possible to cut an apple pie in eleven pieces, and have them all of equal size, when a sound as of water thrown on fire, accompanied by a cry of dismay from Bill Thompson, caused him to start violently.

The sight that met his startled gaze was a sad one, and it did not seem any less so to him than it did to all the others of that hungry party.

The kettle of potatoes had been hung to the pole by a rope, which had burned slowly, until it broke, letting the potatoes, water, and kettle into the fire, deluging the half-roasted hen, and basting it with cinders, until it looked like a huge ball of mud.

The steam and smoke were so dense that it was impossible to attempt any rescue. All that could be done was to wait a few moments, and Tim spent that time dancing around the ruins like a crazy Indian.

It was a horror-stricken party that stood around the drowned fire, watching the cooks as they fished up first the muddy hen, and then the potatoes, all looking very sorry for their plunge into the ashes.

"Now all you've got to do," said Bill Thompson, with the air of one who knew, "is to put the potatoes right back, an' wash the hen. They'll cook jest as well as ever, only it'll take a little longer, that's all."

Surely there was nothing so serious about the accident, if it could be repaired with so little trouble, and the spirits of that party rose as rapidly as they had fallen. The hen was given a sea bath, which took nearly all the ashes off, and those which remained, Bill Thompson thought, would make her taste the better. The potatoes did not need any cleansing, so Tim thought, and were put into the pot again, looking quite dirty, but in very nearly a cooked condition.

Another fire was built, rocks were placed in such a way around it that the kettle could rest on them, the hen was put on another stick, and again the chances for dinner looked promising.

The food which had been spread out on the ground looked very tempting to the idle ones of that hungry party, and every now and then one would try to get a piece of pie or cake, until Tim, who was determined that no one should have anything to eat until all could be served, was almost at his wits' end to prevent them from making a perfect raid on the larder.

Finally, worn out with running from the fire to the table every time he saw one of the party moving innocently up that way, he told Bobby to keep strict guard over the food, and that young gentleman wiped the ashes and perspiration from his face with an air of relief, as he seated himself near the largest pie, prepared to act the part of watch-dog.

Tip, who had been running about in everybody's way, and seriously troubling his master, now came toward the fire, and sat down on his little stubbed tail in such a suspicious manner that Tim felt reasonably certain it was his purpose to steal the hen whenever a good opportunity presented itself.

Such base action on Tip's part caused Tim more delay, as he tied him securely to a tree out of reach of temptation, and by the time the tired cook got back to his work again, a great commotion was raised by Captain Jimmy and Bobby.

When Bill Thompson had quelled the tumult, it was learned that Captain Jim had doubted Bobby's honesty from the first moment he had been appointed guardian of the food, and had watched him from behind a tree. He stated positively that he saw Bobby's eyes fixed on the apple-pie in such a way as no officer of the company should look at a pie, unless the time had come to eat it, and at a time when he thought no one was looking, Jim was sure he saw him put his fingers under the crust, pull out two slices of apple, and eat them.

Of course such a charge as this caused intense excitement, and the majority of the party thought Bobby ought to be punished in some way as a warning to others, and more especially to show that the officers of the party should be above reproach, or, failing in their duty, be punished severely.

Some of the party proposed that the culprit be condemned to go without his dinner; others, not quite so blood-thirsty, believed he should be deprived of his office, while there were those who believed that to forbid him eating any pie would be punishment enough.

It is hard to say just how Bobby would have been obliged to atone for the sin if the hand of justice had not been stayed by the dinner itself.

"You'll have to let him go this time, for he must help me," said Tim. "We'll make him work all the harder to pay for what he's done."

Once more over the smoky fire and amid the flying ashes Bobby labored for the good of others, working out the punishment for his sin.

The kettle of potatoes was taken from the fire, and while Bobby picked out the pieces—for they had boiled until they were discouraged, and had burst their skins—arranging them on two shingles, Tim took the well-blackened remains of poor Biddy from the spit, laying them on a short bit of board in great triumph.

Then the hungry party gathered around the place which represented the table, and waited impatiently to be served to some of the savory roast.

Bill Thompson, with his hunting knife, proceeded to carve the fowl, which was a work of some time, owing to its exceeding toughness.

In order to show proper respect for the office he held, Bill waited on Captain Jimmy first, and that young gentleman did not waste much time before he began to eat.

The roast was quite raw inside, even though it was burned outside, but that, in Captain Jimmy's hungry condition, made very little difference. He cut off the first mouthful and began to eat in a ravenous manner, when suddenly he stopped, looking very queer.

"What is the matter?" asked Tim, anxiously, quick to notice the change in the Captain's face.

"I dunno," said Jim; "but it tastes kind o' funny."

"That's 'cause you ain't used to hen," said Bill, almost savagely, not pleased that any one should find fault with his fowl.

Just then another of the party, who had received his portion and begun eating, laid down his knife and fork with an unmistakable air of discomfort.

"Perhaps you don't like hen," said Bill, now growing angry that food of his providing should be refused.

By this time several of the party had shown signs of disliking the roast, and Bill proceeded to taste and try for himself.

He cut off a large mouthful, and began eating it with the air of one who thinks he knows just what he is about to taste, and has made up his mind beforehand to be pleased. But he stopped as suddenly as the others had, and looking sternly at Tim, he asked,

"What did you put on this hen?"

"Nothin'; perhaps it tastes queer 'cause the taters tipped over on it."

"It don't taste like taters," said Bill; "it tastes a good deal worse."

Then he examined the uncarved portion of the fowl, and the mystery was explained.

"I know what the matter is, an' I don't think you're much of a cook, Tim Babbige. You've cooked the hen without cleanin' her, an' of course she's spoiled."

Tim could make no reply, for as soon as Bill spoke he remembered how chickens ought to look when ready to be roasted, and he knew he could no longer hope to be considered a good cook.

That day the party made their dinner of boiled potatoes and pastry, while Tip feasted on the half-roasted fowl he had so ruthlessly slain.

[to be continued.]

THE SEA.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.

I.

THE SEA.

Here is a view of the sea. In front is a splendid wave just ready to put on its creamy cap, and to fall over with a glorious roar upon the shore. How the spray will fly as the white water