day, the glorious day, of St. Peter's Picnic to Winnipeg Beach. That was the day when Ned was in his glory, and bubbled over with excitement. Helping to carry the big banner, or dodging here and there through the long procession of children and teachers as it wound its way along Selkirk and Main to the C.P.R. station, his shrill voice leading every now and then in the great yell, "Ice-cream, soda-water, ginger-ale and pop! St. Peters, St. Peters, they're always on the top." Ah! what a glorious time it was! And then the big train and the long ride, and the Beach, with its sand and the boating and the swimming; the sports in the afternoon, from which Ned managed to carry off his share of the prizes; to say nothing of the sumptuous dinner and supper for which the teachers had worked and planned for many moons. Ah, it was grand! And then to reach home again in the gathering twilight, to scream once more the dear old yell, "Always on the top!" to fall asleep with the refrain, "Ice-cream, soda-water," ringing in his ears, and wishing each day were picnic-day—ah, those were the happy, happy spots in the life of little Irish Ned, the Winnipeg Newsy.

CHAPTER II.

Little Irish Ned was scarcely three months old when his mother died. His grandmother reared him, and a hard fight she had to do it. All went well for a time after his mother's death, but when Ned was about five years old he lost the love and guidance of his father, and his grandmother was deprived of her only support. Ned's father was employed as a motorman by the Winnipeg Street Railway Company. He was steady and prosperous; when suddenly a "strike" was called, and then there were riotous times in Winnipeg's streets. Matters went from bad to worse, until at last the Mayor called out the soldiers, and they came with all the pride and pomp of war and with a great Gatling gun to overawe the rioters. A hot time was in process on Main Street, three cars had been smashed to atoms, the police with drawn batons had charged the crowd, when Ned's father, who had entered a car to get his overcoat, left there the night before the strike, was arrested as he was leaving the car. No explanation was asked or taken. A "striking motorman," he was caught in the act; and accordingly he was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment in Stony Mountain Penitentiary. Then began the hard struggle against poverty and disease, the hard struggle in which thousands have already been worsted, the battle against fearful odds which so many are now fighting. With no one to support her and little Ned the old woman was forced to go out and scrub offices and to do a day's work wherever it could be got, in order, as she said, "to get a bit an' a sup an' a few rags to keep the boy in dacency."

Selkirk Avenue was not then the congested district that it is to-day. Then happy homes, not many on the street, but each with a nice large plot of ground and its own garden shaded with maple trees, covered the district where now stores and offices and tenement blocks are trying to shut out the sunshine. Never did a braver, more generous, kinder-hearted people dwell together than those of North Winnipeg in the good old days when each was known to all and all to each. The hungry and the destitute never pleaded then in vain. Like the Green Isle from which they sprung, "their doors opened wide to the poor and the stranger"; like the land of