entertaining of writers of sea romance, we are content to take adventures as they come, and do not ask for explanations; and so, when an albatross flops on deck, bearing, in a sailor's tobacco box, a message from a shipwrecked crew, we know that sooner or later that wreck will heave in sight. And we shrewdly suspect that she will have a goodly store of treasure in the hold, with possibly a stray pirate or two in the offing, so that we may have some fighting. For a sailor yarn, without fighting is as a salad without vinegar, or a rum punch minus its principal ingredient. N. Y. Sun.

Yellow Pine Basin. The Story of a Prospector. By Henry G. Catlin. 214 pp. 12mo, 90 cents; by mail, $1.00.

A tale founded on the wild life of adventurers after gold in California. The author claims an intimate knowledge of this passing character.

The People for Whom Shakespeare Wrote. By Charles
Dudley Warner.

Eye Spy. Afield with Nature. Among Flowers and Creep-
ing Things. By William Hamilton Gibson.
The Veiled Doctor. By Varina Anne Jefferson Davis.
With the Procession. By Henry B. Fuller.
Alexander Pope. By Samuel Johnson.

The Borderland of Czar and Kaiser. Notes from Both Sides
of the Russian Frontier. By Poultney Bigelow.
White Man's Africa. By Poultney Bigelow

The Captain of the Janizaries. By James M. Ludlow.
A King of Tyre. By James M. Ln flow.

That Angelic Woman. By James M. Ludlow.

The Co-Education of the Sexes. By Mabel Hawtrey. Pictures of the World. Penciled by Clement Scott. Indifference in Matters of Religion. By the Abbé F. de Lemanais. Translated from the French by Lord Stanley of Alderly.

The Copsford Mystery. By W. Clark Russell.

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY:

Citizen Bird: Bird Life for Beginners. By Mabel Osgood
Wright and Elliott Coues.

Life Histories of American Insects. By Clarence M. Weed.
Genesis of the Social Conscience: The Relation between the
Establishment of Christianity in Europe and the Social
Question. By Prof. Henry Spencer Nash.

The Conception of God. By Josiah Royce, Ph. D.

A Genealogy of Morals. By Friedrich Nietzsche, translated by William A. Haussmann, Ph. D.

T. Y. CROWELL COMPANY:

The Gold Thread. By Norman MacLeod D. D.
The Wreck of the Circus. By James Otis.

The Century Company is preparing a new edition of The Autobiography of Joseph Jefferson," which has had a large sale. This edition will contain an additional chapter, including Mr. Jefferson's poem, "Shakspere versus Bacon," delivered by the actor before the professors of Yale University in answer to Ignatius Donnelly's "Cryptogram."

Portrait of S. R. Keightley

A Blight in Egypt

Biographical Sketch.

The Greek Anthology

The Author's Purpose by the Author

Authors and Their Books

With the New Books

News from New York

Chicago Items.

Magazines

Best Selling Books.

Reviews

TAN, LEN 人 AND

Entered August 29, 1882 (Hon Timothy O. Howe. Postmaster-General), at the Philadelphia Post Office as secondclass matter.

NUMBER 179

The widow Barbour stood on the edge of the throng which had gathered under the big oak in front of the corner store, and listened with growing consternation to the great news of the impending battle. Fortunately she had disposed of the contents of her basket before the arrival of the stage, or her butter and eggs would have remained unsold, so great was the excitement that convulsed the village. As the widow's rustic mind gradually apprehended the tale of the approaching carnage which threatened Oakville, her thoughts reverted to her home at Hickory Hollow, and an irresistible desire seized her to communicate the fearful tidings to the benighted denizens of that mountain hamlet. If there was to be a battle at Oakville, and blood was to flow in the streets, Nancy Barbour did not wish to see it, so she mounted Old Sorrel and started at speed for home.

But it was far to Hickory Hollow, and with her heart beating time to Sorrel's cantering feet, Nancy soon recognized the impossibility of surviving four hours without telling the news to some one, so she resolved upon a diversion up Blackberry Lane for the purpose of terrifying the family of Susan Cline, a crony of hers, who had formerly dwelt at Hickory Hollow.

"Tain't likely Susan's heard the great news, murmured the widow as she galloped, "an' if I don't tell sombody soon I'll jest bust."

The trees around John Cline's log cabin were in half leafage, although it was but April, and the foliage afforded considerable protection against the west Alabama sun. The tide of war was rapidly engulfing the doomed Confederacy but there was no hint of conflict in Cline's door-yard. True, there was smoke, but it was not the sulphurous fumes of battle, smelling of burned powder and carnage, but the incense of peace curling gracefully from the fire about Susan Cline's soap pot, and

redolent of the spicy scent of pine knots and hickory boughs. The south wind at intervals. blew the pungent smoke into the peach trees that hung over the garden fence, and the bees that were rifling the pink blossoms rose with an indignant hum to return to their toil when the gust had past.

Susan stirred the steaming cauldron meditatively with a long soap stick. Sometimes she made a brief remark to guide the labors of her two daughters, Betsy and Judith, the first of whom bent over a wash-tub, while the other churned a turn of milk; sometimes she looked across the field to where her husband was ploughing with a pair of bay mules; or her glance fell tenderly upon Johnny, her little boy of ten, who made it his duty to keep the fire burning about the pot of soap.

A messenger of ill to this peaceful scene might well lament his errand. But no compunction visited Nancy Barbour's brain, as she galloped up the lane. With her brown skirt sailing in the wind and her sunbonnet flapping from side to side, the widow's appearance was well calculated to excite the anxious fear of the little group in the door yard.

"Lan'sake! Nance what's the matter?" exclaimed Susan as Nancy drew rein at the gate. "Has anything happened to my kin at the Hollow?''

With a breathlessness, partly real, but largely assumed, Nancy nodded her head negatively and asked for a gourd of water, and it was not till after repeated solicitation that she proceeded to unfold her tale of terror. Time was precious, yet the widow could not deny herself the enjoyment of her friend's suspense

"The day o'wrath's at han', Susan Cline," she finally began, "an' you pore critters are washin' clo'es, churnin' milk, an' bilin' soap!"

Susan threw a quick, questioning glance at Nancy as if she suspected her sanity.

"Nance, have you come gallopin' up the lane jest to norate about Judgment Day?"

"No, Suse, I've come from Oakville; the Yankees are a comin', thar's goin' to be a battle thar, and blood's goin' to run in the

streets.

The Yankee Raiders a comin' at last!" exclaimed Susan. Are yer shore the news is true, Nance?"

Yes, Suse; the news was brought by stage and it's a sartin' fact. The mayor, the aldermen and the one armed and the onelegged soldiers have helt a meetin under the big oak front of Brown's sto'. The soldiers 'llow it's no use to put up a fight, for thar's no able-bodied men left to fight. But the mayor and t'others say it would be a dessgrace to surrender without a gun pinted or a lick struck. It was a great meetin' Suse. His honor stood on a barrel and made a grand speech."

Nancy paused to enjoy the sensation she was creating. Meanwhile, to brace her nerves, she took out a box of snuff from her flat bosom and inserting her brush she mopped up a brown ball and put it between her thin lips.

"His honor's a fool and the old soldiers are in the right," said Susan, gesticulating with her soapstick. Thar's been enough blood and tears shed in this pore country.'

66

"Well," resumed Nancy, "his honor out talked 'em and carried the people with him. I tell yer Suse thar's goin' to be a battle shore. The mayor's organized a company and named it the Oakville Home Guard, and appinted Abner Wilkins, Cap'n. And you know the old cannon on the bluff which used to be fired on the Fourth o' July, and ain't been fired in nigh on to four year? Well, they've drug it down to the bridge and loadened it with scrap iron. But thar's some folks agin' the cannon, sayin' she's too old and rusty to shoot; and if she do shoot, nobody knows which end's a-goin off."

A stronger gust shook the peach trees, driving out the bees, shattering the blossoms and flaking Judith's yellow hair with pink. After it there came a hush as if the wind had suddenly stopped and held its breath, like a frightened child. Then it fled furtively down the lane. One could trace its feet by little eddies of dust. Then came a bit of April cloud, no longer than one's hand, and floated under the noontide sun, casting a shadow over the little group.

Susan glanced at her frightened children, and a feeling of resentment toward the bearer of ill-tidings who had alarmed them rose in her heart.

"We are much obliged to you, Nance for comin' out of yer way to bring us bad news, but we're not beholden to you for namin' us

pore critters jest because we are washin' out clo'es and bilin' our soap. Livin' or dead a body needs soap and clean clo'es. Futher moah, if the Raiders be a comin', we can't hender em."

Susan's affected calmness vexed Nancy who vaguely felt herself defrauded. She had expected more of a panic.

"I'm powerful glad to see you so reesigned, Suse, for it's a Christian's duty. How-someever in Oakville they 'llowed the Raiders 'ud skin the county and thar wouldn't be a four legged critter left to milk or plough. What are you uns goin' to do when yer mules is gone?"

"It would be a hard case to lose our mules, for they are our main support Nance, but the ground's broke and planted and we could make out to work it with a hoe."

Having parried Nancy's final effort to create dismay, Susan ordered her little flock back to their labors; and the widow, fearing to be forestalled as a messenger of ill to the dwellers on Little Creek, declined Susan's invitation to dinner, and, giving Sorrel a blow with her switch, departed at a brisk pace for Hickory Hollow.

When Nancy's lank figure had disappeared down the lane, a sigh from his mother filled Johnny's face with gloom.

"Mammy, do yer reckin' the Yanks'll take Pap's mules?" asked the little boy, anxiously.

"I don't know, Son; they mought, and then agin they moughtn't. But go tell yer Pap to come to the house, and take Tige with you; I'm 'fraid he'll git scalted with this soap."

'Don't you be a-feard, Sonny," said Cline, as he saw a tear roll down the little boy's thin cheeks while he helped to ungear the mules.

"I ain't feard o' nothin', Pap. But Mis' Barbour, she 'llowed as how the Yanks 'ud sholy carry off our mules, and since I heard that word seems like I love Cindy and Beck more'n anything on the place. Tige, he ain't no whar now.

"Well, Son, don't borry trouble; wait till the Raiders are here 'fore you take to grievin'." Johnny was not comforted. He pulled down. Cindy's head by her long ears and laid his cheek against the mule's muzzle.

"I tell yer, Pap, I couldn't give up Beck and Cindy nohow. They've been here ever since I was born. I've rid 'em to the creek to drink, I've rid 'em to mill, and I've rid em ever whar. Pap, Beck and Cindy ain't no young mules; both of em's seen their best days. They couldn't stand it to pull cannon and sich like, day and night. More'n that, them Yanks ain't usen' to mules, and don't know the ways o' mules. Now, thar's Cindy, she'd jest as soon kick a stranger