Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, December 22, 1900, Page 6

BY AN # § UNSEEN ¢ HAND #& § A Story of the Secret Socicly Known as » the “Ragged + + @ Thirteen” + 7 2 @ By Edward Hughes. eer zone y CHAPTER Iv. (Continued. “You're dying for curiosity to know who I am, and why I came here,” said she, when she had sipped the cool drink, “and that’s where an English- man gets the better of my hot-headed countrymen-—you don’t show it a bit. Well, il tell you all about myself when I've got my breath properly.” For the next three or four minutes I had leasure to observe her more close- ly, and I could see that she was, most probably, not out of her teens, and her recent exercise had brought a red} flush to her eks that set them off fin marked co ast to the delicate white tint of her forehead. I was still looking at her, when she turned towards me. 2 “I must b aid she, ‘‘by telling sin,” you my name. We : I'm Miss Nora if you ple Courtney, se, and some say that I'm the Honourable Miss Court- ney, but that do t matter; and I’m some relat to him yonder that was following I iive with my fatner |} in the next house between this and tne | town, and it’s very likely if you stay here long xugh you'll meet me one ef th « running his messages, by rea: rvants are SO} stupid, aw me carry- ing a jus you'd be too proud to speak to me. My father has had 2 h f trouble, and it’s altered 1 to be when J as kind now r ney don’t bother yu Want to hear any | a promising pair of | d. ‘You have anything hardly toid me about your. welt.” Well, to begin again, then,” she] said, “I’m just nineteen, and my head’s | es empty of knowledge as—as_ this glass is of drink.” I took the hint and her glass, ana | when I hi ied it she continued:— = {| “I can neither i nor write, that’s | how my father has brought me up. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘if you can’t do either | you won't get into m hief signing bills, and t like, as I’ve done myself.’ Well, th an who was after me just; now is re relation of mine, though what I don’t exactly know. It’s a sort ef riddle like that about ‘if Dick’s father was Js son’—you know. ‘Well, he g , the name of D’Orville. I found out the way to spell the name afterw: . and his mother is a Corsi- ean lady, and they tell me that these people are rd to beat in the way of nursing their bad temper. “I don’t know what ails Maurice, but something’s gone wrong with him, and he's got my father into the bother, but if I'd had my letters at my fingers’ ends I might have found out something about it to-day. He comes at odd times s when the fit takes him, } and i m when he goes, “Do you k ,’ and here she dropped do you know that he and her voice, his mother tried to put my father in a! madhous : threatened to, but he got } out of th clutches somehow and took a droll upon Maurice? My father c: tain part of his prop to me, by reason of some law or other. Law’s. very bothering isn't it? And when he dies, Maurice, my c or whatever he is, comes in } for a lot; so to spite them father lets nearly anda who trie: of his tenants go rent free, > time of it the man will have to collect it. And so here am I, that ought to be living in a castle, taking shelter in a gentleman's house, and I not knowing his name. “I can guess what you'd like to be asking: ‘What made me come here?’ } Well, I'll tell you, for you look as if; you could be trusted, and it’s very comforting to have someone to speak to. I got into Maurice’s room to-day unbeknown to him, and there I found his keys in the lock of the box he always brings with him, and—you know how curious a girl is, leastways I am—I opened it, and found some books with writing in them, and I was pretending to myself that I could read them, when he came in and caught me. Ah! you should have seen the evil look of him. I believe he’s a dynamiter or a Fenian, no less. I don’t know how I got past him, but I did, and out I rush- ed, and the door slammed to and I locked it, for the key was on the out- side. And then I ran for it, and I saw your door open and rushed in, and here Iam. Now what are you going to do with me?’ “See you safe home,” I said; “and if) you ever care to call upon me in a proper way—that is, I mean—if—ift you'll come and see me, I shall be de- Ughted." “Would you, though? Would yo rea a. ally,” I said; ‘“‘and—ah! that’s Mrs. Graves I hear, surely—as you’ve appeared so op portunely, you will let me offer you a cup of te “Not th time, thank you. I'll be going now. I can slip in, and none of them the wis Goodbye, and many thanks for your kindn and don’t forget that it’s a princess who's. thank- ing you." Thus it was that I first saw Nora Courtney, with the roses still fresh on i the sweetness and purity of maidenhood, I was aroused by the quick step of Maguire. “What luck?” I asked as he rushed the Banshee fly the reader,’ s: isn't isfied “What Iy reader,’ he says. den't the tune of the % s ‘twas the See now, let me gi sage,’ and I took away with j luck | of the MS. until talked over by _per- | ized by the elderly Irishman. | on from one glade to another I could up my writing and read him that bit about my adventure in Florence, and when I'd finished there he sat, turning over jeaf after leaf of some papers be- fore him with one hand, and waving me out with the other. Well, then I said something to him in Irish—and it wasn't a blessing—and I banged his door and marched off to the next publisher on the list, and with him I teft it. and mighty civil Ge hepa were, but they'll bundle it out, like the others did, Ah! Jack, Jack! why ever did you make me an author, to break my heart?” CHAPTER V. The Curse of the Ragged Thirteen. There were several reasons why I did not give Maguire an account of the visit with which I had been honoured. In the first place,it was so unorthodox that a long explanation would have been necessary to account for it; and, secondly, 1 had heard Nora Courtney's story on the strength of the fact that I seemed like one who might be trust- ed. Moreover, I should very likely never see her in the house again, since I could not return her visit, and, from what she told me, it was highly im- probable that her father would call upon me. Maguire kept firing away at the pub- lishers with his big gun, whilst he brought his smaller artillery—short stories and the like—to bear upon the autocrats of the publishing world was sublime in its audacity, and many times resulted in the return of his MS. editors of papers and magazines and the way in which he ordered up the unread, “Ah! they don’t know a good thing when you see it!” he would burst out, as the postman once more brought the wanderer home safely. “It’s my firm belief, Jack, that Shakespe > was to write when he did, for if he’d written in these days, when there’s so many at the game, he’d have been a fortunate fellow if he had'nt got a small library of printed matter, and letters with the ‘Editor’s compliments | and regrets,’ or a note about want of space or some such polite information. I don’t think they've time to read half what they get.” Then he would ceriously consider the advisability of making pipelights suasive tongue, and, convinced that he had maligned the race of editors, he would spend half the day doing it up again, baiting it with a letter that might prove tempting enough to lure and land some publisher. The weeks went by and brought us to the beginning of August, and all this time T had never even caught a glimpse of Miss Nora Courtney, though I had often seen her father, whose identity I had established by referring to the proprietor of the hotel patron- I patrolled the streets at all likely and unlikely hours, but it was of no avail, and I began to suspect that the young lady was purposely avoiding me. One day I strolled somewhat farther afield than usual, and found myself in | the midst of a wood, and as I rambled not but be astonished that these sylvan scenes existed in such close proximity | to London. I was in the heart of the wood when I caught sight of a figure | dressed in white lying in the shade of | an oak, and as I drew near I recog- nized Miss Courtney. ed in an easy attitude on the grass, ap- parentiy studying»a book that lay open before her, and so absorbed was she in its contents, and so soft was the carpet of verdure on which I trod, that, without her being aware of my pres- ence, I was able to reach over her shoulder, to notice that the book, a} child’s primer, was well thumbed and dog-eared. The solitude of the place she had chosen as her study, and the condi- tion of the book that bore silent testi- mony to her application, gave me the idea that she had become ashamed of her ignorance and was trying to teach herself, so instead of startling her by speaking, I slipped away noiselessly, and, making a circuit, came from another direction. This time I con- trived that she should hear me while I was still at a distance, so that before I reached her she had hidden away her lesson-book. She greeted me with easy courtesy. “Sure, you frightened me,” she said, as I took her hand. “I’m very sorry,” I answered; “but | what brings you into these wilds, | Miss Courtney? Are you studying bot- any?” o, I'm not—I’m learning my let- ters. I did’nt see was you at first, so I hid my book.” The blush that spread over her faco made her so passing beautiful that I was sorry it was so evanescent. “And how are you getting on with your studies?” I asked. “I hope you wor’t think it rude of me to ask. You know, you told me that you couldn't read.” “Well, sometimes I think I’m doing grandly, and then I come to a big word, and I can’t tell whether I read it right, for when I say it out loud it it never seems to sound like any word I know, and, of course, I don’t tell my father, for he wouldn’t help me, and if he found me trying to read, maybe he'd tear up my book.” “Will you let me help you?” I asked, sitting down beside her. ‘Do! I should be delighted; and you'll get ‘on ever so much faster. Let me hear you try. Where have you got to?” After a little more persusasion she shyly opened her primer and pointed to a row of words of three syllables. | “It’s here I’m trying,” she said; and then beganythe first of a series of les- sons that brought the keenest pleasure to the teacher, given as they were with the woods for a schoolroom, and God's best piece of handiwork, a lovely and innocent maiden for a pupil. Ah! they were happy .hours—happy then, in that they brought me the pure joy that came of her presence; happy to think of now, because their memory tinged with no trace of sorrow, will bide with me until we know that fuller fellowship of soul that shall reach down through the ages of eternity! She was stretch- | §\ ful for help, or more Hght-hearted over her tasks, than she was, and her perseverance and patience converted the stumbling-blocks of one day into the fairly easy words of the next, until at last her readirg was so good that it was high time she should take to the pen, é Every night I blessed that little primer for the way in which it brought us tegether. To be sure, I might easily have bought another, but then I should have missed the touch of her hand as we thumbed and fingered the book to- gether, and have lost the moments of bliss when her hair, tossed by the wind, swept over my cheek. It seems to me that I can hear her rippling laughter now as I heard it when I told her that Persia’s famous King weuld have frowned upon her had she dared to address him as “Ex- erexes.”” “Ah! why,” she said, “didn’t they give the man a decent name, like— Maurice, or William, or—or Jack?” and the minx gave me a glint from her eye, and whispered the last name so softly that I went home delighted. I can see, too, the light that glowed in her glorious eyes, and the colour that came ande went as I read to her of this or that famous knight’s deeds, done in honour of his lady; and the look of pleasure that made her face radiant, did I but praise her, is as beautiful in the remembrance now as it was in the actual beholding then, Though no one but ourselves knew of our meetings, which were thus some- what clandestine, she saw no harm in them, and they were so pleasant to me that I never raised the point, for to the pure all things are pure, and in this respect she matched thé angels of heaven! Then came the lessons in writing. We made use of a pencil, and how sweetly she bothered me! first? And sure, she’d never get the turn of this letter, or the twist of that, and why weren't they all as easy to make as 0's?” When September was ending, and the air began to grow chilly, and the leaves to flutter down upon us in all the glory of their autumn colours, she brought me her first letter, and I wait- ed to read it until I was alone, and read it over and over again until it was mine by heart. Just a few sim- ple words of thanks, just a wish that she could do something for me to re- pay me for my patience and kindness, just a hope that some day we should meet again, and then the “Yours, gratefully, N. C.” She spelt it ‘“great- fully,” and I kissed the word, because it showed me that I must teach her again some day. And all this time Maguire was spin- ning romances, his star of hope shin- in- resplendent in the zenith when some story was accepted, and waning towards the literary horizon, or set- ting altogether for a while, when his book came back, as come it did with 4 regularity that had long since passed the stage of monotony. And to keep him working—and he was happier so-— and to leave me free to give my lessons I advised him to rewrite portions of his werk, to touch it up here and there, and to illustrate it more freely, so that it fared forth fatter each time, until it was bulky indeed. Now that the metings in the woods wer» over I cast about for some means of seeing Nora in a legitimate manner, and I made use of her father’s failings to aid mé in my endeavor. Having at last presented myself a sufficient num- ber of times at the bar to make my face familiar, and after running a great risk of losing my character for sobriety, I was at length invited into the inter sanctum, where the higher | class patrons assembled to enjoy their rog and an innocent game of cards, Ané here I was privileged to address | Mr. Courtney for the first time, and the manner of my approach, which T was careful to make as deferential as possible, won upon him to accept the cigar I proffered,and before the evening was over we had exchanged cards. In the mellowness of his condition, begot~ ten for his potations, and in pity of my loneliness, ef which I drew an awful picture, he promised to call upon me. And, mirabile dictu, he proved him- self a man of his word, a two days afterwards he bore down upon us at the orthocox hour, dressed in his best, though ther were traces of someone's deft firgers in the neatly-mended gloves, and his cravat—for he was old- fash‘oned to wear one—had assumed a mere befitting position than when T had last had the pleasure of beholding it. There were creases in his well- worn frock-coat, and his trousers were of a cut that was not Poole’s, and, although he was somewhat of a wreck, what was left of him proclaimed that he had once been a good-looking, well- | set-up man. Maguire had locked himself up in his den, and had my visitor been « | Prince of the Blood Royal the author would not have vouchsafed to have bestowed upon him the light of his countenance, so that I had to do all the ertertaining. “You're very pleasant here, Mr. Tre- mayne,” said my guest, as he sipped his port, for tea was tabooed—‘you’re very pleasant here;” and he waved his hand as though the country for miles around were mine. “And I’m sorry that it isn’t in Ireland we are, where T could ask you to come and see me in the castle where the Courtneys have reigned ever since—well, ever since the Flood. But T'll maybe g0 back egain, and then if you're ever over there I'll be proud, to do the hon- ours.”” I told him that I should be only too delighted to gaze upon so venerable a pile, and when, on parting he sig- nified that he should be pleased to see me at any time I thanked him sin- cerely, and promised myself that he should not be disappointed. I managed to let a week pass, and then, after a vain effort to induce Ma- guire to accompany me—he was in the threes of a’ marvellous plot—I set out alone to make my formal call, lit- tle dreaminhg that I was to have the pleasure of meeting the gentleman to whose temper I owed my introduction to Nora. Yet so it was, for Mr. D’Or- ville and his mother was visiting the Courtneys; but, although I was pres- ented to the son, I had not the pleas- ure of meeting the lady. And a striking man was this relative of Nora, standing nearly six feet high, with fine, Lroad shoulders and a coir- manding presence—a born captain of men, had he but been able to control himself; handsome undoubtedly, with el “ e that seemed to look you Through, 80 piercing was his gaze. Courtly and polished in manner, and yet always giving one the idea that one had to do with a volcano of a man, who might blaze, out iat any moment (as ‘no doubt ‘he*had done when he sur- prised Nora in his room), I judged him to be over forty, but though pas- sion had left some lines on his face, his glossy black hair showed never a trace of grey. He greeted me pleasantly, and, choosing for his topic of conversation a subject in which I was particularly interested, he impressed me most favorably, for he gave me the oppor- tunity of eiring my views, and confined himself to remarks that served to draw me out farther and farther. There are many, I know, who would have found too much of the French- man in him to please them; but, to my mind, he seemed to have taken the better part of his nature from his mother—that is, so far as one regarded him superficially. Eis manner may have been nothing more than a vaneer, but how much better this than that he, or anyone else for that matter, who has an ugly exterior, should be for ever showing it. I like plain, straightforward folk; but if a man has a temper, I think all the better of him if he dees not show it on any and every occasion. I had very little chance of speaking to Nora alone, and indeed we exchang- ed but a few commonplace remarks, so as I kade them “Good afternoon” I could not help feeling that this legiti- mate method of seeing my late pupil might be all that propriety allowed, put that it was not half so pleasant without some Mrs. Graves ‘to send us some tea” and giving her no time for refusal, I rang the bell, and Graves was duly bidden to bring up the tray. I played the tyrant to the full. I made her sit in one of the quaint- ly-carved chairs that she only half filled; I troubled her for another cup, with all the horrors of dyspepsia con- fronting me; I made her listen whilst I played one or two Irish‘ airs; and finally I opened a book and persuaded her to read me a page, so that her teacher might judge of her progress. “It’s very lonely you must be without your friend,” said she. “Maurice saw him going off from the station yester- day. What do you do with yourselves in the evening? Do you play cards?” “No! we've never had a game. I don’t think Maguire cares about it. In fact, I’ve never heard him say whether he knows anything about playing. I can only marage a hand at whist, and I’m not much good at that.” “Ah! you should play ‘spoiled fives.’ That wceuld suit you. It’s easy to learn, and it’s a nice game for two, but maybe you would rot care to play anything so vulgar.” “Tt can’t be vulgar if you play it.” “Now, Mr. Tremayne, you're not Irish ercugh yet to pay compliments. So don’t try to.” “Well, will you teach me how to play this game?” said I. “There's a eard-table yonder,” and going across to it I found a pack, and stood shufil- ing the cards before her. ‘4 Truly this was the most unconven- tional teaparty at which I had’ ever assisted. “Spoiled fives is too easy,” she said. “Now, if you don’t know cribbage, IT as when we two were together, aWaY wenouid like to teach you that, becayse yonder in the woods. Still, IT must take the good the gods sent me, and so I planned a little dinner-party for a day in the following jveek, and I dispatched Graves with invitations to Mr. and Miss Courtney and friends, and to the rector and his good lady, who had been kind enough to Icok me up several times, and I was delighted when the Irish party accept- ed en masse, and felt that I should get over the non-acceptance of the Church party, who pleaded a previous engagement. Then I found that Mrs. Graves and T had very different views with regard to dinners in general, and this one in particular, and she must have such ‘and such help in the cooking depart- ment, and someone to wait at table be- sides Graves, and I don’t know what paraphernalia in the kitchen to get through ker culinary efforts in a cred- itable manner. I didn’t stint her in-any way, and as the day drew nigh she be- came as autocratic as if the whole place belonged to her, and as though the lives of all in it were at her dis- posal. Then came my first dissapointment with regard to what I.intended to be a recherche repast that should linger long in the minds of those who par- took of it. Maguire had a letter from a firm in Edinburgh, who seemed to be nibbling at his bock, and who offered to pay his expenses if he would go to see them, and as this:was only the day before the great event, and as I could not persuade him to put off starting, even for an hour, away went with him the fun and the witty coversation that I | had looked to him to supply. But a still greater blow was in store for me. It was four o'clock on the afternoon of the eventful day. I had gone over the wine list, and had wor- ried Graves until disgust was writ my large upon his face. I had arran- ed anr re-arranged my guests at table, and had laid my plans for their amuse- ment afterwards, and finally had set- tled myself down to a comfortable smoke, when I heard the bell announ- cing a visitor, and, wondering what ealier had chosen this particular day to look me up, I awaited the appear- ance of Graves with some curiosity. “Miss Courtney, sir, wishes to sneak to you. She’s in the drawing-room.” Nora! What could she want? T had to wait but a very short time to know. for even before I had released her hand she had entered into explanations. I've brcught you a letter, Mr. Tre- mayne, from my cousin. He has had to leave us in a great hurry, and he hadn’t been out of the house five min- utes before father went off to his club, as he calls it. I could sit down and cry my eyes out, for I’ve the loveliest dress you ever saw, and he’s been bothering me all the week with his dress clothes, getting them aired and that, and now we shan’t be able to come at all. Read Maurice's letter. TI think he’s done it all to spite us. I hate his black face and his evil eyes, and if it wasn’t that he’s spoilt it all, I'd be glad that he’s gone.” It was a most polite epistle with which I had been favored. The writer regretted tht his mother had received an urgent message calling her to the North of Ireland, and as the matter did not admit of of the slightest de- lay, she was starting at once, and he must needs accompany her, as she w2s not strong enough to undertake so long a journey alone. Would I there- fore accept their apologies, and believe that the loss would be theirs, not mine? They hoped at some future date to re- new so pleasant an acquaintance, and he was etc., ete. . “But why can’t you and Mr. Court- ney come?” I asked. Her face flushed as she answered me. “T’ve told you,” she said, “‘ where he’s gone to. Maurice has driven him there with some words they had. Yeu've servants to wait on you that don't know his ways, and I’d die of shame if they saw him like he will be at sev- en o'clock.” “Let me go and bring him away. I'll be careful not to offend him. Do, will you?” She came cloge to me, and laid her hand on my arm, “For my sake—don’t, Jack..You don’t know all. "There was a time when it’s little I seemed to care; but—but it’s different somehow now.” I think that when I heard the word “Jack” drop from her lips I forgot all about her father and the grand func- tion that was to have been, and I only remembered that shre had called me by my Christian name, and to hear that was more to me than all the pleas- ure that the best dinner-party in the worlld cculd afford. “You're not going all the way back Nora,” said I, and I was quick to fol- low her lead, and spoke as though she had come miles; you're not going back you've taught me so much. But I haven't time to stay any longer now. Look, it’s nearly five o’clock.” The mention of cribbage brought back to. my mind what Anguish had told me. “Don’t bother,” I said, “about the time. It doesn’t much matter, seeing that our dinner-party is ruined. Look here! There's a hand that I should like you to count for me. It won't take you a minute, and then I'll walk back with you.” i I sorted out a six, seven, eight, and two aces, and laid them on the table before her. As we sat I was facing the door, and she had her back to it. “That!” she cried, “why, anyone who can play at all knows what that hand is. Why, it’s the——” (To Be Continued.) WOULD HAVE BEEN IN A FIX. A Young Man’s Ruse to Find Out If His Girl Really Cared for Him. The young man in love is an inter- esting creature. Given a sympathetic listener, he will tell many things in a voice that is awed, because what he is telling seems so holy to him, Such a young man said: “I couldn't feel sure my girl really cared for me, so I wrote myself this telegram: ‘Will you go as an account- ant for a tea firm in China at a salary of $60 per week? Start Thursday. An- swer at once.’ I signed the name of a fictitious firm, and showed the girl the telegram as soon as I got to her house that night. She read it, and then she looked at me gravely. “What do you think about it?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know what to think.’ said I. She mused a little while. ‘Do you want to go?’ she-asked me. ‘If it wasn't for you I'd want to go,’ I answered. Then she said, in a faint voice: ‘Do what- ever you think best.’ ‘I'd go if it wasn't for you,’ I replied. She sat very still, looking at the fire. Then, ‘all of a sudden, she began to cry. ‘Oh, don’t go! don’t go!’ she wailed. ‘Don’t go and leave me all alone. What would I do—what would I do—without you?’ So I told her I wouldn't go It is a grand thing to have a girl care for you so much as that* I know that this girl loves me truly.” “If I had been this girl,” said the young man’s listener. “T should have sai ‘Accept the offer, and we'll be married at once and start for China together.’ The young man grinned. ‘Gosh! I hadn't thought ot that!” he admitted. “Wouldn’t I have been in a fix, though, if she had said that?” Genuine Gratitude. The portly gentleman in the black cut-away ccat lighted his cigar, leaned against the bar and puffed away con- tentedly. Like most New York bar- rooms, it was a cosmopolitan place, full of many sorts of people. A lean, hun- gry-looking individual, with grimy hands and the beard of an anarchist, approached the portly gentleman cau- tiously. “T say, boss, could you let me have a nickel?” he began, tentatively. “What's the trouble?” asked the oth- er. “Well, you see, the fact is, I haven't @ cent, and I was out on an awful spree last night—and I want a beer.” He got the nickel. He looked at the coin meditatively for a time, and then at his benefactor. “Say,” he ejaculated, at last, “I wish I had ayother nickel, so I could treat you.”—New York Mail and Express, A Hen Story. Another hen story comes from the farm of Henry Van Boerum, near Ja- maica. Henry has a choice flock of Plymouth Rocks. One of the hens has been in the habit of producing a fine egg.every day. During the last few weeks her production has fallen off. Mr. Boerum went to a grocery the oth- er day and was astonished to see the hen walk in go over to a nest and lay an egg. Then she got up and clucked until the grocer gave her a handful of corn. The grocer said the hen entered the place one morning about three weeks ago and deposited an egg upon a lot of bagging. He rewarded her with a handful of corn, and she had visited him every day since, about meal-time, laid~her egg and received payment.— New York World. Price Makes the Demand. “But if you could sell these suits for $8 last month, how does it happen that you want so much for them now?” “That’s the trouble, my friend. We couldn't sell these suits for $8. No- body wanted them at that price, At $9.99 they are going off like hot cakes,”" Chicago: ‘Tribune. Sata ey Was I expecting anything? ‘Well, somehow I thought a golden ring Such exquisite joy to me would bring;. This much I will confide. I dreamed all night that a nelghbew boy Came over the trackless snow; His face ablaze with love-lit joy, And he held in his hand a pretty toy, Which he softly dropped into my de~ coy, Then back through the night dia go. Next morning when the rooster crew, I awoke with a sudden start; I seized the string and my stocking drew Up from below, and the window through; And there beheld my presents+two! A ring and a candy heart. And the message said, “If you wear this ring, And accept this heart of mine, When you go to church this evening, And rise to your feet at the opening, Hold your hymn book when you sing So that the ring will shine.” I looked out over the broken snow, All a-tremble, I must confess; I recognize each hob-nail shoe, Over the fields where the footsteps go. Shall I wear this ring? “No;” But my heart was whispering “Yes!” My lips said As we sat in the church I let him see A glint of that golden band; And in the starlight he walked with me Over the snow, and so close walked we That none the wiser will ever be How often he sSqueezed—my hand. —Zelda Radoona. Rosie Wilcox'’s Turkey. Rosie Wilcox was a little girl of i2 years.: She lived with her parents on a thrifty farm in the Mississippi val- ley. She had one turkey of which she thought a great dez He had always been very tame and was a great pet with all the children who lived on the surrounding farms. His name was Bronzie. Rosie named all of her pets, according to their most striking fea- ture and his.color was bronze. As all Mr. Wilcox’s turkeys were young, Rosie never feared for hers. One day near Christmas Mr. Wilcox said: “ym ruther sorry, little one, but I'm a gonter sell yer turkey next week.” Rosie was dumfounded, and her father, seeing the pained expression on her face turned away. When Rosie had partially recovered her senses she sat down on the bottom rung of the ladder that led to the gra- nary and thought. At last a bright thought struck her. She would sell him to Farmer Max. She knew he would take good care of him, as he was making a collection of beautiful fowls of all kinds, and was not Bronzie beautiful? Certainly. Arriving at this conclusion, which greatly comforted her, she got up and walked slowly toward the house, where mamma had been calling her for at least 15 minutes. Next morn- ing after a troubled night, Rosie arose, and dressing quickly, hurried down the road with her turkey. She paused in front of the large white farm house to recover her breath, and then went on to the barns, where she saw the farmer milking his cows. He was very glad to take the turkey and promised Rosie a good price for him. Mr. Wilcox did not see his daughter until that noon, when he said: “Yer turkey didn’t like his new home, so he come a-trottin’ inter the yard ’safternoon ’s though he owned the whole world.” Rosie could have cried, but she only hung her head. “Never mind, Rosie,” said her fath- er, “I guess yer two good friends fer sure, and I guess, too, that I won’t part you.” Ghe Christmas Drum. Chilaren are very Keen these days. An eight-year-old boy who was arousing the house with his drum last Christmas day stopped in front of his mother and “fixed her with his glit- tering eye.” “Mamma, did Santa Claus bring me this drum?” “Why, yes; you heard your father say so.” “Where did Santa Claus get it?” “T don't know, I’m sure.” “Well, Jones’ shop has got a lot of drums just like this.” “Indeed?” “Did Santa Claus buy it there?” “Perhaps.” “But isn’t Santa Claus a kind of a fairy?” “I suppose he must be?” “Well, how can fairies go inte Jones’ shop and trade there?” “Oh, don’t ask so many questions!” “But he’d have to pay with fairy money. Would Mr. Jones take fairy money?” “He might.” ¢ “How could he?” “Harold Clifford Hodgkins, don’t let me hear another word out of you.” “But, mamma, I want to know. And how could Santa Claus, who is so fat, get down our little bit of a chimney?” “He's a fairy.” “But how can fairies be fat?” His mother turned purple and rous- ed her husband from his newspaper. “Henry,” she gasped,” boy down town tomorrew and appren- tice him to a lawyer.” It iz net how mutch the wize man knoze that gives him a cinch on yoo- manity, but beeaws yoomanity ae sa werry littel, “take this — | {