the old schooner swung around a good deal, but the water was pretty smooth, for the breeze was a light one, and they could not see any danger.

"Barbie," whimpered Ben, "if we hadn't wound her up, she wouldn't have gone. Do you s'pose she'd stop if we unwound her?"

"Don't be afraid, Ben. Old Kisedek'll come for us."

He was coming at that very moment, only he had not the slightest idea where to go, and he was the most puzzled old black man within a hundred miles of that bay. He had caught his flounders with uncommonly good success, and then he had pulled back across the fog-covered water, to the spot where he expected to find his young passengers.

"Right about yeah. It's de berry spot. Yes, dah's de float wot I tied to when I ketched dem big black-fish. But whar's de Wip Van Rinkle?"

It was an awful question for Kisedek Pound, and the perspiration came out upon his black face in great beads.

"No, sah. I jes' don't want to hab no conversation 'bout it wid Missis Kyle. Wot she'll say I doesn't keer to know."

He pulled around and over the vacant piece of water where the vanished wreck had been, and then a sudden thought struck him.

"Dem chil'en dey jes' couldn't hab took her off agin de tide. I'll find 'em."

He took to his oars desperately, and the tide helped him. At that rate he could have soon explored the whole bay.

"Oh, de fog!" he gasped, as he paused for breath. "Hi! dat's more'n fog." He drew in a long, full measure of the damp air, and then he shouted to something big and black about ten feet from him: "Ship aho-o-oy! Mars' Wot's-yer-name, hab you' seen anyt'ing ob a lot ob chil'en wid an ole wreck?"

"Hurrah, Barbie! there comes Kisedek Pound. We're all right."

"Chil'en," said Kisedek, solemnly, as he came along-side, "doesn't you know it's stealin' to run away wid anoder man's ship wot's had all de holes in her patched up? I's gwine to tell yer moders soon's ebber I git ye all ashoah."

There was great excitement for a few minutes on board the Rip Van Winkle, and then she was left, without crew or passengers, to be swept on by the tide, until she again ran aground on a muddy flat further up the bay.

Long before that occurred, however, old Kisedek Pound had explained to "Missis" Kyle and "Missis" Ridgeway why their children were not home to dinner.

MASTER SATURDAY AND HIS FRIENDS.

MASTER SATURDAY'S PICNIC.

BY AGNES CARR.

Little Master Saturday, who is devoted to holidays, and perfectly revels in all sorts of jollifications—although, poor boy, being a "Saturday's child," he has to "work hard for his living"—made up his frivolous little mind this summer to give a picnic, and invite all his cousins the Days to spend the livelong day with him in the "merry green wood."

It was easy to obtain leave of absence from his master, Mr. Workaday, on condition that he performed certain tasks before he went; so the earliest bird had not yet started out on his worm-hunt the next morning when Saturday popped briskly out of bed, and was so spry that all his "chores" about the house and barn were finished up long before breakfast, which so pleased Mrs. Workaday that she gave him a fine large frosted cake for his lunch.

"And a jolly good plummy one it is," remarked Saturday, with satisfaction, as he carefully packed it, surrounded by pickles, in a large basket, and set off for Monday's house, where he found the little girl, with her sleeves rolled up, merrily working away at the wash-tub.

"Dear Monday," he said, "will you not come to my picnic?"

"How can I," said Monday, "when I have all these clothes to wash and hang on the line."

"Oh, I will help you," said Saturday; and pulling off his coat, he set to work with so much vigor that in half an hour all the handkerchiefs and aprons were flapping gayly in the breeze, and the tiny queen of the soap-suds, hastily cutting a generous supply of sandwiches—for the Mondays always have a plentiful stock of cold meat in the house—they started off together to invite their cousin Tuesday, the little girl's pretty face peeping shyly out from beneath a picturesque gypsy hat, for every one knows that "Monday's child is fair of face," and all these little people were named for the day on which they were born.

Tuesday lived in a cozy, vine-covered cottage, and she opened the door for them herself, looking as red as a peony, and carrying a large flat-iron in one hand. On hearing their errand she at first danced for joy, for being "full of grace," she was rather fond of dancing, but stopped suddenly, exclaiming,

"But I have not finished my ironing yet."

"Oh, we will help you," said the two visitors; and before the hands of the clock had travelled half around the dial the clothes-horse was filled with nicely smoothed garments.

"It is so warm I will take lemonade," said Tuesday, bringing out a dozen lemons.

The syrup for the lemonade was soon prepared, and the three Days next called on Wednesday, whom they found as "merry and glad" as ever, busily helping his mother bake bread and pies in the great Dutch oven.

He would be delighted to join the party if they could wait until the last loaves were brown enough to come out of the oven, and meanwhile, to keep them out of mischief, his mother set them to filling tarts with strawberry jam, they being her contribution to the entertainment.

"Shall we invite Thursday?" asked Saturday. "He is always so 'sour and sad.' I'm afraid he will spoil all the fun."

"It would be too bad to leave him out," said Wednesday. "And perhaps he may be more cheerful to-day."

As they expected, they found Thursday with an ugly scowl on his face poring over a Latin grammar, with his little dog Tempus growling at his feet.

Whether time flies or not, Tempus certainly did at every cat, cow, or other animal he met, and he now, true to his name, flew at the children as though he would devour them.

"Lie down, sir," shouted Thursday, kicking at the dog, and frowning crossly. "Cousins, what brings you here to-day?"

"We have come to ask you to my picnic," said Saturday, politely.

At this, Thursday began to grumble and cry, whining out: "But I can't go, for I have to 'cram' to-day for examination. It is just my luck."

"Oh, never mind," said Monday, smiling sweetly, "I will stay and help you with your lessons, while Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday call on Friday, and I guess you will be ready in time."

So down she sat by the mournful student, and being a bright little Day, soon made a great deal clear to poor Thursday that was very dark before, while the other three hurried off to see Friday.

There have been "Black Fridays," and "Blue Fridays," but this was a very "Good Friday," and very "loving and giving," and she met them at the garden gate with both hands full of flowers, which she forced upon them, looking meanwhile as sweet as a rose-bud herself.

"Oh, Friday," they all called in a breath, "you must come to the picnic with us."

"I should love to," said Friday, "but I have the parlors to sweep, and a huge pile of stockings to darn."

"We will stay and help you," said the children, "for we won't go without you." So they all went to work with brooms and dust-pans, and needles and thread, and as many hands make light work, the rooms were soon as neat as wax, while not a pin-hole could be found in one of the hose.

"I have just made a lot of hot cross buns," said the cook, filling a paper bag, and tucking it under Friday's arm. Monday and Thursday too now joined them, bearing a large basket of golden pears, and followed by Tempus, who trotted along, quite serenely for him, sniffing at