"The captain has been troubled by the bears. Would it please him if they were all driven back to their dens in the great mountains towards the setting sun?"

"It would," said the captain; "can it be done?"

"It can. It shall," said the chief with emphasis. "To-morrow let the _captain_ keep his eyes open, and as the sun sinks behind the mountain tops he shall see the bears follow also."

The chief kept his word. The next day the uproar on the hills was terrific. Frightened out of their wits, the bears forsook the acorn field and fled ingloriously to their secret haunts in the mountains to the westward.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WHAT ARE YOU CALLED, LITTLE ONE?" ASKED THE CAPTAIN.]

In joy thereof the captain gave a great farewell feast to his red allies. It was spread under the pines in front of his cabin, and every delicacy of the season was there, from bear steaks to beaver tails.

The banquet was drawing to a close, and complimentary speeches 'twixt host and guests were in order, when a procession of the squaws was seen approaching from the encampment. They drew near and headed for the captain in solemn silence. As they pa.s.sed, each laid some gift at his feet--fringed leggings; beaded moccasins, bear skins, coyote skins, beaver pelts and soft robes of the mountain lion's hide--until the pile reached to the captain's shoulders. Last of all came Osito's mother and crowned the heap with a beautiful little brown bear skin.

It was fancifully adorned with blue ribbons, and in the center of the tanned side there were drawn, in red pigment, the outlines of a very stolid and stoical-looking pappoose.

F.L. STEALEY.

THE LITTLE LION-CHARMER.

Outside the little village of Katrine, Just where the country ventures into town, A circus pitched its tents, and on the green The canvas pyramids were fastened down.

The night was clear. The moon was climbing higher.

The show was over; crowds were coming out, When, through the surging ma.s.s, the cry of "fire!"

Rose from a murmur to a wild, hoa.r.s.e shout.

"Fire! fire!" The crackling flames ran up the tent, The shrieks of frightened women filled the air, The cries of prisoned beasts weird horror lent To the wild scene of uproar and despair.

A lion's roar high over all the cries!

There is a crash--out into the night The tawny creature leaps with glowing eyes, Then stands defiant in the fierce red light.

"The lion's loose! The lion! Fly for your lives!"

But deathlike silence falls upon them all, So paralyzed with fear that no one strives To make escape, to move, to call!

"A weapon! Shoot him!" comes from far outside; The shout wakes men again to conscious life; But as the aim is taken, the ranks divide To make a pa.s.sage for the keeper's wife.

Alone she came, a woman tall and fair, And hurried on, and near the lion stood; "Oh, do not fire!" she cried; "let no one dare To shoot my lion--he is tame and good.

"My son? my son?" she called; and to her ran A little child, that scarce had seen nine years.

"Play! play!" she said. Quickly the boy began.

His little flute was heard by awe-struck ears.

"Fetch me a cage," she cried. The men obeyed.

"Now go, my son, and bring the lion here."

Slowly the child advanced, and piped, and played, While men and women held their breaths in fear.

Sweetly he played, as though no horrid fate Could ever harm his sunny little head.

He never paused, nor seemed to hesitate, But went to do the thing his mother said.

The lion hearkened to the sweet clear sound; The anger vanished from his threatening eyes; All motionless he crouched upon the ground And listened to the silver melodies.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Little Lion Charmer.]

The boy thus reached his side. The beast stirred not.

The child then backward walked, and played again, Till, moving softly, slowly from the spot, The lion followed the familiar strain.

The cage is waiting--wide its opened door-- And toward it, cautiously, the child retreats.

But see! The lion, restless grown once more, Is lashing with his tail in angry beats.

The boy, advancing, plays again the lay.

Again the beast, remembering the refrain, Follows him on, until in this dread way The cage is reached, and in it go the twain.

At once the boy springs out, the door makes fast, Then leaps with joy to reach his mother's side; Her praise alone, of all that crowd so vast, Has power to thrill his little heart with pride.

HARRIET S. FLEMING.

THE BOY TO THE SCHOOLMASTER.

You've quizzed me often and puzzled me long, You've asked me to cipher and spell, You've called me a dunce if I answered wrong, Or a dolt if I failed to tell Just when to say _lie_ and when to say _lay_, Or what nine sevens may make, Or the longitude of Kamschatka Bay, Or the I-forget-what's-its-name Lake, So I think it's about _my_ turn, I do, To ask a question or so of you.

The schoolmaster grim, he opened his eyes, But said not a word for sheer surprise.

Can you tell what "phen-dubs" means? I can.

Can you say all off by heart The "onery twoery ickery ann,"

Or tell "alleys" and "commons" apart?

Can _you_ fling a top, I would like to know, Till it hums like a b.u.mble-bee?

Can you make a kite yourself that will go 'Most as high as the eye can see, Till it sails and soars like a hawk on the wing, And the little birds come and light on its string?

The schoolmaster looked oh! very demure, But his mouth was twitching, I'm almost sure.

Can you tell where the nest of the oriole swings, Or the color its eggs may be?

Do you know the time when the squirrel brings Its young from their nest in the tree?

Can you tell when the chestnuts are ready to drop Or where the best hazel-nuts grow?

Can you climb a high tree to the very tip-top, Then gaze without trembling below?

Can you swim and dive, can you jump and run, Or do anything else we boys call fun?

The master's voice trembled as he replied: "You are right, my lad, I'm the dunce," he sighed.

E.J. WHEELER.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Little Mer-Folks.]