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[y/YA a Prefaceby Harl Harlee.

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E1135TE1ID BY BEIK 2LE1KNE1,

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SaviMn Brei.,
1880.

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-FROM

"Book of Wonders."

With a Preface by Harl Harlee.

EDITED BY BEN ZEENE

VVOLFVILLE, N. S.

Davisow Sros.,

1890.

||«indr!a'

aii

PREFACE.

A PREFACE is a necessary thing. If I were writing
a book it would be the first thing I would make, and
it would probably be the last. Iwo things cKiefly led
me to commence this preface. The first was because
they are seldom read. Boys sometimes do read the
word Preface in a Peter-Ross-eats-tish sort of pronun-
ciation, but they never go any farther. Girls and
married women, I am told, do not go as far as that.
The second was on account of the happiness it affords
me to comply with the request of my friend, the editor,
as well as the honor of appearing in such good literary
company.

It gives me great pleasure to say a few words in
recommendation of the "Book of Wondei's." The name
is an appropriate one, although given it by the author
in his humorsome wav. It Vi a book of wonders. In
reading its pleasing articles we regret that the author
has gone, and that we will read no more. In his death
Nova Scotia lost a promising writer. He v/as both a
poet and a humorist. He was a Christian, too, just
what poets and humorists should be, and so through
every article we find a highly pure and noble sentiment.

The editor, Ben Zeene, one of the captivating writ-
ers of the day, has conferred a favor by publishing the
book, and I feel certain that Nova Scotia readei*s will
give it a welcome. Nova Scotians are always ready to
acknowledge native talent wherever it appeal's.

Haul Harlee.

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LESLIE LORING DAVISON.

Leslie Lorixg Davison was Ikuh nt WoltVille,
Nova Scotia, on the 18th day of April, 1S71. He was
the fourth son and sixth child of J. B. and Margaret A.
Davison, in a family of nire children. In a tin-type in
an album at home, taken wh(ni he was aV>out four years
of age, are his looks as I remendier him Hi'st. ChuM)}'
face, bright, roguish eyes, wdiich would twinkle in
merriment at times, but with always something in their
flepths which one could not (juite understand. He was
characteristically thoughtful. As he grew in years he
grew more thoughtful, but never melancholy. He could
laugh and he couhl hxik sol>er. Never was a laugh
more merry than his. However thoughtful he was, in
an instant his face might light up with a smile, as the
sunshine breaks through the clouds in a spring's day,
anfl his looks V>e full of merriment.

Large of his age, he and I were nearly of a size,
resembling each other so much that he was quite often
taken for me, and I for him. He took it as a compli-
ment in those day.s — to Vie taken for one older than
himself. What a small part, after all, is years in one's
life. One can live a lifetime in a few years ; another
must live till his hair is gray and his limbs are feeble
and his strength is gone. One learns the lessons of
this world in a short tmie, and passes to a higher gra<le :
another toils and straggles and makes mistakes, and
grows old in his life liefore he has learned enough to
pass on to the higher school.

His childhood — our childhood, for we were alwavs
together, — was passed joyously. Sometimes I think
that Heaven must be pretty near earth, for there are
times in our lives when happiness runs high, when it
seems that our lives could not be happier, even though
Heaven were here. And those days were happj' ones.
Perhaps they look brighter to me how than they ap-

LESLIE LURING DA VISON.

f)eare<l then — for tliey are gone — and things that are
>eyoncl our reach look always brightest—but they
were joyous days. What rollicking times we had !
What games and romps and plays ! What fun ! And,
too — they will not be forgotten — what strifes ! Ah !
if they had not been ! The darkness comes up with
the brightness in the picture — the shade with the light.
If we could live our lives over again, we say, how
ditt'erent they would be. Will we say the same about
the remainder of our lives at their close ?

There is one incident of those days which stands
out prominent in my memory. I laugh now as I think
of it, and of othere which it calls up. How character-
istic it was of those days. One day the thought struck
us that we should like to go sailing. We had no boat,
and there was no lake or stream near us on which to
row or sail. But we were not to be baffled. Near the
house was a pond, and we could make a l)oat. There
is nothing that a boy wants that he can't make. It
was a unique affair. We didn't spend any unnecessary
time making it. In fact, we didn't make it ; we dis-
covered it. A deep, narrow box several feet long lay
up in the loft over the wagon-house, and we brought
it down and carried it to the pond. A rope was tied
to a nail at one end, and one was to lx)ard the boat and
the other to pull on the rope from the opposite end of
the pond, and thus we were * > sail by turns over its
waters. The boat was too <]eep. No wonder our pro-
ject didn't succeed. He boarded it, and I pulled on the
rope. But the boat staggered, leaned over on one side,
capsized. He lost his balance, and disappeared under
the surface. In a minute he came up again, however,
dripping and wet, and clambered to the shore. " Well,"
he said, when he could speak, "I had no idea I could
swim before. That's a pretty deep pond, and I swam
clear to the bottom and back." We voted the boat
unlit for sea.

Those days seemed to pass slowly at the uime, but
how quickly they went, after all. School days came
anon, and this is the way he speaks of his tii*st day in
school, in one of his articles :

fil
nl

S<1

LESLIE LORING DAVISON.

i that are
-but they

we had:
in ! And,
fes ! Ah :
i up with

the light,
say, how
me about

eh stands

as I think

haracter-

ht sti-uck

I no boat,

which to

Near the

;. There

lake. It

lecessary

; we dis-

long lay

brought

was tied

x)at and

end of

over its

our pro-

d on the

one side,

under

lowever,

"Well,"

I could

i swam

le boat

[ue, but
s came
day in

"I can see it before me now — the old schoolroom.
How the heart throbs at the mention of it. There the
little seats and benches, the teacher's old-fashioned
desk, with the great knot-hole in the top, through
which we tried in vain to recover our confiscated play-
things, when they were too large to admit of exit, but
which did excellent service when small pears and plums
found their way to those sombre quarters. But fore-
most in my mind is the old seat in the corner, — the
seat whereon I sat on the first <lay of my eventful
schoolboy life, — ink-stained, cracked and carven with
many an initial and name.

" It was a momentf ul <lay to me — that early spring-
•lay. The sun shone bright, and the wooded road rang
out with the strain of a thousand spring-birds. Xearing
the schoolhouse the peals of the bell, which in after days
called to order us rollicking students, Hoated to my
ears, and urged by my companions to hurry, wo started
off on a brisk run.

" We are there at last, and the teacher shows me to
the little seat in the corner. Then the classes were
calle<l up, and the tlay's proceedings went on. — -just as
if no 'new scholar' were there, taking it all in 1 Then
came singing — 'Precious Jewels,' Oh, how that souml-
ed 1 Two score of youthful voices, each bound to sing
the loudest, swelled the chorus."

And the schooldays passed, and he hail reached his
fifteenth birthday. There being an opening in a grocery
store in the town for a clerk, he accepted the position.
During the summer of 1887 he acted in the capacity of
hea<l clerk, as he humorously termed it, in the retail
house of W. D. Patterson, Wolfville. In the autumn
he left the grocery business and became one of the staff*
of the Acadian. He soon succeeded in learning the
art of type-setting, and very soon was an important
member of the staff'. As the winter came on he got his
school-books out and commenced studying. That win-
ter was a pleasant one to us both. We studied French
and Latin together, and towards spring could converse
in our own way in either language. But it was in our
own way. In fact, it was so much in our own way

LESLIE WRING DA VmOK.

that we could converse about all our secrets, and there
would be no danger of anyone finding out what we
were talking about, however good a scholar he was in
either language. During this winter — the winter of
1887-1888 — and previou^y, all his articles published in
this book were written. He was then sixteen years
old. With the spring his health failed. In May he
left the office to recruit, but never went back to work.
The summer passed, but his health did not seem to
mend. The next winter passed very differently from
what the previous one had passed. No studying; no
wi'iting ; no joviality. But he didn't give up. He
looked for restoration of health in the spring. And we
all did. Perhaps another climate miglit <lo him good.
He was ever hopeful.

. In January, Arthur 8. Davison, an elder brother,
and one of the editors of the Acadian, who had been
sick for a longer time, but who had not alwindoned
work till the autumn previously, passed away. Al-
though expecting it, the suddenness of it all and the
grief of losing a brother, wrought ill upon him in his
present health. He never seemed to recover the shock.
He gradually grew worse. On Saturday, the 18th of
April, 188J), he passed away, within five days «»f hi.'^
eighteenth birthday. .- j

Early Friday morning he was taken woise. Befort'
this time he had .spoken as if Iw might get well again.
Now he not only knew he would not, but did not wish
it. I went in his room in the morning after his bad
turn had passed, and asked him how he was. "Oh,"
he said, with a smile, "I am no good now." He was
too weak to talk much, but he told me of a present
which he wished to give nie, ami where it was. "Do
you think you will not need it any more ?" I .said.
"Oh, no," he answered, and there was not a touch of
sadness in his tone. I was silent. 1 could not speak.
Later he said: "There is only one reason why I should
like to live longer, I would like to do something in the
world." As the day wore on, all de.sire to remain
vanished, and he prayed that he might soon go. As
we sat around his bed, he Jisked us too to pray for his

hi
hi

ttf
ca
l\

V(
U1

wl
hJ
w
fei

LESLIE LORING DA VISOK.

bnd there
what we
e was in
vinter of
)lished in
en years

May he
to work.

seem to
tly from
y^ing; no
up. He

And we
im good.

hrother,
!ad l»een
aniloned
ay. Al-
and the
H in liis
e shock.
l.Sth of

"i of hl"^

(jre

iJtf.

again,
ot wish
lis ba<i

"Oh,"

e was
) resent
Do
I .said,
uch of

<peak.
should

in the
emain

, As

>r his

speedy departure. Evening drew on. The moon ro.st?
high in the heavens, and shed its rays in through the
half -drawn curtain. How silent it was. How slowly
the hours dragged on through the night. Morning
came. The April sun rose and welcomed in the day.
Its light floate<l in through the window of the sick-
room, but not to cheer. ])id not the sufferer, as he lay
upon his hed, watching the rays grow larger and the
darkness vanishing, think perhaps of another dawn,
which he pictured with his pen in other days ? Per-
haps so. At any i-ate, he watched the suns rays
wistfully. How different it was from that morn of a
few slK)rt years ago. And <lid he think, too, of the
"glorious l)awn" which he pictured then '^ Who
knows ^ these might have been his thoughts. "Come,
Jesus!' he whispered. He had not long to wait. Ere
morning had given place to noon, ere the April sun had
reached its zenith, he had bi«lden earth good-bye, and
had seen the dawn of a new dav which has no ending —
the "ijlorious Dawn to come.'

The following week, the At'od'ian, in an article on
his death, concluded as follows:

"And he is gone. His work is done. His last 'take'
is set. The 'form" has been 'made up' and the 'proof
has been 'taken. But the great 'Proof Reader,' who
sees all 'mistakes,' and is willing to blot out all 'errors,'
has 'corrected the proof ; and when the great 'pi'ess
<lay' cimies at last, and the 'proof of every life will be
levealed, his will be found marked 'correct' by Him
who will not be 'proof reader' then, but 'e<lit<)r in chief.' "

"Though our tears How fast iiiul fawter,

Vet we would not call iniii hack ;
We are glad hia feet no longei'

Tiead life's rouch and thorny track.
■ We are glad our Heavenly Father

Took hir.i while his heart was pjue :
We are glad He did not leave him

All life's troubles to endure ; •

We are glad, and yet the tear-drop

Falletn, for alas! we know
That our fire-side will be lonely, ' - -

We shall miss our loved one so. "

Bex Zeexk.

•MIWWMPvaHkWM '

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STRAY LKAVE8 FROM

,1 '•..I

"BOOK OF WONDERS."

No. 1.

On the initial paj^e of an old scribbling book, filled
with articles which he and I have often read over
together — I with surprise and pleasure, he witL good-
natured ridicule, — a page every now and then adorned
with odd and fantastic pictures and initial letters, so
characteristic of his penmanship, is the quaint title,
" Book of Wonders, by L. L. Davison." I remember
how he laughed as he showed me the book for the Hrst
time and I read the title. He always depreciated his
literary talent, and this was the satirical appellation he
gave his book of manuscripts. Ah, Les ! how bright
he was and jolly, always ready with some tlroll remark
to set one laughing ; but beneath it all was something
deeper than jocoseness, something loftier than mirth.
He had sober moments — moments of thought and med-
itation — an«l in these many of his manuscripts were
written. One day, not long before the spirit left the
(juiet sick-room, and winged its way to fairer shores,
"where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary
are at rest," sitting together and conversing with him,
he said: "You remember my 'Book of Wonders?' I
wish, if you could in any way muster up the courage
and patience, you would read it over again, and if there
iH anything in it that's worth preserving, you would
take care of it, and burn the rest." I told him that I
would, and that I thought there was a good deal in it
worth preserving. He smiled, and answered: "If
there is anything in it of any use to you, you can have
it : I wouldn't have the heart to give it to anyb(*dy else
on the same conditions." I took the book and read it
over there, agreeably surpi'ised at what I saw, '^::d ask-
ing him why ho ha«l never had them publishci ; his

BOOK OF WONDEJiS."

answer was, that they never satisfied him. Perhaps
they appeared better to my eyes tlian to liis. When
the dread messenger came at hist, and he was called
hence, I read the book over again, and what seemed
good to me before now seemed doubly so. I deter-
mined that I would give them to the public, as the last
memento of one who showed himself b}- his life and
writings to be both talented and good.

Tn the village of Wolfville, on the liSth of April,
1N71, Leslie L. Davison fii-stsaw the light of this world.
Had he livtid five more days he would have reached his
eighteenth birthday, and lived eighteen years. The.se
yeai*s were busy ones. His thoughts seemed alwaj's
busy. Whatever he wanted done, he could do it, and
do it well. He was a genius. He att«'mpted printing,
and in a very short time excelled. Spare hours hi;
spent successively at woo<l-work, ilrawing, wood en-
graving, studying and writing. He was always skilful
with the plane and saw, and in wood-work he succeeded 1
so that when he was very young he could make the
carpenter's tools do wonders. Drawing and wood-
engraving had great attractions for hiui, and several of
his efforts in this line have appeared in the Acadian.
Studying he liked better, seemingly, after ho had left
school than while attending. He continued studying
Latin on leaving school, and became (juiti far advanceil.
When he was sixteen he wrote a journal in Latin and
English. But chemistrj^ he preferred to Latin, and
after making wood-cuts and stereotypes, he wtis not
satisfied till he had ac(|uired the process of making
electrotypes. Writing he always loved. Had he not,
he never could have written what he had. In the articles
that are to follow the contents of the " Book of Wonders'
will 1)0 given.

No. 2.

"BnoK (»K Wonders." Let us open the lK)ok an«l
read the |)ages. What is this — the hrst article i " Dawn."

BOOK OF WONDBMS."

Perhaps
>. When
'as calleil
t seemed

I deter-
s the last

life and

>t' April,
is world,
lehed his
. These
I always

it, and
printing,
lours ho
'ood en-
3 skilful
leceeded
ake the

1 wood-
veral of
cddiaii.
lad left
iidyin^'
vanced.
tin and
n, and
nis not
naking
he not,
irtieles
nders '

An appropriate title it is for the initial article,
us read it over. *; * » . , ■ s , , >■

;.••••• - DAWN. '^ '■/.;... V- . .

Let

' ! ( /.

k and
)awn."

Again the darkest hour; again the stai*s slowly
dissolve ; again the darkness silently steals away, boiTe
on the wings of the new day. So still, so calm, no
tranquil ! The air so clear and fresh, free of dust and
smoke, and sweet and pure. A bird twitters above
your head ; you look up, and see him on the wing — an
eai-ly riser seeking material to build a nest wherein to
raise his brood. Floating upon the still air, borne on
the gentle morning zephyr, from some distant fold
come the music-tinkling tones of the telled herd, as
driven up from their night's abiding-place to be milked.
The dew is on the n\eadow grass, and on the flowers
and plants in the garden, and the delicate spider-webs
by the roadside are covered with it. Soon the long
white cloud in the east gradually lowers, and slowly,
silently, a ray of golden light gleams from the horizon,
and almost before one knows it, the sun is up, shining
with all its heat and brightness upon the fair, still
eaith. The delicate folds of the Howers, which last
night were wrapped so protectingly around the less
hardy pistils and stigmas, are now being unrolled by
its heat, and the dew on the spider-web and meadow
is rising to the clouds. Tiny curls of smoke begin to
vise from the chimneys around, and another day is
connnenced — a day of strife and labor — a day of tears
and sorrows to some, a <lay of joy and blessings to
others. How many there are who may look on this
same quiet picture — look, perhaps, for the last time on
home and friends — on meadow and (m forest, on fami-
liar nook and dell, wherein are associated so many
happy reminiscences of youthful days: and from *he
old home, whose homely walls have sheltered them
from April flood and December storm, where trouble
was unknown and joys were many, they take their
departure out into the great world. And what may
Ve in store for them ? Joy — sorrows ; strife — victory ;
tears — blessings: rejoicings — death. The scene of the

ttdii^

diki

BOOK OF WONDERS."

morning of their departure from friends and firesifle

will never be forgotten, and its chastity, purity, serenity,

ma}' be a lesson which may keep them from walking

in the paths of sin and strife — a lesson which, may we

hope, will guide them through an unlighted world to

one of joy and gladness, and where there is no night

but p\\ morning. And as the day grows on and the

sun rises tov^ard its zenith, we also gi'ow from youth

to manhood, and the quickly descending sun will soon

set behind the distant hills of the west, when we, too,

must lay down the scythe and the sickle and give our

place to others. May our decline leave behind a l>ril-

liant sky, and as the setting sun is only outrivalled in

splendor by its rising, let death come on unshielded

against, for we know of the glorious Dawn to come.

* *

••' ' : '■■■'V ' -'■:-' ■ ■ ■'• ■ ■"' ■■ ■■■ • ' ■■ ■

_,. , .,.- ...■■ DAISIES.

'/...|

Down in the meatlows and up on the niountain:i<,

Alike the daisies I see
The prettiest, sweetest, dearest Howeis ,.

In all the world to me :
Their little white petals sparkling -

Sparkling so beautifully. " ■ ;

Out in the pasture and here in the garden

I see them where'er I go —
Beauty and innocence commingled

Ancl white "s December's snow.
To you it niaketh small difference , '''

If in garden or roadside you blow. .ft. <

No. a

Old schooldays ! How bright the picture seems in
after years as we look btick upon them. The brightest
days of our life. The old schoolhouse, with its desks
and walls carved here and there with some oddly -shaped
letters, the initials of those, perhaps, who played and
studied arountl the old place when we were boys an<l
girls there, and of those who since have laughe<l and
cheered in schoolboy glee around the old schoolhouse
as we in other days have done ; the yard around the
schoolhouse where recess and nooning found us playing

id fireside
.serenity,
1 walkinir
I, may we

worLl to

no night
I and tliu
)m youth
will soon
1 we, too,

give our
id a hril-
valled in
ishielderl

come.

eems m
I'ightest
8 desks
■shapet I
ed and
ys and
ed and
)1 house
nd the
laying

"BOOK OF WONDERS."

all the games that could enter a schoolboy s head to
play ; the long sunnner afternoons, when through the
windows the sun's hot rays poured in and made us
impatient io hear the bell for dismissal, and when it
did ring at last bounding out with skip and jump, as
free as iihe air and as gay as the birds that chirped and
twittered in the green foliage without. Oh, they were
happy days. How their memory comes up and makes
us long for just one day at the old school as it was in
the old days. The friends we made there are always
the dearest in our memory — our schoolday friends —
and none among those whom we meet and cherish in
after years can till the place in our hearts that they
won years ago. But how the friends of those old days
are scattere<l. They have wandered, many of them, in
divers ways, and few of us are left behind.

' ' Some have left this world forever,
Longer here they might not stay ;
They have sought a fairer city
Far away. "

On a page in the "Book of Wonders," the only
article on the page, standing alone and apart from th»>
rest, as if the placing of another article beside it would
be obtrusion, are the three stanzas : —

Our names are carved together

Far up on the wooden wall,
And oft have I sat there watching

1'he evening shadows fall.

And as the darkness gathers

I sit and think of him,
And our old schooldays togetlier,

Until my eyes grow dim.

Those days are passed forever,

But their memory's evei" dear,
And our names up there together

Tend to strengthen and to cheer.

The names are up there yet, perhaps, on the wooden
wall, but their owners have both left this land of sor-
rows and disappointments, this land of separations and
heartaches, and have met above in the better land,
where partings never are. That name Vjeside the
author's was Harry McDonald's Never were friends

...... ^.MaaujJMm rtJMl lltllW i l M' i* * ' il(W iW i '«»»«.*(>»» |im> w lW » M H lW

(

'BOOK OF WONDERS."

more close than they — Harry and Les — and when the
former left Wolfville and moved with the family to
Truro two friends were parted never to meet again on
earth.

* *

On the next page of the book is a poem entitled
"The Happy Hunting Grounds," an Indian's soliloquy.
At the close of the poem are the words, " Finished Nov.
25, '87." This is the poem :— • t. .' )

THE HAPPY HUNTIN(i GROUNDS. , -

ch^
an«|

Fur beyond the leaden cloudlets.

And beyond the set of sun,
la a land of peace and plenty.

When on earth our toil is done.

There the rabbit and the bison
Live within that hunting ground ;

There the partridge and the wild duck
And the caribou aliound.

In those forests, where the wigwams
Are of gold and silver made — l

There the red- face is the ruler
In the Indian's forest sha<le.

There tiie white man ne'er intrudeth
On the Indian's own domain ;

There the white man's law existeth
Not, nor sorrow, death, nor pain.

There the forest lakes are tranquil ;

There the mighty asli-tree grows.
With a texture like the whalebone —

Strong, elastic, fine and close.

There the birch-tree spreads its branches
Where no tempest ever blew ;

And the wood for spears is sized.
And the Indian's light canoe.

All the trees, the ash, the maple,

To the Indian were given
By the Great Spirit of the red-face.

Who doth dwell above in heaven.

Let us while on earth obey him.

And our enemies here love ;
And when death on earth doth part us.

We shall meet again above.

when the

family to

t again on

n entitled
soliloquy,
shed Nov.

BOOK OF WONDERS."

Nt). 4.

The next article we come to is "Content," an article
characteristic of the author, who was always cheerful
and contented. This is what he says of content : —

CONTENT.

"My crowu is in my heart, not on my hea<l ;
Not decked with diamonds nor Indian stones ;
Nor to Imj seen : my crown is called content ;
A crown it is that sehlom kings enjoy."

"This woi'ld's a wilderness of \vt)e," is what I heard
an ol<l man say the other tlay. That's just like some
people. They wouldn't he satisfied with anything.
That same man always wants rainy weather when it's

• Iry, and rice vevsd. Look at the great North-west ;
look at th(; Bermudas, "where everlasting spring
a>)ides"; and look at our own little village, and they
say, "This world's a wilderness of woe."

It is said that people grow fat on content, and I

• lon't see why some of these old lean, lanky grumblers
don't get some of it. I know some people who don't
possess much of anything else V)ut content. Now I

• lon't say that I'd care to he such a man ; but I do say
that I'd rather be one of them than to have a million a
year and not content.

Content is a funny tiling some ways. It doesn't
make nmch •lift'erence how poor one's clothes are ; how
much Hour costs ; or how much one owes so long as he
has a little of it. Content and happiness go hand in
hand along the great highway of life, and if j'ou meet
one you meet both.

But there are two ditlerent kinds of content. There
is a kind we like to see, and there's a kind we don't.
Vou very often see a man walking al»out the streets, in
his shirt sleeves,, his hands in his pockets, and whistling
'All for money," refusing work, and with not a cent to
pay his many debts. He acts as though he didn't have
\ery much sorrow, but that kind of content doesn't
count for much except to the possessor.

Again there's the other kind. There's the man who
nourishes amid adversity and smiles at misfortune.
There's the man who "counts not his toil obscure," e'en

. ■j't^:iaitimf»mmAit0m'*i<'<>im)m<'-

;,V. ,^*(«>»)*»!»t<*.'

^BOOK OF WONDERS."

though he can get but 75 cents a day for hard hibor,
but goes home happy. We like to see that kind.

Now, a friendly word of advice in conclusion. You
know "work never kills people," but giiimbling and
fretting does. Therefore don't complain even when
you do lose your vote ; even when the weather doesn't
suit you ; and when you can't have things exactly a^
you would like to. But be content with life and it
will stay with you longer and you'll enjoy it more.

*
On the next page is "Greed." This article was
written in the spring of '87, and as a humorous produc-
tion it excels. A wonder it is that he never submitted
it for publication. How many articles there may be
that were really meritorious that have perished on
account of modesty or self -depreciation on the part of
the author. How many more that might have been
read and appreciated that were thrown aside, neglected.
and lost, to the might-have-been reader. If the public
could realize the amount of enjoyment there is in read-
ing there would be fewer books in the library unread,
fewer papers thrown down with a glance for want of
time. The article "Greed" comes in very appropriately
after "Content." Let us shun the one and seek the
other.

GREED.

' ' -' ''!• " Man wants but little here below,

I Nor wants that little long."

That's just what I think exactly. Don't wish foi-
everything you see. There was a man in the States
by the name of Vanderbilt died the other day worth
two hundred million dollars! That's a big pile of
money for one man, but he hasn't got that now. He
isn't worth a cent now. Shortly after he died his will
was read, and between his children and the lawyers
they got it all away from him.

Then there's Jay Gould. I heai-d he made nine
million dollars in one week this spring. Just to think
of that ! I think that's too much for even Jay Gould to
make in one week. I never made nine million dollars

■ttfUblM

'BOOK OF WONDERSr

hard liilior,
it kind,
lusion. You
imbling an<l

even when
ither doesn't
;s exactly as
1 life and it
' it more.

article was
rous produc-
er submitted
here may be
perished on
1 the part of
it have been
de, neglected.
It* the public
I'e is in read-
rary unread,

for want of
ppropriately
nd seek the

in't wish foi-
the States
day worth

big pile of
now. He

lied his will

the lawyers

made nine
ast to think
ay Gould to

lion dollars

in all my life ! A million in the bank, a $50,000 house
and a railway pass would be all I would want.

Sam Tilden has got the best house in New York
city. I suppose it cost nearly a million. I think that's
going too steep, especially for a man like Tilden. I
wouldn't live in such a house !

As to farms, I would say that I couldn't ask for a
farm like Bell's. To think of one man owning a farm
100 miles stjuare ! A* farm of 200 acres is big enough
for any man.

As tt) the fish question, I would say, "Let the
Yankees have all the fish they can get" — outside, of
course, the three-mile limit. I don't like to see even
fishermen too grasping. We may want to get some
fish from the Yankees some day. I say, give them all
the fish they want. There's the gulf of Mexico, the
Pacific ocean, and the Mississippi river ; if that doesn't
satisfy them, why, they're greedy too I

No. 5

The scene is fair ;
To north, to south, to east, to west, _ ,.. ,_

No cloud is there.
To dull the blueness of the autumn's sky.

An autumn picture! How grand and beautiful
it is. This is the way he describes it — in the language
of the stanza above. This little stanza, at the head of
a page in the "Book of Wonders," is worthy of a place
there. It is beautiful in its simplicity. Autumn was
a favorite season with the author. He loved t'.ie golden
grain, the ripened fruit, the crimson leaves. In boy-
hood days how we two used to love to saunter 'neath
the richly-burdened branches of the fruit-trees when
mellow autumn came, and pluck the ripened fruit, or
stand before some great mound of red and yellow
apples fallen from the trees and heaped there beneath
some grand old apple-tree, and help ourselves. In an
article on "The Autumn" he laughingly refers to those
old days. Following is the article : —

lllillltllWi|W>*l«»ll'ii"'TTitTn-»-r-f-

><^a-,»'-.»a-..-j»y*ttHnyM* W i 1lfirf» i 't |i yi'

BOOK OF wonders:'

I I 'I

I I 'i

. ^j " When the leaves Itegin to fade • •)■► , '

And the nights are growing cold."

THE AUTUMN.

That's the time ot* year for me. When the leaves
hegin to fa<ie, and slowly jjrow yellow and then gold,
and then along comes the gentle autun^n Vjreeze, blow-
ing through the hand-painted forests of nature, and flits
them through the air ; when the apples, after slowly
growing through the long, hot months of sunnner, begin
to cat<;h the red and gold of the trees : an<l when all the
grain is gathered by har<l work into the barns for the
coming winter : then comes the season «jf thanksgiving
an<l resting.

Yes, autumn, with its other innumerable charms,
brings also Thanksgiving Day, with "no school" f<»r
the schoolboys, an extra sermon for the minister to
prepare, and a Thanksgiving <linner for all.

There is always something to look ahead to in the
autunm. Christmas for the children : winter for them
that like skating and coasting that January brings ;
and for them that don't like the cold winter days, the
next summer to look ahead to.

Apples, pears an<l plums all go to make autumn the
king of seasons, and a stroll through a good orchard
when the fmit is ripe and mellow is what every boy
likes. Boys like apples. I know they do. I used to
like them my.self , and if there is anything I like to see
it is a boy enjoying himself over a good gravenstein,
sitting on the fence of a neighbor's orchard.

Leaves have their plauo to fall,

And trees to blossom 'mid the spring-bird's joy,
And plums to fall, but all —

Thou hast all orchards for thine own, O Hoy !

On the next page is an unfinished poem on "Autumn."
Four stanzas ot this were finished and are as follow :

AUTUMN.

Resplendent autumn, king of all the seasons,
The lord of Ceres' feast and Harvest Home,
Thy hills are gaily dyed in brightest crimson,
. Thy fields will soon a golden plain become.

BOOK OF WONDERS."

V-'

n the leaves
1 then gold,
I'eeze, blow-
ure, and flits
ifter slowly
nuner, be^in
when all the
arns for the
liuiiksgivini;;

-hle channs,
school" for
uiinister to

ad to in the
;er for them
aiy lii'ings ;
iv days, the

autumn the
)o«l orchard

every boy
I used to

like to see
rravenstein,

joy,
y!

Autumn."
as follow :

Tlic gentle autuiun zepliyra softly 1>lowing
Amoiie the criinaon and the golden trees ;

And as tliey blow tlie leaves are softlv flying
Like home-returning, honey-laden I)ee8.

The cows returning from the scented pastures

Are lowing now to eaeh <leparting herd ;
Bcliind, the youthful teamsters now are Littering,

To seek some nest, or watch the mother-bird.

Itehind tiie crimson hills the sun is shining,
And roun<l about the evening shadows mil ;

Within their nests the birtls have ceased their twitteiing,
An»^ stillness, swett' y silence reigns o'er all.

No. (1.

)&t a(*

l;'i.

'.'.(

A Li'lTLE poem on "Spring," written on a scrap of
paper lyinf( loosely within the pages of the "Book of
Wonders," is the next we come to. Full of life and
hope, we can almost, in reading it, hear the chirp of the
spring-bird, the Imbble of the brook, and feel the soft
breath of Auster as we see, or fancy we see, the farmer
sowing the seed as he looks forward to the golden
harvest time. This is the poem : —

8PRIN(i. A

Winter hiw gone, and over the mountains
Auater's mild breath blows mildly along ;

The snow is dispersed, the bnioks are like fountains,
And the forests ring out with many a song.

Up from the ground the primrose is springing,

Fair are the heavens, soft is the air ;
Out in the forests the spring-birds are singing, • >

Nature is smiling, all things are fair. ,;

Chirp ! a-chirp ! a-chii-p !

The birds in the garden are singing, ,^ ..

Chirp ! a-chirp ! a-chirp !

And down in the meado'..-,
O'er its stony bed, oh,
The brook wmds along.
Heedless of bird or song,
Down to the river.

Out in the field goes the farmer a-sowing
Seed which will sprout and ere long have begun

Sending forth shoots, till at autumn a-growing,
Wave will like gold in the rays of the sun.

-7 • I ;

t.-iSs^i!^'«WHB8l<*W'«P««»**«.'?'*'^'*WW^^

'BOOK OF WONDERS."

1 >;'

Spring is the Heiuiun of faith ; without knowing
Whvnuu ooniuB th» harvvHt, the funuor tl()^h hiing

Seett from his atoru-houHv and Huittvring, wiwing,

I'ians and l«K)k8 forward in tlie ttpring, oh, thu spiing.

Chirp I a uhirp I aoliirp !
I hear a rohin Hinging ;
Chirp ! a-cliirp ! a-aiirp !
Tlui day i« near its close,
As the creeping darkness sliows ;
lint tlie br<M)k winds ah)ng,
Heedless of right or wrong,
'I'lll it roaches tlie river.
* »

Oil tilt' lU'xt \>n^v is a rcininisct'iu'i' ol' tho iiuthoi's
schooldays, rntitU'd

\\\CK TO 'INK LON(! A({0.

I oan set' it lit't'oiv ;iu^ now — tlu* old scluudrotnn.
How tlu> lu'art throhs at thf iMt'iititin of it. Tlu'iv tin-
littk' seats and lit'iicht's, tho teaehtTs oltl-i'ashituu'd
dt'sk with the ^ii^at kiu)t-lu)lt' in the to]), thitnif^h
which wt! tried in vain to recover t)ur ctaiHscated play-
things when they were too lari:;e to admit ol" exit, hut
whieh did exeellent service when small peai's and plums
t'(»vnid their way to those sond>re ipuirters. Hut t't>re-
most in my nnntl is the old seat in the corner, — the seat
whereon 1 sat on the first day t)i' my eventful schttoll»oy
life. — ink-stainetl, ciacked ami carven with many 'ni
initial and name.

It was a jnomentful ilay to me — that early spiint;
day. The sun slu)ne hri^ht and the wtuxletl road lanj;
out with the strain of a thousantl sprin^-hirds. Near-
in<^ the scht)olhouse the peals t)f the hell, which in after
tlays called to t)rder us rollicking stutlents, Ht>ated to
my ears, and urj;ed hy my companitais to hurry, we
startetl oH't)n a hrisk run.

We are there at last, ami the teacht»r shows me to
the little st>at in the corner. Then the clas.ses were
called up and the day's proct^etlings wentttn — ^_just as if
n»)"new scholar" wt^rt> there, takinjjj it all in I Then
came siuj^in^ — " Precious .lewels." ()h, lu)W that s<»und-
ed I Twt) sctire of yt)uthful vt>icoK, each lx>untl tt) sin*;
the loudest, svvellctl the chorus. — -■ ---•'/

s»l

se|
ail

t'f

BOOK OF WONDEHSr

'iiig

'h hiing

wing,

, tho Npi'iiig.

the jiutlioi's

si'lu)olr«)(nn.

Tlu'iv the

kl-l'ashi(nu>(l

<«'at«'(l |)lay-

ol" exit. Imt

'iiuul plums

liut Wivv-

i\ — tho seat

1 school I M)V

J inaiiv '»ii

ally spring-

I load raii<r

Is. N«>ar-

ich ill after

Hoated t<t

hunv. we

i«>\vs me to
»isses Were
— just as if
iii: Then
hat souikI-
11(1 to sinjif

And there the reuiiuiscenet; ends, and we have to
supply the rest for oui"selv(>H. How we would like to
lead the whole reminiscenci^ which the author evidently
intended to write. Hut we shall have to content t)ur-
selves with what wt> have. Ami as we read over these
articles in the " Hook of \Von<lers," how strauije it seems
to us that «)ne who was so jjifted in verse and pro.se
siuaild he .so soon to he called awav. Hut we are on the

I outside as yet of (iod's plans and purpo.si's ; we do not

I see the inside.

No.

TllK nest we come to in the "Hook of Wonders
Their Last .hmrm>y,' a prairie sketch. It is as
follows : —

Til Kill LAST .lorHNKV.

■ liipple, ripple, ripple."

The little lirook sinj^s away as though it ne\ cr had
noi- .saw a trouhle, and o'er its stony hod its waters
glisten in the ^•olden rays of the autumn morniuijs
>Nun. The louix ^'rass of the prairie waves mournfully,
iukI across to the w«'stward a i;reat tlock of ducks spot
the sk\'.

In the little settlement a d(t/,en or more hou.ses
iiiid as man\' farms the smok«> is eommeneiiii'" to i-ise
from the chimiii'ys : and curlinf.^ upward to the sky, it.
too. seems happy in its short existence, hefore it reaches
the heavens. Tlu' farmers one hv one are comiiiir out
intt) their prairie fields to finish their mowing and
reaping, for stton the sun. which has just ri.seii. will he
• •eating down in all its noonday streni^th.

How difi'erent a scene will thi^ sun shine upon vw
it has reached its settiny;!

In a hnrren section of country I'ar to the eastward
a small settlement of emi;j[rants had settled. Tla> cro])s,
which in the past few years had heen almost a failure,
were this year far from }^iM>d. The ])oor unfortiniate
farmers had hec<uiie vdmo.st «lisc«)ura^ed. So much so
that they were ^lad to leave their homes and conm out

!j;>

I hi

III i j|ji
III

' 'ii

If
! > I

24 "BOOK OF VWNDKRS."

into the great prairie to seek a home — to help the set-
tlers harvest their crops for enough to keep them till
spring again smiled around them — till seed-time again
played his time. And now, far away in the distance,
the great emigrant wagon stands still to allow the
hungered cattle a time for feeding on the prairie gi-ass.
j| The sun is shining down with all its noon<lay heat.

nil The fields, which but last night waved in the autunni

i| sunset, are looking l)are and more hare, through the

Ijj sturd}^ strokes of the pioneta- farmer with his scythe.

1 1 The harns are bursting with hay, and soon the grain,

}\\ too, will be added to their giant hoard. Over the fields

ijj — up on yon hill — the mighty sails of tlui wind-mill

ku will soon be whi/zintf, while the farmer s main is beint):

!' convei'ted into flour and meal for the fainiei" and his

i; stock.

1 Suddenly, across the broad e.xpanse, a white speck

" ' is seen against the hoi'izon. The farmers notice it anil

watch with no little interest the novel .sight — the ap-
proach of the emigrant wagon — for such it is.

The oxen's slow pace through the tall, thick, matte<l
grass, the dull monotony of the prairie, make the jour-
ney anything l)ut pleasant to the poor, worn-out emi-
grants, and throughout the long day the white sides of
the emigrant's wagon keep barely in sight of tht»
reapers' wondering gaze.

What is that noise ?

Bang :— Bang ! !

A score of Indians break from a clump of trees a
4lozen rods from the emigrant's team 1

A shout from the children playing around the btick
of the wagon soon bring the n»en to the front. To the
right, a .score of red-faced Indians ; to the left, a half-
dozen men, some with guns, some unarmed. Beyond
the hills the smoke and flame of a prairie fire burst to
the sky.

« « «

The blackened ground — the slight wind blowing
the smoking dust about — a dozen or more blackened
stumps of trees sticking upright — the remains of the
little clump of bushes — atKl the brook, blackened by

''BOOK OF WONDEHSr

help the set-
Bep them til!
!d-tinie again
the distance,
to allow the
prairie grass,
oonday heat,
tiie autinnn
thi-ough the
» his scythe.
in the grain,
*'er the fields
H> vvind-niilj
rain is heiiiir
inei" and his

white speck
notice it and
lit — the ap-
'i is.

lick, matted
ke the Jour-
)rn~()ut emi-
liite sides of
ight of the

Ithe surrounding ashes, still rippling and singing away,
hut there is a different tone in it.

" Ripple, ripple, ripple."

How mournfully it winds along its gloomy hanks,
like a caged bird. The tall grass is no longer there
to wave its mournful song in the wind. Desolation

p of trees a

id the back
nt. To the
left, a half-
\. Beyond
ire burst to

id blowing

blackened

ains of the

ickened by

reigns.

The weary travellers have reached the prj>irie. It
is a different prairie from what they expected. No
Indian lurks 'neath the tall, verdant grass, awaiting
their approach to scalp and massacre. Here the Indian
and th«.' pale face are friends. Hardships and priva-
tions are unknown. How different! They have reached
the Cireat Prairie above, and have had on earth 'I'heir
Last Long Journey.

No. S.

How careful we should be of our moments: ba- in
an instant we may do a deed or speak a word whose
sad remembi'ance we may carry throughout the remain-
der of our lives. Every new leaf we turn over, there
is that ugly blot staring at us. It is as dropping a

I single drop of ink on a pile of Idotting paper — e\ei-y

I sheet will have a blot. '

The foregoing is the commencement of an article
in the "Book of Wonders," entitled the "Work of a
Moment," which the author never finished. The
thought is an original one, and a pity it is that this,
like several other articles in the book, was left un-
finished.

• ^ . * #

Another article, entitled "Trifles," is in much the
same line of thought and I will insert it here.

':; ' TRIFLES.

Shakespeare speaks of "trifles light as air," as
though they amounted to naught, as some may sup-
pose. But to look into it — how light a thing is air^'
What wouhl be the population of this old glol)C if it

26 ^'BOOK OF WONDERS."

were not for air ? How many stars would lighten the
firmament if it were not for air? Not one! Air is
nothing that we can have or not, just as we like ; we
must have air or die.

Just so is his comparison — triHes. Trifles are no
light matter. We may look at the greatest thing we
ever saw, and ask, "Of what is this earth made?" It
is made of trifles — the smallest of trifles. Little grains
,of sand, little globules of water, little particles of
mineral, and what have we / A mighty planet —
mightier than the mightiest work of man. Look at a
great book, perhaps large enough to contain the names
«)f all the inhabitants of London, and of what is it
made ? Little leaves. Look again at a great news-
paper, which you would think would have taken a man
a year to duplicate. How was it made ? By the use
of little types, one of which, perhaps, you would walk
over in the street a dozen times without picking up.
The mighty empire of Great Britain is composed of
different countries, which are ixiade up of provinces,
which you may trace down through counties, townships,
sections, villages, to a single man. The German army
is made, not of thousands, but of single men.

Life is composed of trifles, and not of great things,
although some would have nothing to do with them
had they their own way. And in order to live a
successful life, we must look well to the trifle.

All of Vanderl)ilt's fortune was made of cents — all
of his millions. Had all the cents and the factors of
cents of his vaults disappeared, he would have been a
poor njan, instea«l of the richest man of his tinie.

The simple pen is a trifle in itself, yet, were it not
for it, some of the greatest thoughts which are the
world's inheritance to-day, would have been lost in the
ages that are gone.

Guard well the trifle, for out of it proceed the great-
est feats of chivalry, wisdom, and power. Life would
be not worth living were it not for the minutes ; and so
on through our lives the great deeds which we see as
done by the great men of the past, would not be great if
they had commenced at the top round of the ladder.

BOOK OF WONDERS."

d lighten the

one ! Air is

i we like ; we

rrilles are no
iest thing we
inmde?" It
Little grains
particles of
>ty planet —
. Look at a
tin the names
f what is it
great news-
taken a man

" Think not a trifle, thouuh it small appear ;
Sands make the mountams, moments make the year,
And trifles life. Your care to trifles give,
Else you may die, ere yon have learned to live."

No. J).

What is this we see on the next page of the "Book
)f Wonders f It is poetry, and the title of it is, "The
Jraveyard Vision." A temperance poem, and we haste
,() read it. Always staunch on the side of temperance,
ilways with pity in his great, generous heart for those
aIu) had fallen under tlie fatal cup, and with a hate
nten.se and undying for the demon that tempted men
A) ilrink and urge others to drink of that, which, by the
r> ,1 ! hinking of it, meant death, — we look for something

..r_-ii fi*^ from his pen expressing his sentiments on this great

would walk
) picking up.
composed of
)f provinces,
s, townships,
erman army
?n.

^reat things,
) with them
r to live a
•irte.

)f cents — all
le factors of
have been a
s time.
, were it not
lich are the
m lost in the

id the great-
Life would
tites ; and so
:h we see as
t be great if
le ladder.

vil. This is the poem

THK (JRAVEYARD VISION.

I lay me down the other night to rest my fevered head,
When a vision strange came to me from the city of the dead.

A light gleamed from the window of the dead house on the liill ;
A coffin in u somlne hearse stood at the door-post — still !

.\nd from the veiled windows six lighted candles- all
Of them enshrouded by a thin hut hlacken pall.

Across the sodden acre, thick spotted with many a mound,
A hollow deep, a pile of earth, broke the smooth, even ground.

Within u distant corner a fog unpiercing spreail,
And out of it, above it, rose a fiery lion's head.

With mane of smoking cinders, and eyes of flashing tiie,
He reigned this land of solitude with cursed wrath and ire.

I looked not little on him, for he was a wonder rare,
With his eyes of burning sulphur, and his long and flaming hair.
Hut as I looked upon him he suddenly was gone, '

And in his place a coffin, black and sombre, stood alone.

A crown of gold was on the head, a crfiss was at the feet,
lAnd round it, wrapped with many a furl, a snowy waving sheet.

And out of it a cry arose, but the language was unknown ;
.\nd after thrice repeating it, it sank into a groiMi.

Suddenly a change in all things, and I saw a gleam of light.

And from the coffin there arose an angel clothed in white. '"'"'

And where the lion's head had been he reigned there in his stead,
With a timbrel in his hand, and a crown upon his head.

2H "BOOK OF WONJJEKSr

And where the graveyard once had been, a city now appeared ;
And instead of death there being, life's tall tower skyward learci'i. j

But at last the vision left nie and I woke n»e from my sleep,

But the picture, strange and wondrous, ere before my eyes would keej).

ve
\o\
ce'
he

No. 10.

And I thought, 'tis Temperance sleeping in the coffin in tiie hearse.
Sleeping in the territory of the devil^ — hell, far worse. tnl'

And the lights within the cf>ffin that I saw within the hearse

Were the various temperance orders, obscured by the liquor cume. sk

The fog was sin and treachery, and the fiery lion's head j llKi

Was the demon of Intemperance by alcoholic fires fed ; pj-,

!} 1 And the angel from the coffin that arose with flag unfurled ■utH

Was the angel Prohibition, hither come to save the world. Slid

And no longer iJeath aboundeth in our country pure and free, 1

But instead Life now shall Hourish and e-'irnal it sluill be. ■ ,,,

Now the greatest reformation that the worid has evei- seen 1 ^\^^^

Is in pi-ogress, soon to meet us, it to save tlie world, I ween. i ^,•

Onward, friends of Prohil)ition, onward, soldiers true and brave ; | ^^..
Let lis march, and let us conquer, and our country bravely sa\e. I .

nlli

COU

tilt

tlu

tlu
tin
an
pa

sk
iiii
Nvi
tiv

1.1

re
In
rt(
tl
si
tl

Furtlier on in the book we come to several pages
reserved for an intended series of articles. Only one,
however, of the series was written, and this will hi'
produced here. The title of the series is this: "Sonu
Sketches from Nature. Br Jaco Hollie. N(>. I. The
Sleet Storm." This is the article :

THE SLEET STORM.

What can art, with all the modern inventions, with

all the jrenius of a modern inventor, construct so

! beautiful as a single tree after a sleet storm ? I re-

mendier, once long ago — 'twas in February — there was
! a terrible storm. The day commenced by a slight snow

I storm, which slowly turned into rain. The teniperatur«'

su<l<lenly lowered, and the wind shifted to the north
The cold weather had such an effect on the rain as to
liji cause it to freeze immediately on reaching the earth.

j' |! or aught else between sky and earth, and stick like

wax to it. The afternoon was a very disagreeable one
The houses, the barns, the trees, the fences, and even
the stul)lK)rn sheep, which would not go under slielter,

BOOK OF WONDERS."

2!)

w appeared ;
kyward leared.

uy sleep,
eyes would keej).

in in the Iiearse,

se.

the hearse

he liquor em»e,

lead
ed;

iif Ill-led
world.

e and free,
all be.

er i-een
I ween.

le and brave ;
ravely sa\e.

several pa^jes
i. Only one,

this will hv
this: "Son..

No. I. Th,'

3ntions, with
construct so
orin ? I re-
' — there was
I slight snow
temperature
the north
B rain as to
g the earth
3 stick like
Teeable one
s, and even
ider shelter,

ere coated with the cold, transparent sleet. The wind
lowled during the night, driving the seennng "molten
ee" into every crevice and crack, and the next morning
he panes and sashes were coated nearly an inch thick,
md so uneven that we could hardly see anything
through it. The wind had completely gone down dur-
ing the night, and the sun rose into a clear, cloudless
<ky, and shining on wall and window, reflected its rays
like a mirror. The snow which had fallen on the
pi-evious day was also sheathed in a transparent mantel,

Iand sparkled and shone till the eye was gla<l to let the
liil diop, and shut out the all-glorious picture
It was a hrautitul day for a sleigh-ride, and many
availed themselves of this rare oppoi-tunitv. Far along
the wooded road the storm had done its work most
ctiectually, and though here and there a stately spruce
or sturdy willow lay bowed hunddy to the ground
neath its uid)earable load broken an<l ))leeding the sap
of its existence, the picture on a whole tended to make
one think and wonder how so much beauty and chastity
could proceed from a howling, blinding storm, which
tlie day previous had witnessed. Far in the distance
the sun shone on the icy fences, and all the colors of
the i-ainbow could be seen alternately, sparkling like
diairiontls. J)own by the gate the stately old willow,
tiiat had stood the mighty l>lasts of October nearly
three-score years, has at last lost one of its branches,
and there it lay on the gnnuid— severed from the
|)arent trunk, soon to be gathered up and cut into fuel.
But alas for the orchards ! The sun set in a redden
sky, and now and then a gentle bree/e shakes the lind)S
and crackles the ice-enclosed boughs. Hark ! The
wind grows louder and louder! The house fairly
trembles, and far away down along the beach the
breakers roar, bearing tlu; cold ice-cakes u]) to the
rocky shore — only to be dashed back, l)roken into a
hundred pieces. The next morning all the beauty had
Hed from the trees. Bare and grim, low and broken,
they stood pointing their remaining branches to the
sky. Under each tree lay sleet-coveretl pieces of the
tree's best boughs laden with the last-autunui-formed

BOOK OF WONDEMS."

buds that, had they been spared, would have welcomed
the spring birds to build their summer's nests amontf
them. And this is an end of all the previous day's
glory and splendor. What a contrast !

No. 11.

On the next page, in letters ornate and odd, stan<l-
ing at the top and embellishing the whole page — letters
quaint and artistic that the writer used to love to draw
and carve — is the word " Home," and l:>eneath it is the
article : , , \ W

HOME. ., -j^

"There is no place like home."

Those words of Paine are as true as the axioms of
Euclid. Home is different from any other place on
earth. It may not have as fine furniture as neighbor
Smith's; it may not have a carpet on every room, or a
piano or organ : but there is something — something
apart from splendor and Sunday company — that makes
it dear. Perhaps we cannot name that (]uality, but we
know what it is.

To the far-away stranger home means rest and
happiness. And though he left it years ago for his
own pleasure, j'et he will feel a longing for the home
of his birth — there where he learned to walk ; there
where he went to school ; there where he played in
childhof>d's days ; there where he left all the dear ones
to go out into the wide world to fight his own battles,
and be his own counsellor. „ .,-

"There is no place like home !"

That's what we used to think when we were young,
and didn't know what work was ; no place where they
had so many potatoes to hoe; no place where they
burned so much wood ; no place where they hired so
little help ; no place where fun was so scarce. An«l
though some people may still think that there is no
place where flour goes off so fast, and money comes in
so slowly, still there is something alx>ut it that none of
us would exchange for millions. Canada wouldn't be

riMi

'BOOK OF WONDERS."

half so prosperous as she is to-day if it wasn't for home
an<l its remembrances.

r-t ,,•

I I I-

Following this is a fragment bearing on the same
subject — dulce dcymum :

I see it before me now — the old homestead. It is
even. I see it to-night as I saw it years ago — those
happy days of old. The hayfield is alive with childish
voices, and now and then a great load of the sweet, new
hay is stored away in the cosy barns. The clink of the
scythe when being sharpened and the merry laughing
of the juveniles commingle with the music of the birds,
as they sing their evening song.

Again, — it is harvest. The golden fields are being
shorn of their beauty, as the mower with scythe slashes
to right and left through the innocent and unprotected
grain. What is lovelier than an autumn sunset ? But
there, the sunsets were always grand — if I could soo
them now 1 — and the autumn .unset was as a dream.

Listen ! You hear the tinkling of the bells. Yes,
there up the road they come — the cows. Lowing to
otxch departing member of their herd they slowly walk
adown the road.

The barns are hlled, the fields are empty, the cows
are milked — all done. What now ? Out in the garden
where the trees are the highest and the leaves the red-
dest, is the table — a long, bounteously-laden one, and
now all is ready, and each and all — both neighbors and
friends — sit down to share the dainties that the good
folk indoor have prepared. Harvest Home.

No. 12.

One evening in the winter of '87-'88 — that winter
in which the author of the "Book of Wonders," when
the day's work in the office was over and the quiet
evening had come, his pile of paper before him and
pen in hand, used to write away till bedtime on some
sketch or poem or story — one evening, coming in out
of the cnsp, frosty air, seeing him writing thus, I said :

BOOK OF WONDERS."

"Well, Les, what are you at work on now f" for the
effort WAS somewhat lengthy, as the great pile of writ-
ten paper at his right showe<l. "Oh," said he, "a little
story I've been working at. You can read it if you
like." I picked up the manuscript and began to read
it. It was entitled "Afar," and w»is a narrative of two
boys who were compelled to shift for themselves, the
scenes (jf the stoiy being laid in the great North-west.
The story was told by one of the ])oys. It was late
that night when I put the manuscript away, half read,
and sorry that the hour was .so late, for the story was
interesting. The next evening when T was talking to
hiin about it, telling him iiow I liked it, he said : "It
doesn't .suit me altogctlior somehow. I've written it in
too much of a hurry I guess I'll finish it up as soon
as I can and couunence anotlKU* <me and take pains.
And he did, and in a few nights he had it completed
and I ha<l it read. I liked the story and wanted him
to go over it again and fix it up for publication, but he
(leelare<l it was not worth it. "But," he said, "I'm
thinking out a story now which I'm going to do my
best im, and if vou think it's worth it, will havu it
published." Alas I The story was begun, but never
finished. The unfinished manuscript is within the
pages of the "Book of Wonders," an<l it is as follows :

..,,,,.^,,.„ THE HOME ROOF. ,. , , ^ .

CHAn'ER I. — "Asleep."

Slowly the long, dreary day passes, and now it is
even. The bir«ls have ceased their twittering in the
orchard as the sun's last rays gleam over the western
hills, and homeward is the cour.se of all the laborers —
from the distant fields the ploughman, — from the ver-
dant pastures the milkmaid.

The evening shadows deepen, and the old farm-house,
half hidden by majestic elms, looks like some grim
prison, alone there in the darkness. At last the sound
of wheels is heard coming down the street, and a car-
riage turns up at the old farm-hou.se. A light gleams
from the thick green foliage of the elms, and the old
house puts on a still more sombre look.

"WOK OF WONDERHr

"Jolin, is that you ?"

The speaker was a thin, pale woman, lying on a
hed, and hut one look would suffice to tell the story
tluit life for her was soon over.

"Yes, n)y dear, — come at last. So Lib is gone ?"

"Yes, the old man came shortly after you left, and
sai<l slu! couldn't stay any longer — had d(jne without
iuM- long enough."

"Humph," muttered the old farmer, half aloud, as he
ltnsie<l himself about finding something to satisfy liis
hunger, which had had nothing to check it since early
morn.

His little bite ovei' again, he sits down l)y the bed
of I lis wife.

"How have you been since I left you /" he asked
her. in tones gentle and pathetic, for the form of the
old man's face was wrinkled M'ith trouble and har<lness.
" Better," was the simple, low answer ; but the weak
tone in which it was uttered seemed rather to sadden
his s})ii'its than cheer them.

* *
*

This was all that was written. We cannot help
ngietting that the story was not hnished. If the
opening paragraphs are nn index, "The Home Roof"
wonhl probably have been Jiis best work. Being but
sixtt'eu years of age when tl.e most of the articles in
the "Bo(jk of Wonders" were written, is it not po.ssiblo
— nay, pi'obable — that, had the author lived, his career
as a riiti'i'ii.feii.r would have been a bright ont> ?

No. 18.

"F.moiin' an' Woukin'," a dialect poem, is the next
one come to in the "Book of Wonders." It reads thus :

I'ARMIN' AN" WOKKIN'.

^ ^.f.. Its all very well fur 'em city folks,

Who live by writin' iiii<1 sich.
To say that us old farniin' bauds
Are all well-to-do an' rich. . ,

M • •■..ii

'BOOK OF WONDERSr

t \

]'!;

1 '''i

' • '■

i'''*

■ i*

■mil

It's all very well fur 'eni writin' folksi

To throw out their bits of talk
'Bout fertilizers an' ploughin' land

An' best ways o' keepin' stock.

I see their agrioultunil Intoks,
And their stuff in the papers t<N> ;

I'm not what you call a prejudiced n)an
Foi- I read 'em through an' thr(»ugh.

They say that the worhl couldn't get along-
An' they're not far off the track —

Ef 'twasn t fur the stuff us farmers raise —
The stuff what the cities lack.

But then wluit sorter l)reak8 me up
Is thinkin' they know sucli a deal

More'n us ole hands 'bout everything- -
From ploughin' to raisin' vejil.

Tiiey say that furinin's a nol)le work —

A farmer's a noble man -
But never a word 'bout tiic work you ace

There is in workin' tlie Ian".

Now, if you're talkin' of l)uyiii' a farm
And haven't mucii m(»ney, why,

I'd like to tell you a thing or two
Before you decide to buy.

The farm is a place wiiere work alM)uiids ;

But if that you intend to do,
No better place in the great wide world

Tiian the farm there is for you.

But if you're lookin' around for fun

And an' easy life an' gay.
You'd better get as far fiom a farm

As you can tramp in a day.

For there's enough of that 'ere kinti

Who live by other's toil —
W ho will not work as others ilo

For fear their hands they'll soil.

I'd like to see you on a farm.

But look, my son, don't shirk.
For if you're going on a farm ,

Don t be afraid to work.

How like the author

was

the poem above. He

could laugh — right merrily ; it wa.s like him to laugh.
Sunny-h6arted and Jovial, his humor was always bright
and pure — never coarse and boorish. Many articles of

BOOK Oy WONDEBSr

•So

•I

lugh.
right
les of

a humorous character he wrote, and good ones. In his
article on "Noses," which appeared in the ActuUnn
with others from his pen, (hiring that winter of 'H7-'<S.S
when his pen ran so busily, humor of a striking charac-
ter is displayed. But the majority of his humorous
productions were never published. For reasons known
to himself, he never submitted them for publication.
He was too severe a critic on his own writings. Too
many of them were written, only to be destroyed. In
one article from his pen, on "Dress," I remember a
sentence which struck we as peculiarly original. I
shall always remember it. After describing dress —
the different kinds which different people wear, he
said, "Some people think if the}'^ wore a fifty -dollar
suit, they woulil be goo<l-looking ; other people know-
that in plain clothes they are handsome." And this
was the way he would sign his name to the articlt*,

Yours truly, neverthe Less.

An autograph of his I remember of seeing onct;
which struck me as con)ical. It was this :

May your sha«low never grow Les.s.

# »

Two little stanzas stand on the top of tiie next
page. They were evidently the opening stanzas of a
poem which the author intended to write. This is how
they run : —

Over the meadows brown and sere,
Over the mountains dark and drear.
Where the birches and the maples rear
Their summits to tlie sky, —

The south winds softly, mildly blow ;
And Irom the quickly-thawing snow
; r That down the mountain soon will flow,
- ,- The river takes its rise.

Mtr^i'

No. 14.

We are drawing towards the end of the 1>ook. Our
readings have not been uninteresting — to me, at least
— and it is with regret on my part that we are so soon
to close the " Book of Wonders," that we are so soon to

inn

1i: iii

■il
,, ] i

' ' 1 '

'B(')OK OF WON DEBS."

road the last of o\iv articles from the bright, jovial and
tin^ughtful pen of "Jaco Hollie." "His Last Hour" is
the next we come to. Here it is : —

HIS LAST HOUR.

•Hark!"

" Tis nothin<:; but the wind bjowinjif through the
spruces."

The old Indian lay back aoain on his blanket, and
sliut his eyes once more in sleep.

Without, the ehilly north wind howled and roared
aniouix the trees, and the waters of the lake at the north
daslicd against tlit^ rocky, treachenais shore, only to be
abashed and dashed back a<>;ain in the form of frothy
foam. The old Indian lay on his bed of furs, watchetl
over bv a do/en faithful subjects of his tribe.

•'Hark:"

"Tis nothiun' but the (Ireat Spirit punishing the
Witters of the lake."

Omcv more the oM warj'ioi" lay back again, resting
assured that nothini!' was awroug. Ai>ain the wild
howle(l, and the waters dasjied against the rocks. 'I iie
tidl trees without groaned and ci'eaktMl in the (.'liill
.\o\-end>er bljist, as if beseeching uiercy fl'om the uu-
s]mriiig tempest.

I5ut see ! The trees hiive stop]i(>d their groaning and
are still attain. The watei-sof the lak(^ still dash M<>ainst
the shore, but the breakei's are growing fainter. There
i>t the east, through the little clearing, you cau see i\
long white cloud, sti'etching nearly half way aroinid
the hoi'izon. Jt tirows laru'er ! It rises into the sky.
By and by a ray or two appeai-s beneath the cloud.
Tl\(^ Bi-ight Star is the only one visible in the blue sky.
The sun is slowly rising and another day dawns. 'I'he
pju'tridge and the wild goose take wing as yiai ]aill
apart the skin that forms the <loor of the chief's wig-
wam, and their Mi<;ht friifhtens others near by, an<l a
gi-eat Hock tly to the sinithward. The waters of the
lake cease entirely . and the sun shinivs on a fair prospect.

The old (rhiefs nnnd is wandering.

"My bow ! my hatchet!" . ,.-•....

3BB

liOOK OF WOKJJKRS:

The oUl hero, who has fought in so many ti<>'hts, is
handed his bow anil liatchet, and he is still apiin.

Years aj^o the old Indian was the chief of a ilozen
hundred red faces, who would, as the remainder now
would tU», lay down all and all for their honored chiif.
But the pale-faces came, and drove him from his
hunting- -jjfnanids, and cut his forests, and now the old
Indian and his scattered hand are once more far from
the nnich-hated pale-face, and once more the moose and
caribou are none hut the Indians . And over the lake
that lies near the wii;\vam of the old warrior, nothini;
Hoats hut the hirchen canoes of the tribe of lUack
Feathei-. There when; the camp tire was once li^diti'd ;
there where assend)led the friends of Hlack Fi'ather ;
there where the peace-pi})e was liuhted and smoked -
there stands the city of the ]>ale-face. i^ut here no
white man e'er hath trod, and once more reigns supreme
the re<l face of the forest. . ;. •■ ,1

"Hark:"

A»j^ain the old chief wakes, and a_i,'ain the faithful
watchej's gather around his lowlv couch of fuis.
; "Hark:"

"'Tis but the wild goose or the ])iirtl'idge."

" Xo ; not that" —

The sound grows louder. It is umnistakable now.
The shiill war-whoop of the tribe of Strong How — that
tribe above all othei" tribes which the Black Feather
an<l his band have leasoii to hate - bui'sts on the air.
'J'he faces of a dozen Indians turn gluistly pale, and
the old chief clutches his bow and hatchet an<l nuikes
a vain effort to arisi-. ,;

" Kise not, Black Feather. We will tight for you now
as you would for us. We will convey you to the river
cove, where you will be safe."

"Think you," and the old chieftjiin makes another
etlbrt to ari.se, and again falls back helpless — "think
y<ai that 1, wlio have so many times fought with my
noble band against the pi'oud Sti'ong Bow, and chased
him from our hunting-grounds; who led the noble
band when the treacherous Strong Bow, beaten and
driven back by us, Joine<l with the pale-face aiid drove

'BOOK OF WONDERS."

us from our rightful domain into this far-oft' region —
think you when my noble band has fought and bled
for me, that I would at the end turn coward, and let
them save my life at the expense of their own ? No !
My life is well nigh spent now. Escape !"

The war-whoop sounds louder. Strovig Bow and
his tribe are on the trail of Black Feather, and woe to
the little band and the brave chief under whom they
have fought so many times. The old chief is motioning
to his followei*s. They approach his couch.

"Escape!" he says, once more, and his voice sinks
into a whisper. "Escape while there is time. The
scalp of a dying Indian — e'en though a chief — will be
small satisfaction. The Great Spirit will protect me."

But the Indians do not stir. They will not leave
their chief. The war-whoop sounds louder, and the
look of deathly pallor of the Indians -has given way to
one of fierce determination.

Across the waters of the lake a canoe is being
pushed by two stalwart Indians. On the shore the
w\ld shrieks and yells of the baffled band of Strong
Bow rend the air. The canoe is beyond the reach of
their arrows, which they have at last ceased to throw.
See ! The canoe has reached the opposite shore, and
the two braves have landed. What is it they are
carrying ?

Back from the shore a grave is dug. The Indians
have reverently laid their old chief at rest, for it was
he that they bore. When Strong Bow and his band
had reached the camp of Black Feather, that old chief
had new life given him. As of old, he leaped ahead in
front of his valiant band, and fought as in the days
when he routed the pix)ud Strong Bow and drove him
from his hunting-grounds. As long as their chief
fought before them the band of Black Feather fought
like lions, but when he fell, into the very midst of the
right, there they rushed like lions with their young,
and out of the dozen braves who fought and bled for
their honored chief, two escaped, and hither have

I,': mi

''BOOK OF WONDERS."

lirought him across the placid lake to his woodland
siioie and buried him beneath the V»irche8.

No. 15.
We have reached the end of the "Book of Wonders."
On the last page is the poem, "The Long Ago," which,
though not the last of his productions^ having been
written in the September of 1887, serves as an appro-
priate finale to the book. The autograph at the bottom
of the poem is a wood -engraving, done by the author's
own hands. It was found among other wood-engravings
of his, in his "study." This is the poem :

THK LONG AGO.

We were sitting alone in the study, —

My dear old friend and I, —
And as we sat in the twilight,

A tear was in his eye.

We were talking of past recollections —

Of memories ever dear —
When the old man spoke unto me

In a low voice and not clear :

"To me there is nothing dearer
Than down memory's stream to row

In the boat of past recollections
To the Lake of Long Ago."

We were silent then for a little.

Thinking of former years,
Of the happiness of Ijoyhood,

When we knew not caie nor fears.

As the old man had said unto me,

On memory's stream we rowed,
And as I glanced o'er its waters

I saw that the river flowed

With a greater speed and volume

Than was its wont to do ;
And as I approached the mill flume

The waters look darkly blue.

As I glanced unto the westward

I saw a little boat,
With sails as white as the lilies

That on the waters float.

I looked again on the picture

My eyes to me had shown.
And as I looked upon it

It suddenly went down.

'40

BOOK OF WONDERS."

Mr.

And then I awoke from my vision
And glanced about the room ;

It had an icy coldness
And a chill, uncommon gloom.

I touched the old man's shoulder
And called him by his name ;

But I received no answer,

And the gloom warn just the same.

My dream had been a true one —
His boat had just gone down

In the waters of A'emoiy's Rivei',
For the spirit of life had tlown.

But 'twas received by a pilot '

From the City of the Blest,

And there 'tis liavened .safely
And forever is at rest.

1.1
. 1

* *

Thu "Hook of Wonders" is done. The last poem i>
written, the last sketch is pruiUMl. Tlie author has left
this land ot" joys and sorrows, pleasures and disappttint-
nients, and Jiis bright, genial pre.sence wi; miss. Hut
we only miss ; we d(j not iitourn. How can we mourn
when we know that owv loss is such gain to him :* And
what a time that nmst have been when the spirit, re-
leased at last from the sutt'erings of the body, reaclu^l
the jo^nms home where all is happiness I No, we do
not mourn. Hut, when wo think of the happy days that
were, when his bright companionship cheered us and
made the days pass more Joyously, and then think of
the days and months and years to follow in which, in
place of his companionship, will be a blank — oh, how
we misPi him ! ,»<;,., -i . ,• .., ■ . »

"Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still."

"May our decline," he writes, in his article on

BOOK OF WONDERS."

"Duvvn," "leave Ijehind a brilliant sky, and as the
.setting sun is only outrivalled in splendor by its rising,
let death come on unshielded against, for we know of
the glorious Dawn to come." Thus was the death of
Leslie Loring Davison. Death, by him, was looked
forward to with eagerness, or rather "the glorious
Dawn." As we sat about the }»ed during his last
hours, liste'uing eagerly to what he said and ministering
to his wants, his constant prayer was that he might
soon depart. "Pray," he said, "that 1 may soon go."
He kept looking and longing for the Pilot from the
other shore. At last when death came, and the spirit
was i-eleased, we were glad — glad for his sake — for we
knew

" It was received liy a I'ilot
From the City of tlie Blest,
And theie 'tis Iiavened safely
And forever is at rest.'"

P)i':x Zkexe.

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BY J.. L. DAVIS(JN.

CHAPTER I.

In the Office.

Pick, Pick, Pick.

Picking away at my case, stick in hand, and galley
in front of nie almost full. The clock's hands almost
forming a straight line as six o'clock hastened to take
the place of live. Yes, this was my last galley, and my
((uickly-filling stick would fill it at my next emptying.

Upstairs in a dim little office we worked, and by
the united efforts of the editor, — who also acted in the
capacity of compositor, pressman and foreman — Ben
Boyle and myself, the Niigget, a paper of six columns,
the local paper of Sanville, was ground out each week,
well-filled with patent medicine advertisements, selected
matter, and the little news that transpired in this
youthful metropolis.

There I had worked for nearly two yeai-s, thus
managing to get a living, and there it was that I heard
the saddest news in my life. It was the day before
we went to press, and after we had left for the night
I thought I would come back, and perhaps "catch up"
and get the paper off early. The sun had just gone
down, and the April moon was just rising above the
eastern hills, making a beautiful landscape. As I
approached the office I heard voices in.side, and soon
recognized the voice of the editor, who had doubtless
come on the same errand that I had.

He was talking by no means low to a man whom I
did not know, and as I was turning about to go back
I heard my name mentioned. I stopped to hear what

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AFAR.

he was talkin«ij about in which my imine would he
uttered. I cauglit the following' conversation :

"Dunje?" Wliy, yes : his nephew is workinof heiT. "

"What!"

"Yes! his ncpliew is working with me. You knew
Willian) Martell, the bif^ merchant up in Orinto ? Well,
when lie went on his voyage with his wife — you know
her health was all broken up, an<l he went on a vo3^age
with her to Sydney, Austi'alia, — they left the boy with
his cousin, Dume, until the}' returned — left money for
his education and all that, — but they never returned,
and 1 guess they never will, now ; and Dume, as you
said, isn't a very charitable man^ or honest either, I
might say, so he brought the lad down here two yeai's
ago to learn the pi'inting business, and he took posses-
sion of all the boy's money. Martell made a will before
he left, that if they should get shipwrecked or anything
should happen to them, that his property in Orinto
should be divided between his son and Dume, and a
pretty lai'ge property it was. Dume got it all into his
hands before they were gone a year, and some .say that
he contrived some way to get them shipwrecked,
although I scarcely believe that."

Then the convei'sation drifted to various topics, and
finally I heard the following :

"Well, Will, perhaps you could make sonjething out
of it, but I can't. I'll tell you what I ivill do. You
can have the paper for say two years, and pay me five
hundred. If at the end of that time you want to sell,
I'll buy out for two hundred, but if you don't you can
pay me five hundred more." - -^

After some talk a bargain was completed, and the
terms above decided on.

I had always liked the editor, for he seemed more
like a friend to me than any one else, unless it was my
old chum, Harry Monte. The editor was a young man
not more than twenty-five or six, and was liked by all,
but not enough to make them subscribe for his paper.
' ' Sanville was a good place to run a paper for fun,
but a pool" place to run one for profit. The people
were not of the class who thought that their local paper

AFAR

was doing more for tlieiii than all tlieir hoarded gold
that they had striven so many years to gain ; and it' a
man could borrow the paper every week of his nearest
neighbour before he himself had read it, it was no more
than what some of the Sanvillians did.

If you asked the greater part of these unknowing,
ungrateful farmers to subscribe for a paper, you would
invariably get the answer: "My darter in the States
sends me more'n I can read now."

More than they can read ! And what good would it
do then) if they read all the papers that their "darters"
and tlieir sons could send them? ^'ity dailies tilled
with crime and casualty ; cheap weeklies iille<l with
detective stories and lies ; miserable magazines of the
lower class, tilled with nonsense and advertisements.
I'hey would read the paper, though, read it every week
— if they could get it without paying for it, and use
this for an excuse. "More'n they can read now." No
wonder the young editor was discouraged ; no wonder
he wanted to try a new hand for the head.

The advertisers in Sanville were few ; two stores, a
blrtcksnjith shop, a carpenter's shop, and a grist mill,
were thc^ chief centres of business. There wasn't much
competition and conse(|uontly not niuch a<lvertising,
and so the editor had to trust to outside work and to
large advertisers, for the Sanvillians "didn't think it
pai<l to advertise."

I was walking down the street thinking to myself,
thinkintf and wonderin"; how I would like the new
editor; whethei' he wcnild employ any new help;
whether a "new dress" for thi! paper should be the
order, and so on ; and perhaps — yes, moi'e than likely
— as the Nvjf H't would change hands, there would also
lie other changes, new hands, new type, new everything,
would probably come in to take the place of the old
irr/lme. No more pleasant hours within the precincts
of the cosy and homelike office. N<j more would the
editor tell me that if it weren't for me he would find it
harder to get along. No more articles would perhaps
flow from my pen. But perhaps — and how I hoped it
might be so — perhaps the new editor would sell the

AFAR

paper again to the original owner, and once more, when
I had acquired a Croesian fortune, I would return again
to the village where my first money was earned, and
where I had conquered the first storm on the sea of
life ; where the memory of so many happy days put t
route the reminiscence of the stormy ones.

Perhaps there was to be a great change in my life
— which would it be, for better or for worse ?

I remembered the words of the editor to that
strange man in the office — "They never returned, and
I guess they never will now."

"Never will," — what pain these two words wrought
on my youthful heart. My mother and father would

never return again.

I would never see them again-

never again ;

How plainly could I remember the day they went
away, when they walked into the great dining-room
and told me that I must be a good boy ; that they
would soon be hack, and that when they came l>aek
mother would be well again. How I looked forward
to the time when they should return. But the days
grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the
months into years, and as the years fiew by I became
oMer and looked forward to their coining back more
longingly. And how I remembered when uncle Dume
told mo that my father and mother were lost and never
would return. How lonely I felt. The days were Uko.
weeks then, and the weeks as years.

I was only a little child when they left — only four
years old — gone twelve years I Yet how well I remem-
bei'ed the look on my mother's face on that sad day
when she was to sail on that "last long voyage," so my
fathei- had said ; and now I thought he was right — the
last long voyage she would ever take on earth — the last
long voyage before her voyage to the spirit land. 1
could not go with them, so the doctor had said, because
the worry and anxiety would only tend to make my
mother worse. And so I was left with uncle Dume.
Money was left to me, .so I learned afterwards, but this
must be considered as past.

As I was walking, little caring where, and thinking

1 't:

AFAR.

to myself, I heard the clock in the house near by strike
twelve. Could it be so late ? It seemed so short a
time. And so I retraced my footsteps, and soon was
seated in my own room. I lay down to sleep, but
everything came up before my mind so I could not
sleep. All the happy days of my life appeared and
passed as in a broad panorama. At last, however, 1
was dreaming that I was in the office again.

CHAPTER II.

Bad News .wd New Plans.

Monday morning dawned at length, and a beautiful
morning it was. The sun was not up so soon as I, and
not until I had had my morning walk did he put in
his appearance. After rambling through my favourite
pasture, looking at my "cane grove," where I had several
dozen canes growing in every design imaginable, I
turned my steps toward my breakfast board. After
disposing of my morning meal I left for the office as
usual.

Althougii being earlier tlian I was accustomed, the
editor was there before me, and as I entered the door I
saw him engaged in writing — "fixing up the books," he
said.

\V«' worked as usual that day — Ben and I, — but
shortly before 6 p. m. that strange man came in again,
and after talking lowly to the editor went down stairs.
'Twas then the editor told me that he wanted to see us
down sttiirs. So we went wonderingly down, little
dreaming what his business with us coukl be. He then
told us that the Nugget was to be changed, and to ef-
fect the change it would recjuire time. Therefore the
Niufget office would be closed from this day forward,
until everything was straightened up, and our services
were no longer recjuired — until further notice at least.

This was not much to Ben, as he had been planning
on going awaj?^ for the last three months, — but wouM
not untd he could get some one to take his place. ^

But

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to 1110, it iiii^ht iiioaii all. I had no tVit luls in all tho
broad world t(j care for mo — noiio to whom to <ro for
liolp. I had not yot loarnod my trado, and porhapstho
two yoars that I liad workod so hard mi^ht l)o of no
jj^roat uso. I did not j^o «lirectly hack to my hoardiiifi;-
houso as usual that night, hut strollod alon<:f tho stroot,
thinkinju' and tryiiitjf to plan for tho futur«j. After
walking along tho roa<l that lod to tho station for half
a milo, I turnod into my "cano grovo," and aftor r itting
down thoro for a fow minutos, J was startled l»y tho n^-
])ort of a gun, and in a socontl a nieo ])lump gooso foil
a littlo distanoo from mo. I jumpod to my foot, and
t'onfrontod Harry — my only friond, Harry Mont«', as
he oaiiu^ foi'ward to soouro his pri/c

"Ugh! Oh, you startlod mo!" v

"Not moro than you did mo, I gu<'ss, " said 1. i

"What aro you <loing horo anyway. Loo?"
"Just thinking," I answorod him; for in truth that
was all I was doing.

"A vory good placo to think, hut what aro you
thinking ahout anyway? Havo you gt>t somo new
invonti(jn?"

I soon oxpiainoil all to him, how J must go away
from tho fow chums and ac(|Uaintancos I had at San-
villo, aii<l how, ptM'haps, wo w<^uld novor so(! each other
again, when ho turnod my sadness and despondoncy
into mirth hy hroaking out with, —

"Well, what can't ho cured must ho endured, I
suppose ; I'm just as sorry as you are and perhaps a
shade sorrier. But I don't know\ I've got to go away
before June, for Crane is going away, and he says he's
going to give up the carpenter business, so -you and I
can stick together still perhaps.

Mr. Crane was a carpenter with whom Harry was
learning the carpenter trade, and he was going away !
Harry was in truth as badly ott' as I, for he had no
parents living either.

" Where will we go, Lee, anyway — to Port Moody ?"
"What on earth possessed you to tliink of Port
Moody ?" I asked him ; but he answered me with a
fact that he had never told me before.

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41)

"Oh, I was only t'ooHiij^. T just inontioned Port
Moody because Uncle Maurice — (litl you know I hail
an uncle ? — Uncle Maurice went to Port Moody just
hot'ore he went away to China, and perhaps some one
the)-e knows just where he went. He said he would be
liack in five years. That was just after father died,
but that was nearly ten years aga"

"But we haven't enough money to go away out
there," I reminded him. "I oidy have Hfty dollars,
and that wt)uldn't be much in clothes, board and train
fare to Port Moody."

"That's so, Lee, I haven't as much as you, but we
could work our way there, couldn't we ? I don't care
where we go, though. I can get on anywhere, I guess,
and I'll go /|ust where you say."

I answered him, "Port Moody," for I knew that it
was the place "to his heart dear."

Then time for starting, clothes to take, etc., was
decided on, and the time for our departure from San-
ville was no further distant than the following Monday.
This was Monday. Only one short week in which to
prepare for our long journey. Only one short week to
bid good-bye and purchase our little needs for the
travel.

It was our intention to go until we saw any
prospects of earning anything, and then to try our
hands at what presented itself, and after earning suffi-
cient money to start for the point which we had first
ilecided on.

Saturday came only too soon, and then a pic-nic on
the lake a mile from Sanville, given by Mr. Crane as
a farewell token of esteem, made us forget our sad
news as well as our new plans f(jr the future.

CHAPTER III.

On the Journ^ey.

Monday morning's sun rose in due time, and as fine
a day as ever dawned followed its rising.

Harry and I were up that morning long before sun-

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AFAE.

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rise — making ready for the great day to us. The sun
was just rising as we left Sanville for the station, and
in the east its rays extended in all directions, reddening
and gilding the sky ; and shining on the last night's
looking-glasses, made them look like nets spun by
fairy looms. The road-sides were lined with butter-
cups and daisies, and across the road in the fields they
look'3>i like silver and gold.

The train left our station at 6.30, and the short
drive of nearly a mile was soon ended. Just as our
tickets were safely in our pockets, the brazen-banded
engine blew its warning blast, and, whirling along the
iron track, was soon ready for us to board. A half an
hour later our last farewell was said, and we wore
whirling along a good fifty miles an hour. The first
two hours driving was thoroughly enjoyed, but it soon
grew monotonous, and we were heartily glad when tlu'
time for "turning in" came.

The next morning we were in a ditt'erent kin<] of
country from the one we had left. Instead of tlie little,
sleepy, one-horse town of Sanville, great cities were
passed every now and then. Platforms loaded witli
men, women and children, and excitement and Imstle
was in lieu of Sanvillian sleepiness.

I should have lik 1 ^^o have tried my hand in one
of these cities, but Harry "didn't think umch of them, '
he .said. He was anxious for the broad, undulating
prairies, witii the grass growing tall and spotted with
new settlements.

The next morning the scene was changed again.
Instead of gijint cities, broad fields met the eye. The
farms and houses near the track were passed wivliout
our getting more than a glance, while those further ofi'
and on the hill that extended the length of the tract
for miles, we could distinctly see. Snugly-built houses
Surrounded on every side by cultivated fields, while
ba^'ns of enormous proportions stood in the background
wiil^ stacks of hay leaning on them as if for support ;
flocks of poultry cackling and crowing as the train
went by, and pretty little gardens filled with early
vegetables, all reminded the stranger of Ivome, and

AFAR.

made him feel like v/alking ip and sharing their
comtortablen ess.

The nif;ht was quickly descending as the train blew
its warning whistle for the next station, and as the
conductor popped his head in the car door and shouted
"Orint-o," dwelling long on the final o, Harry thought
this a good place for our first trial, and so we left the
train for the night, hoping that Orinto might have
something in store for us.

After making arrangements with the station agent
to take care of our valises, we walked up to a home-
like-looking farm-house to see if we could get a night s
lodging, and look around town on the morrow.

Two great barns with eaves almost reaching the
ground stood to the north of the house, and in front,
in place of the pretty little flower-gardens we have in
the East, was a garden of radishes, cabbages, cucumbeis
and such, and as I caught sight of cucumbers already
large enough for use, I was hungrier than e\er.

After knockirg at the back door, which was an-
swered by a kindly-looking woman, Harry asked if we
might get a tea and a night's lodging, to which question
he was peculiarly answered by another question,—

"Where are you from ?"

After satisfying her curiosity as to our whereabouts,
I answeretl that we were from the East.

She said something about a "Yankee agent cheating
her once," but finally told us to "walk in."

"How much would you charge," I asked, hoping to
get a better answer than did Harry, "to give us a tea
and a night's lodging?"

"Oh, we'll see," said she. "There's no one home
but me," she went on, "and if you think you could
milk our cows, I'll give you as good a supper as ever
you eat, and a bed too. Robert went away to town
with old Nole, and I don't believe he'll be home to-
night, for it's getting dark right quick."

After acquainting her with the fact that her propo-
sition was most gratifying to us, I asked for the milk
pails, which were handed to us.

AFAR

CHAPTER IV.

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A Cow Advextuhe.

Harry and I were delighte^l with our touch of
Westei'n t'anu life as we lifted the great latciies on the
liarn where the cowh were kept. There stood two as
Hue-looking specimens of the bovine family as ever
chewed a cud. Yes, then; were two of them — one
apiece for us. The elder (at least I supposed it was)
was a brindle co>v with evenly-shaped horns, looking
like the ribs of the buffalo, and with dark, mild-looking
eyes. She had probably spent a good many summers
in this soiTowing world, and she looked as though her
family were scattered beyond the regions of which
her voice could them all once more re-assemble. She
looked as if she had seen a great deal of, and therefore
knew how to sympathize with, trouble, for she had a
careworn look on her brow, which was (juite gray.
Harry wisely picked for this cow. I would rather
have taken her, but I wasn't the one to say so. I said
not a word.

The other cow was a younger-looking creature.
She was not out of her teens, 1 should judge by look-
ing at her. She ha<l a white face, and four small wiry
legs, and a tail of dark brown color. The fire of youth
was in her eyes and the dexterity of lightning in her
legs. Of course this cow fell to me. It wasn't just
the cow I should have picked on had I been at a
country fair, but it wasn't the Jivfit evil-looking cov/
that I had ever milked, and it wasn't in me to object.
Harry called out to me that he had that cow nearly
inilked, and that she was "a splendid milker," So,
fearing that he would be done first, I proceeded to
milk. I quickly caught the niilking-stool, and sitting
it down al)out two feet from the cow, began drawing
it nearer.

As I approached the cow, she shrank l)ack further
and further until she could go no farther unless she
went through the side of the barn, which she didn't
seem incline<l to do, for she came to a sudden halt.

Ill

AFAR

• touch of
hes on the
)0(l two as
ly as ever
them — one
;ecl it was)
ns, looking
ild-looking
,y summers
though her
s of which
,H\ble. She
id therefore
r she had a
quite gray,
ould rather
y so. I said

ng creature.
Ige by look-
r small wiry
tire of youth
itning in her
wasn't just
I been at a
■looking cov/
me to object.
t cow nearly
milker." So,
proceeded to
)l, and sitting
gan drawing

l)ack further
er unless she
ich she didn't

sudden halt.

Tlien I gained on her, and as I wa.s within a fow ftn-t
of her I noticed in her right eye the pupil expand
and a look of determination, resolve and liberty-t)r-
death take the place of the look of nurth that she had
when I first approached her. She looked unruly. I
said "so" in somewhat the same tone that an angry
tailor might say to a lazy apprentice, and I guess she
thought she was the apprentice, for of all the motions
she went tlirough I never saw anything to compare
with them.

I had heard somewhere that by placing one's head
against the cow's thigh-bone it would prevent her frouj
kicking. I tried the experiment — but I forgot the rest,
or else I never knew. Anyway, when I came to, 1
heard Harry telling that woman that it was a pity her
pail got broken, never mentioning the teeth I had lost
in the accident. He helped me up, though, and then
the woman who had been so near my personal destruc-
tion apologized by saying that she forgot about the
heifer, and that "Robert always tied up her legs to
keep her from kicking, as she had a sore teat."

But I politely refused to have any further dealings
with a cow that had used me the way she had used me,
and that I guessed she would be all right till her hus-
band came home. She complied, and then we left foi'
the house where our host set a sumptuous suppei*
V)efore two as hungry boy."< as ever "milked a cow."
Nine o'clock saw us snugly asleep in our bed, sleeping
as sweetly as any maltese kittens.

CHAPTER V

Oh INTO.

The next morning was beautifully tnie, and aftoi-
eating our breakfast anil milking the old cow, an.l
gratefully thanking the woman who had been so kind
to us, we starte<l for the town of Orinto. It W'.iS oidy
a few minutes' walk, and we were soon in the nearest
store, a (piite large grocery store. I asked the clerk,

rift

r^^

'^ — r

I-. ill

li *

!■■' ' '

¥i >i liliii!'

' i i!

i; '

111 II i
Hi

AFAR

! if !
iiiiii

•

1 \

'li

for he was the only person in at that early hour, if
there was any newspaper published there. He an-
swered in the affirmative, and directed me to a large
building a little distant.

Harry and I walked towards it, and soon read the
sign "Journal Office." We walked in, but the editor
was not yet there ; and after asking one of the com-
positors how they were off for hands, he answered me
that two of their compositors had recently left and
were starting a paper at Sanville.

I felt quite elated over this, as I was pretty sure of
getting a situation on the Journal. Soon after this
the editor came in, and after a short consultation with
him in his own office, telling him how it happened that
I had left the Nugget office, he said he would give me
n trial, and that I could come as soon as I liked.

I was all right now, for I knew I could suit him ;
but with Harry it was difterent. We went up to the
farm-house again to see if I could get any board there,
and after making a successful bargain went down to
the station for our valises.

Then we looked for work for Harry. But there
weren't many carpenters there, and what were there
weren't very busy.

But Harry wasn't one to give up and sit down and
wish he hadn't come ; but going up to the book-store
he bought a copy of the Toronto Neivs, and wanted me
to go up to my room while he looked over it.

After seating himself, he took up the News, and
pointing to the "Help Wanted" colunm, asked me to
connuence at the bottom and read up. After reading
of help wanted in nearly everv^ line of business except
carpentering, I caught a <; of one headed "A

Carpenter," in which it stated that a carpenter was
wanted who had recently learned the trade. Horry
was jubilant over this, and wanted to start right off;
but after thinking that I couldn't go, his high spirits
were somewhat crushed.

But a little talk soon reminded him that we could
nut be always together, and he then said, as though it
was the last journey he ever expected to make, "Well,

AFAR

y hour, if
. He an-
te a large

»n read the
the editor
)f the com-
iswered me
y left and

etty sure of
1 after this
itation with
ppened that
uld give me
Uked.

id suit him ;
at up to the
board there,
ent down to

But there
t were there

sit down and
le book-store
id wanted me
rit.

he Neivs, and
asked me to
After reading
Lisiness except
,e headed "A
carpenter was
trade. Horry
start right off;
is high spirits

that we could
d, as though it
o make, "Well,

I suppose we can write to each other, and you can come
up once in a while.

We then went down to the station to inquire when
the first train for Toronto would leave. After receiving
the answer that it would leave the following morning,
we left again for our boarding-house, where our dinner
was awaiting us.

The afternoon was spent in rambling through Orinto,
and after we had taken Harry's valise to the station it
was tea tlnK;.

Robert had come home in the meantime, and we
didn't milk that night. We went to bed early, and as
I was almost asleep I heard Harry say :

"Please give me a ticket for Toronto !"

CHAPTER VI.

' Harry's Departure.

The next morning before breakfast Harry and I
were up, and after the very scanty breakfast which we
ate were on the way to the station. The train came in
shortly after our arrival, and soon "good-bye" was .said
and Harry was on his lonely journey.

I walked slowly from the station to the Journal
(jffice, and as I got there the editor of that paper was
just entering the office. After a little conversation he
handed me some "copy," and set me to work at a case
of I tourgeois, setting locals. li' ; ■

The forenoon was a pretty busy one, and the com-
positor next me said he was "glad I came," for there
was lots of work for us all. '^Ihere were oidy two of
us, and it was "press day," and running off' even a small
edition of a newspaper on a "Washington" press is no
easy task. I did the "niking," as I had done in the
Nuf/ijet office, but the edition was larger, and I was
([uite tired before they were all off! v

At last the day's work was done and the clock
struck six, and I was soon walking in to supper in my
new home. The sun was nearly down, and in the west

■^ \' I

J.' P\

n r

AFAR

! I

itt- rays reddened nearly the whole sky. Far away in
the little village to the east its rays were reflected l»y
the windows, and made it look as though they wei-e
on fire.

Fanner Doueet was coming from the barn with two
buckets filled with new rich milk, and his hospitable
wife was in the garden picking some of the finest
cucumbers for our tea. I went up to my room, but
before I got to work writing I heard the old-fashioned
born blow in the kitchen below, summoning us to the
evening meal.

Well, I remember that meal. It was the best supper
I have eaten since I can remember. Bread, though
not the whitest, was as sweet and moist as ambrosia ;
cucumbers — oh, cucumbers ! whenever I think of those
cucumbers it makes me hungry again. But they were
ffood, I can tell you.

Shortly after tea Mr. Doueet started up and saiil he
was going to the post-office. In a few minutes back
he came again looking excited as possible, and ex-
claimed, "Burglars !"

"What!" screamed his wife.

"Yes, burglars busted into Smith's store in Drapd^n
last night, and some one said he saw some suspicion ■«-
looking characters there this morning. Say," said he,
looking at me, "will you watch with me to-night /
They'll be here the first place they strike, and by the
jabars if they come within my sight I'll rivet 'em with
bullets till their own mothers won't know 'em."

After this direful threat, he went up and took down
both his guns and put a bullet in each. I daren't refuse
him. I told him he could depend on me.

What a night that was ! We took for our watching
place the roof of a little porch, and from there we couM
see in nearly every direction. The seven stars of the
Dipper showed clearly out, and Cassiopeia had gone t< »
sleep in her chair. The Milky Way had drifted pretty
well around to the west, and the old farmer was to the
east.

We watched and waited, but up to 11 o'clock no
loungers came. We nodded and yawned. One o'clock

AFAB.

canie, but no burglars put in an appearance. We slept
and

"Hark! what was that?" I asked the old fanner;
but he was already tlying with gun in hand, yelling as
he went : "Them burglars ! them durned burglars '." I
followed him down the road. Just as we were oppo-
site the store wherein Harry and I had stopped on the
day of our arrival at Orinto, two lonely figures rushed
past us. The farmer jumped, and before he could get

"You miserable " something out of his mouth, was

shut up by one of them pointing a revolver in his face.
Bang! it went, but it glanced and struck my gun.
Bang! again, anci the bullet wasn't in Mr, Doucet's
gun. But I guess this too was a poor shot, as he ran
ort' like "the roe when he hears in the woodland the
voice of the huntsman."

Soon a gang of a dozen or so men surroundecJ us,
asking questions and swearing, when the owner of the
store rushed in and opened the door. We all ran in,
and, after going into his office, saw what the burglars
had done. The door of the safe was lying flat on the
floor, and paper and books were scattered round about.
But they had only got a very little booty, as the mer-
chant said there wasn't more than five or ten dollars
therein. We were just about leaving when one of the
men picked up a penknife with "Harris Murphy"
etched on the escutcheon. That settled it. On the
point was a little black substance which one of the
crowd said was dynamite, but I do not think it was.

The people of Orinto got abundance of excitement
that night, and the next week an editorial appeared in
the Journal explaining who Murphy was, etc., for he
was one of that class of people who "left his country
for his country's good." He was an Orintonian.

CHAPTER VII.

Hauuy's Letter.

Ahout a week after Harry's departure I went to
the office as usual for a letter from him, as he had not

•- -J- . W M- ■! ■■■■

iii M ' I I

AFAR.

written since he left. To my delight, after my knock,
was handed me an envelope with my name in unmis-
takable characters, and the post-mark, "Toronto, June
4, p. m., Canada." I knew the writing, and it wasn't
long before I was reading : —

"Dear Old Lee: —

" I got here safe and sound on Friday morning.
I had a splendid ride up, and wasn't near as tired as when we got off
tlie train at Orinto. After I arrived at Toronto, I went as quick as
my feet could carry me, as I didn't want to spend any more money
than I could help on street cars, to Mr. Godey's carpenter establish-
ment ; but you can hardly imagine my disappointment when he
cahnly informed me that the position was filled yesterday — had had
a dozen applications. Well, I didn't know what to do. 'A stranger
in a strange place,' sure enough. I went down to a restaurant to get
a bite, when a man came in and asked the proprietor if he knew of
any one he could get to help him — said he had a rush of business. I
heard them talking about drawers and such, and I started up and
asked him if he was a carpenter. He said he was a kind of a one,
and I asked liim if he would hire me. He wanted to know if I ever
worked at carpentering, and at what kind. On my answering him
' house carpentering,' he said I wouldn't be worth a 'baw-bee' to him
— he wanted a cabinet-maker. I was disappointed again. After my
lunch was through I walked out again. As I was walking down a
little lane I ran acrbss a shop with windows, sashes and doors in the
windows. I ran in and asked the proprietor if he wanted to hire a
hand. He^said he guessed not. I told him I would work cheap and
good. He thought a while, and after a little talking and reckoning
to himself, said he would give me a trial. I get my board — I board
with him — and two dollars a week. I am svjiting him pretty well, I
guess, for he says he may increase my wages soon.

" Have you milked the heifer since I left ? and how is everything
on the farm ? I was very sorry to hear of the burglary in Orinto ;
bu; how did you happen to be around at that unseemly hour? It
looks kind of suspicious, I think. Mr. Joky — he's the carpenter I'm
working with — says I can go down to Orinto in a month and stay,
perhaps, a week.

'* Well, I'm awfully hard up for time, and I'll have to stop.

Write soon.

" Your old friend,

"Harry Monte."

After reading my letter carefully, I foWed it up and
put it in my pocket. I then started for the office. I

III !;

AFAR.

knock,
unmis-
io, June
i wasn't

f morning.

we got off
BIS quick as
lore money
establisli-
it when he
yr— had had
» A stranger
arant to get
: he knew of
business. I
rted up and
ind of a one,
low if I ever
swering him
iv-bee'tohim
n. After my
liking down a
I doors in the
ited to hire a
ork cheap and
Mid reckoning
oard— I board

pretty well, I

w is everything
ary in Orinto ;
3mly hour ? It
e carpenter I'm
[lonth and stay,

I have to stop.

aY MONTK."

(led it up and
the office. I

met Frank Hue on the way for the same destination,
and he wanted me to go over to his house in the even-
ing, as he was going to be alone. I told him that
w(juld be impossible, but asked him to come over to
my room. After a little he said he would. Then we
set to work, and soon came six o'clock. We walked
out, and as we were just around the building Frank
startled me by whispering, " Hark ! I thought I heard
some one whisper." We listened, but could hear nothing,
so we started on.' We spent a very enjoyable evening,
and at ten o'clock Frank was on his way for home and
I tucked up in bed trying to get asleep. But somehow
or other sleep wouldn't come to me. You may think it
was because of my troubled conscience, and I must
admit it looked as though I had something to do with
the fjreat disaster that soon will follow in this short
story ; but I can assure you I did not.

CHAPTER VIII.

I HAD just got into a nice little nap on the night
above mentioned, when I was rudely vawakened by the
proprietor of my boarding-house. He looked just as
he did on the night of the burglary — his eyes nearly
us big as saucers.

"The world's afire! Get up! Get up!" And with
this he rushed down stairs in his shirt sleeves, running
for the village. ^ got up and looked out. Yes, there
was unntistakaiL, / a fire. The Journal office and a
large building adjoining were in flames ! I rushed out
of bed, and dressed as hurriedly as ever I did. In two
minutes I was down to the Journal office.

The fire by this time was rapidly spreading, and the
whole town was as light as day. Sparks and cinders
were falling all around us — a perfect storm of Hre.
The roof of a house on the other side of the street was
soon in flames and smoke, and the road in front was
tilled with household goods and half-crazed men and
women. Great sheets of fire burst from the buildings

il ^

AFAB.

Ii:.i; ■ .1

!': Mil

Bits of tlie root's of houses and stores sailed across the
1 sky — borne on the wings of the 'roaring south wind.
A little rain was beginning to fall, but its eti'ect on the
tire was as a single grain of sand to wreck a train.
The sky that an hour ago was as clear and tranquil as
a lake, was now alive with great fiery sparks and
flashes with a background of dark smoke, " Fire! Fire !"
burst from hundreds of lips. Oh, terrible lire ! But of
what use would all this flame be if divided into proper
proportions to the freezing inhabitants of this great
country when the chill blasts of winter bluster the
treacherous snow over all, and to the poor strangers
who are caught in the death-dealing blizzards !

By this time nearly the whole village was in flames,
and it was difficult to get from one end to the other.
To the east a large white cloud spread its delicate folds
(jver the horizon, and the large stare were the only ones
visible in the sky. Soon the golden rays of the June
sun began to show themselves ; but what a dreary scene
its harsh face would look on this day ! Only yesterday
it shone on the pretty little village, with its happy in-
habitants, surrounded with its green maples and ashes,
and here and there a little garden with its patches of
green vegetables and herbs ; but to-day the same sun
must see many blackened, smoking ruins of where once
assembled the family around the yule-log, or where
they gathered to hear the head of the family reading
from some favorite book.

But it would not be interesting to dwell on the sad
scene, so I will leave it to the imagination of the reader.

A great tent was pitched the following day for the
shelter of the furniture that was saved, and also for the
shelter of the unfortunate ones who were rendered
homeless by the tire.

The old farm-house on the hill, by which poetical
name I like to remember the old place now, was spared
by the much-demanding flames for some other fate, and
the old farmer and his hospitable wife did a bountiful
share in relieving the poor and hungry sufferers. But
what was there now in Orinto for me ? I could do
naught but spend money, and this I certainly could not

AFAR.

•OSS tlu'
li wind.
t on tlu'
a train,
mquil ixs
rks aivl
e! Fire!"
But of
,o proper
his great
uster the
strangers

in flames.

the other.

icate folds
only ones

f the June

•eary scene
yesterday
happy hi-
and ashes,
patches of

e same sun
where once

y, or where

Sily reading

il on the sad
i the reader.
r day for the
[I also for the
n-e rendered

hich poetical
iv, was spared
ther fate, and
d a bountiful
iflerers. But
' I could do
inly could not

afford to do. So I decided on going once more to visit
Harry, and perhaps he could help me once more. Pack-
ing my little property in my trunk, I took it down to
the station, — or rather what was the site of the station,
fur it was now in fishes, — in tlie farmer's best truck
timt night, preparatory for an early start the next

morning.

CHAPTER IX.

Another Disaffointmext.

Ix the morning the smoke of the fire was dispersed,
and the clear air seemed healthful to breathe once more.
I got up early that morning. The train came in due
time, and before an hour I was travelling through a
strange country to me. Toronto was reached ere long,
and I hastened my steps to the place where Harry's
address directed me. I opened the door of the little
establishment on which the number of the street was
painted, and entering, asked one of the employees
if Harry Monte worked there.

"He did work here, but not now," came the answer.

"Where is he now?" I asked, fearing the worst.

"I dunno," was the rather brief answer, so I in-
([uired for the manager. I was directed to a little office
in the end of the establishment, and entered to find
Harry's old employer seated at his desk writing.

"Good day," said ho, as I entered, in a rather pleas-
ing and affable manner.

"Good day. Does Harry Monte work in your
establishment?" I asked.

"No; he did, but not now," was his answer, which
was also brief.

What is it ? I asked myself. Why doesn't he answer
me a little definitely ?

I questioned him still further :

"Where is he now ?"

"Don't know."

"Do you object to telling me for what reason he
left?"

AFAR

! ' i

He looked at me, surprised, and asked me if I was
any relation to him. I told him we were no reiation —
only friends.

"Well," said he, "Harry was a good boy to work —
wouldn't want better; but boys differ, you know. I
have only two employees now, and last week this time
I had four. Yes, well, don't be uneasy, and you'll see
how it happened. You see this safe here ? Well, that's
what caused the trouble ; and it was kind of my fault
too. I left it unlocked the other night, and I don't
know what I could have been thinking of, for it was
the first time in my life I ever did such a thing. One
morning last week as I came down, I went to get some
money out of the safe, and I put my hand in my pocket
for my key ; but just as I did so I saw that the door
wasn't shut quite to. I took hold of the knob hero,
and, sure enough, it was unlocked. I looked to see if
any money was missing, and there, as sure as you live,
was a pile of bills I put in there the day before — over
a hundred — mi.ssing. I didn't say anything first about
it, but was bound to find out. That was Saturday
morning. Things all went quietly that day, and Harry,
I thought, worked better than usual. Saturday night
came around, and I went to pay off the hands, I called
each one separately into my office to pay them, and the
last one was Harry. I paid him two dollars a week
then, but as I didn't have anything smaller than a five-
dollar bill, I asked him to change it. He pulled out his
wallet, remarking that he had lots of small bills now,
and handed me three one-dollar bills. Yes, as sure as
you're born, there was one of the very bills that was
missing, foi' I remembered the tear as I counted them
the day before. And then I thought what he said
about 'plenty of small bills,' and I laid the theft to him
right there and then. I told him about the robbery,
and how sorry I was that he turned out to be so un-
grateful for my kindness to him. He said he was
sorry that I should suspect him of such a thing, and
protested that he did not commit the theft. But I
wasn't going to listen to anything like that from him,
— for was there not the bill as plain as need be ? — so I

AFAR.

was
on —

)rk—

w. 1
i time
'U see
thai'^^
r fault
L don't
it was
. One
it some
pocket
he tlooi"
)b here,
bo see it'
^ou live,
•e — over
st about
;aturday
d Harry,
ay night
I called
\, and the
■s a week
lan a five-
ed out his
bills now.
as sure as
s that was
nted theni
it he said
heft to him
le robbery,
3 be so un-
aid he was
, thing, and
left. But I
,t from hmi,
id be ?— so I

told him that his services were no longer needed. He
never said a word, but went right out, and I've never
seen him since. But I've repented it before this, for
that miserable, lying, ungrateful thief of a Donnel, as
mean a rogue as ever stepped, took that money, and I
expect he got Monte to give him some large bills for
the smaller ones. I found it out three days after
Harry left, but before I secured the thief he was gone.
I'd give another hundred if I could find out where
Harry is, for I believe he was honest as he was clever. "

This conversation ende<l as a gentleman came in,
and I left the building where Harry had worked so
hard, and been falsely accused, with a feeling not un-
like anger at his old employer who had taken such
hasty steps in his dismissal.

Alone again. Little money and no knowledge (jf
the whereabouts of the only friend on earth, I was
indeed in a rather pitiable position.

An immigrant train was to leave Toronto on the
following day for the North-west, and I thought, in my
folly, that possibly Harry had gone to the place where
he had said his only relative lived — Port Moody. So,
by taking this train, I could get half-way to that place
at a much lower cost than by going in any other, so the
next day saw me, together with hundreds of homeless,
friendless pilgrims, going to the great wheat country,
where they anticipated employment in reaping and
harvesting the great crops of the Western farmers.

The train moved fast, no doubt, but it seemed so
slow to me then, and it was a long, long journey. But
soon the train was lessened, and only a. few cars re-
mained. I got out at a place where not another thought
it a suitable place for their labor, but of which I liked
the appearance.

It was only a little hamlet — only about half a dozen
houses within a two-mile radius. I don't know what
put it into my head to get out at this secluded spot, but
it seemed to me then as though I had started out on
purpose for this destination.

My money was down almost into cents, and I
thought that perhaps I might get work in helping the

w/mm

WWT/^'W

AFAR

a large
mowing

fanners harvest their abundant crops. I went up to
the first house I arrived at, and asked the woman who
came to the door it* her husband wanted to employ any
lielp. She told me she guessed not, but directed me to
field, where I could see several men at work
and reaping — a quarter of a mile away. I
walked over to where I was directed, and asked the
first man that I met if he knew of anyone who wanted
any farm help. He answered me that they did the day
before, but that morning he had employed two men,
who had walked nearly five miles for the job.

"But," he added, "John Small — he lives in that big
white house over there — told me Sunday he wanted to
get a man. I don't know whether he has got one yet
or not."

I thanked him for his direction, and went on my
way to the romantic-looking farm-house over the way.
The day was nearly done. The heat of the day had
abated in a large degree, and the farmers in the fields
along the road were taking advantage of the short cool
part of the day by giving more energy to their work.

The long steel rails ran parallel with the little road,
and stretched far and far to the west, the parts at my
feet shining and sparkling in the rays of the setting
sun — running close beside each other until it looked as
though they were blended into one in the distance. An
incoming train was barely visible far away to the west,
and the little curls of smoke that silently crept upward
to the clouds ; Mid it slowly but surely was creeping up
to the town. Soon it dashed by me, shortly to stop at
the little station a half-a-mile further on.

I soon was at the little gate in front of the house I
was going to, and walking up the little path lined with
rhubarb plants and garden herbs, I knocked at the
front door. The knock was answered by an old man
who, I should judge from appearances, had reached the
allotted age of three score years and ten. I asked him
if he wanted to hire any help, and he answered me by
taking me by the arm and leading i e in. He then
asked me where I was from, my name, age, and a dozen
or more other (juestions, all of which I answered him

AFAR.

and all of wliieh he seemed to turn over in hi.s mind as
though to remember. Answering in the affrmative his
question if 1 was hungiy, he went into the large pantry
and brought out cakes, milk, honey, hiead and butter,
etc., and an appetizing meal was spread out on the
table. Then he l)ade me to help myself, while he took
Ins cane and went out. It was a puz/le to m(}, why he
should be so kind to me — a stranger.

Soon /le returned and told me that Mr. Small wouhl
be in soon and see whether I would suit or not. In a
few minutes the farmer came in, and in a jovial way
asked me if I was a farmer. I told him I wanted to
raise money to take me away to another town, and
conse(juently would work at anything, adding that the
printer's trade was my "strong point."

He told me that he was short of help, and that
probably there was a storm coming, and that lie would
hire me for a week and see what I could do.

Well, the week was one of liard work, but was
thoroughly enjoyed by me. The farmer said I woiked
very well, and so I staid with him (|uite a time.

(m AFTER X.

The BiJzzAUD. •

Christmas passed, and the winter was before us.
Still I was "on the farni," and Mr. Small said if I
wanted to stay M'ith him till spring, when I could get
into an office, he would give me my board for my work
which offer I refused. He then bettered his offer b^
saying that he would give me my board and a few
dollars a month. I accepted his otter, and the twenti<'th
of January saw me there — in a bad situation.

Mr. Small, the farn)er, had always been a healthy
man, so he told me, but January that year was a very
trying one for anyone at least su.sceptible to colds, and
poor Mr. Small having got his feet wet one fine, warm
da}', and neglecting to give tliem propel- cai'c, a bad
cold was soon in liis possession, which led to a seN'ere

'W.

AFAR

attack of rheuiiiatisui. After nearly every remedy
known l>y him and the old n)an, — who, I learned after-
ward, was living in this strange and secluded spot
writing a work on the inhabitants of the prairies, —
had been tried, they both thought it advisable to have
a doctor. So the next morning saw me on the way for
the doctor, who lived nearly twenty miles distant.

The morning dawned clear and V)right, and the sun
shining on the frosty but scanty sn<)w-«lrifts, looked
like diamonds. It was just the morning for a prairie
scene to be portrayed rm canvas by a master artist.

"Uncle Maurice," as the farmer called the old nian,
and which name I had also adopte<l, had the horse
saddled and at tlu; door by the time my l>reakfast was
eaten : and seeing me safely in the saddle, and giving
me no small amount of advice about loads, etc., I was
on my journey.

It was the first journey I had ever made on the
prairie outside of the train, and although I was glad to
see the country, I felt kind of "skittish" on going it
alone. The morning was indeed fine, and the roads
could not be bett«r. About two or three inches of
snow was on the ground, outside of the fields and
smooth tracts, where the stifl' breezes had blown it off!
After going about five miles the sun shone less brightly,
and a cloutl or two were gathering quickly in the west.
These, though white and feathery at first, were grow-
ing larger an<l darker very rapidly.

I rode on (|uicker, and the horse, turning to the
v/est, with «listort(Ml nostrils, gave a plunge and a leap,
and away it went — twenty miles an hour its rate
seemed to me. Although I had but ridden verv little
on horse-back, and conse(|uently was not nn expert, I
did not attempt to rein it in, for I could plainly see
that a storm was rising. The gentle spring-like breeze
had turnetl into a l)oisterous gale, and only a few more
njiles were crossed by Mohawk's speedy feet, when —
it seemed instantly — all the clomls of heaven burst and
fell in the form of snow, blustere<l and drifterl by the
unittid winds of all the points of the comj)ass.
,v The fine, hail-like snow tilled my eyes, and the

A FA R.

horse broke to a swift gallop for a wood of spruces,
and within its precincts it stopped, with eyes looking
wild and large. I dismounted, and suddenly the horse
left me and dashed for the open field, ami the next
time I saw it it was in the stable. The wind, tlumgh
blowing like a tornado t)utside, was less severe in the
shade of the little forest, and T was much better off'
than had the horse gone straight ahead.

I found a little nocjk between two great boulders,
with trees on every side, which made me a safe, though
not very ccjmfortable retiring place, and soon "nature's
sweet restorer" was at my hand.

CHAPTER XI.

(lUEATER LoVP: H.V'I'H NO M.vx.

"The wind is rising fast, and I fear wc; are going
to have a storm," said "Uncle Maurice" to farmer Small,
as he took him in a cup of ginger-tea of his own manu-
facture. "I wish," he went on, "that I'd g<me for the
doctor myself. I'm afraid he'll have a bad time of it. '

Soon the wind was blowing a hurricane, and the
snow drifting and blusteiing so as to prevent one from
seeing a yard before him.

" I'll have to go for that I loy ," again " Uncle Maurice "
addressed the invalid farmer, "for if he gets out there
on the prairie where he doesn't know the way he is
going, he's gone for it. You can take care of yourself,
can't you, John, for I must go out and see if I can find
the boy ?"

"Oh no: you'll get lost yourself," returned the
farmer, "and probably the boy is there by this time."

"But there can't be any risk about it," said the old
man, "I always took a liking to the boy, for he remind-
ed me of njy own nephew, and as like as not he's out
there now — half smothered in th(> storm. I miiM go,
and I'll take old 'Gray' with me."

"Old (}ray" was soon .saddled, and the old man, who

:'M

AFAR.

had braved so iiuiiiy stoniis, — who had vveatht'icd so
many of life's troubles, — went out on this life-saving
errand. After a journey of a mile or tw^^ a horse,
saddled, rushed past him at an almost lightning speed,
and this made the old man urge his rlesperatt; beast to
a still greater speed.

The wind rises ! The snow thickens ! It darkens 1
The beast falls !

Drearily howds the wind, and the sun is clouded.
Soon the wind lessens. The snow becomes less thick,
"^rhe sun's rays peer faintly (Jut through its lair (jf
clou<ls. The wind goes down.

Far over the l)road expanse of the })rairie one can
see nothing but the earth clothed in the beautiful white,
spotless snow, smoothing every irregularity on the road
or field, lightening the darkness caused by the sun's
(juick descension and brightening "all things of earth."

The sun goes down, and silence, sweetly silence
reigns o'er all.

The next morning 1 woke up an<l saw the sun
shining brightly. I walked out into the level and
saw that the day was beautifully tine. I turned my
hea<l toward the direction I had started for, and saw a
team on the road. I walked rapidly on and soon was
up to it. 1 asked the driver if that was the roa<l to
the doctor's. Hi; replied in the aftii'inative, so I went
on.

I reached the doctor's house, l)ut wuis ttjld l>y tiie
maid who came to the doov that the doctor was away
visiting a patient several miles distant. I left word
for him to go to Mr. Small's as soon as possible, and
started on my long walk back again.

I reached the farm-house about dusk and entered
the door. But the old man whom I ha<l jjot used to
look for Hr.st. was not in his accustomed place with his
writing. The faru)ei' m«!t me on my way to his bed-
room and asked me where " ITncle Maurice" was. He
then told me all about how he had got uneasy and left
for me in the midst of the storm, and mIso told me that

•*

AFAR.

he himself was a j^reat <leal better, ami was able to j^o
out of doors.

A band of farmers, all mounted on good steeds,
scoured the prairie for miles around on the following
day, but no tnxce of the brave old hero could be seen.
Finally it was concluded that it was no use to look for
his body any more, and thus we left him — alone, alone
on the prairie.

CHAPTER XII.

tlie
^vay
,'ord

1 and

lered

id to

li Ids

Ibed-

left

Itluit

A Letter in Time.

Pooii old "Uncle Maurice" had been m<jurned for a
month, and it seemed as though he could never be for-
gotten. His trunks — locked and strapped — were never
opened, and his things were left just as they had been
left by him.

Nearly a month after the day mentioned in the
chapter above, I was returning from the barn vvhei'e
they kept the cows with two buckets full of milk,
when farmer Small, who was returning from the post-
office, shoute<l out to me that he had a letter and a
jmper for me. I nearly di-opped thj milk in my ex-
citement, and ran to get my letter. I k7ieiv it was
from Hai'ry, an<l I broke it open hastily, not looking
at the atldress. Unfolding it as (piick as my numb
lingers could, I I'ead : —

" My Dk.\k Fkiknu :— '■

(It wasn't Harry's way ot coiuinenuiiig a letter, nor was it
Harry's writing. It was only a short on*;, and I reail on:)

"Having learned your address from an old traveller,
wlio told lue you were on tlio way for 'Prairie Farm," I think I will
ask you to come and iielp me once more in the printing office. I have

just purchased the Farmer, an agricultural paper, and I only

iiave two compositors. If you will come and again try your hand at
the case, 1 will he greatly obliged. I will pay you well if you con-
clude to come.

. " Your old friend,

'**'' ' ' "E. H. JSOMMEL.

"P , B. C." • ...

70 AFAR.

The letter almost stunned u»e, for of all things I
expected a letter from my old friend, the editor, the
least. But soon " it all came round," and three days

after that I was on my way for P , where th(;

Farmer was published.

It was a long, long journey to British Columbia,
but it seemed twice as long to me, for what seems
longer than time spent in going to a friend, when you
want to see him so much ?

P-; was reached in due time, and after the

situation of the Farmer office was ascertained, I was
not very long going to it. Mr* Sommel was in his
office, writing, when I entered. After shaking hands
for fully five minutes, he told me to sit down and wait
for dinner time, when he could get off for the afternoon
and show me tlie town.

The next morning I went to work in the office. It
seemed much better than working on the farm, and I
was feeling in high spirits. That evening I asked the
editor if he had heard anything of Harry Monte, but
he was as ignorant of Harry's whereabouts as I.

Time passed on in the Fanner office, and in time
June once more came around — the very anniversary of
the day we left Sanville.

It w^as just such a morning as that on which we had
left that village, and I thought of how many things had
taken place in that one short year.

"Lee, a letter for you," said the editor that night as
he came in to tea in the hotel. It was unmistakably
Harry's writing. It was a short one, and ran :—

"Dear Lek:—

" I haven't time to wiite you much of a letter, but I
got a letter from my olil friend, Arthur Lath rop— perhaps you never
heard of him—who lives now in Wellington, New Zealand, and he
wrote this paragraph : .

" 'I am in a grocery store— Mr. Martell is the proprietor. He
oame from Canada, he says. '

" I was sure this was your father, from some reason or other, so
I wrote to him, and he answered it, and also wrote a note which I
enclose." ^ ■ — '-■■' -, .^-:,---. -.:, . -'■,:•■ :. !.,:■"•;■ "■

AFAR.

CHAPTER XIII.

A Meuuv Re- union.

MoN'J'HS passed on and I recoive<l an answer to the
letter I had written to ni}' father on receipt of tlie one
given nie by Harry, saying that they were on the way
for Canada, and on Christmas Day my father and
mother, Harry Monte and myself, gathered round the
Christmas dinner.

Time has passed since then. Troubles and storms
have been plentiful, l)ut I have come out none the
worse for them.

There is to be a big time over at Sanville to-night.
It is to be at Mr. Crane's house. You probably remem-
ber Mr. Crane. He was the old carpenter with whom
Hariy worked while I was in the office. Yes, there is
to be a big time over there to-night. They were baking
up cake this afternoon by the ovenful, and I expect
they will eat it all up before morning.

A wedding is an uncommon thing in Sanville, and
it has caused quite an excitement.

Harry is going to be married !

I'll have to go over, I suppose, and report the affair
for the Nugget, which everybody in Sanville, as well as
the surrounding country, reads now. The Nugget is
mine now, but it isn't what I get a living out of.
Three years ago I started the Loyalid, and it turned
me out money so fast that I bought out the Nitgget.
An«l then I like to go and .see the compositors at work
in the same place that I commence*! my journalistic
life.

Hury is no longer an "ordinary carpentei*," but a
contri ctor, and Sanville is building up pretty fast.

Bvt you don't want to know any more about San-
ville, and perhaps you have heard enough about Hai-ry
and me. So I will leave you to find out as best you
can about my future biography. But I will say right
here, if you want to subscribe for a paper that will
give you good irading mattei- foi- Sunday or Monday,

AFAR.

take the LoyalUt ; an<l it* you want to advertise in a
paper that readies all classes of people, advertise in the
Loyalist.
Gootl daj't

The End.

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