said the Quill. "You said a mountain was a rock; there's the rock in the picture. You said it had trees on it; those two things that look like pen-wipers on sticks are the trees."

"But that other thing?" interrupted Jimmieboy. "That arm? I never, never, never said a mountain had one of those."

"Why, how you do talk!" cried the Quill, angrily. "You told me first that the rocks went up in the air, and when I showed you why that couldn't be, you corrected yourself, and said that they reached up into the air."

"Well, so I did," said Jimmieboy.

"Will you kindly tell me how a rock could reach up in the air, or around a corner, or do any reaching at all, in fact, unless it had an arm to do it with?" snapped the Quill, triumphantly.

Again Jimmieboy found it best to keep silent. The Quill, thinking that his silence was due to regret, immediately became amiable, and volunteered the statement that if he knew the names of flowers he thought he could draw some of them.

"Pansies, cowslips, and geraniums," suggested Jimmieboy.

"Good! Here you are," returned the Quill, rapidly sketching the following:

A PANSY. A COWSLIP. A POTTED G-RANIUM.

"That pansy," he said, as Jimmieboy gazed at his work, "is a frying-pansy. How is this for a battle scene?" he added, drawing the following singular-looking picture.

"Very handsome!" said Jimmieboy. "But—er—just what are those things? Snakes?"

"No, indeed," said the Quill. "The idea! Who ever saw a snake with wings? One is a C gull and the other is a J bird."

"Can you draw a blue bird?" asked Jimmieboy.

"I think so," answered the Quill, as he carefully drew this strange creature.

A BLUEBIRD.

"You haven't given him any wings," said Jimmieboy, after carefully examining the picture.

"No: that's the reason he is blue. He has to walk all the time. That's enough to make anybody blue," explained the Quill. "Here's a puzzle for you!" he added. "Guess what it is, and I'll write to your Uncle Periwinkle and tell him if he'll come up here on Saturday with two dollars in his pockets, you will show him where you and he can get the best soda-water made."

STEEPLE-CHASING.

This is the picture the Quill then presented to Jimmieboy's astonished gaze.

"Humph!" said Jimmieboy. "It looks like two men on horseback running after something, but what, I'm sure I don't know."

"What does it look like?" asked the Quill.

"Nothing that I ever saw."

"Nonsense!" returned the Pen. "Does it look like a fox, or a Chinese laundry, or a what?"

"It doesn't look like any of 'em," insisted Jimmieboy.

"Dear me! How dull you are!" cried the Quill. "Why, boy, it's a church steeple, that's what. Now what is the whole thing a picture of?"

"A steeple-chase!" cried Jimmieboy.

"Exactly," said the Quill, very much pleased that after all Jimmieboy had guessed it. "And now I'll write that letter to Uncle Periwinkle."

And so he wrote;

Yours affectionately,
Jimmieboy.

"Will that do?" asked the Quill.

"Yes," said Jimmieboy. "And now put it in an envelope, and I'll put it with the letters to be mailed."

"Now draw some more," he said, after this had been mailed.

But the Quill answered never a word. He had evidently fallen asleep. Strange to say, Uncle Periwinkle never got his letter, and the pictures the Quill made all faded from sight, and so were lost.

SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.[2]

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

INVADING A CAPTAIN'S CABIN.

An earthquake could hardly have caused greater consternation in the village of Klukwan than did the boom of that heavy gun as it came echoing up the palisaded valley of the Chilkat. Not many years before the Indians of that section had defied the power of the United States, and killed several American citizens. A gunboat, hurried to the scene of trouble, shelled and destroyed one of their villages in retaliation. From that time on no sound was so terrible to them as the roar of a big gun.

While Phil and his companions were chafing at the delay imposed upon them by the greed of the Chilkat Shaman a government vessel arrived in the neighboring inlet of Chilkoot, bearing a party of scientific men who were to cross the mountains at that point for an exploration of the upper Yukon, and the locating of the boundary line between Alaska and Canada.

The Princess, learning of its presence, and despairing of assisting her white friends in any other way, secretly despatched a messenger to the Captain of the ship with the information that some Americans were being detained in Klukwan against their will. Upon receipt of this news the Captain promptly steamed around into Chilkat Inlet and as near to its head as the draught of his vessel would allow. As he dropped anchor, there came such a sound of firing from up the river that he imagined a fight to be in progress, and fired one of his own big guns to give warning of his presence.

The effect of this dread message was instantaneous. Phil Ryder dropped his uplifted arm. The Chilkat Shaman scuttled away, issued an order, and within five minutes a new and perfectly equipped canoe was marvellously produced from somewhere and tendered to Serge Belcofsky. Five minutes later he and his companions had taken a grateful leave of the Princess, and were embarked with all their effects, including the three dogs.

Phil stationed himself in the bow, Serge tended sheet, and Jalap Coombs steered. As before the prevailing northerly wind their long-beaked canoe shot out from the river into the wider waters of the inlet, and they saw, at anchor, less than one mile away, a handsome cutter flying the United States revenue flag, the three friends uttered a simultaneous cry of, "The Phoca!"

"Hurrah!" yelled Phil.

"Hurrah!" echoed Serge.

"Bless her pretty picter!" roared Jalap Coombs, standing up and waving the old tarpaulin hat that, though often eclipsed by a fur hood, had been faithfully cherished during the entire journey.

At that moment one of the cutter's boats, in command of a strange Lieutenant, with a howitzer mounted in its bow, and manned by a dozen heavily armed sailors, hailed the canoe and shot alongside.

"What's the trouble up the river?" demanded the officer.

"There isn't any," answered Serge.

"What was all the firing about?"

"Celebrating some sort of native Fourth of July. Is Captain Matthews still in command of the Phoca?"

"Yes.