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vim beeris, cortex collum reliquit, et beer, spumans, se pavimento effudit. Deinde magister capit unum extremum lori, et vulpes alterum sentiebat. Нас fabula docet that, when you bring pop-beer to school, you should tie the string so tight that it can't pop off before lunch-time.

When Jack-in-the-Box saw this fable, he said it was a good fable, and he was proud of his pupil,

"IT ROSE LIKE A FOUNTAIN."

ought to be, Vulpes" (he pronounced the word in one syllable) "drank beer."

This shows the perils of ignorance. If Charlie had had a thorough classical training, he would n't have made such a mistake. It was a curious fact that the boys who had never studied Latin, and to whom the blunder had to be explained, laughed at him more unmercifully than anybody else.

But Holman's literary masterpiece (if it was his)

was in rhyme, and in some respects it remains a mystery to this day.

One evening he called to see me, and intimated that he had some confidential business on hand, for which we should better adjourn to the printing-office, and accordingly we went there.

"I want a job of printing done," said he, "provided it can be done in the right way."

"We shall be glad to do it as well as we possibly can," said I. "What is it?"

"I can't tell you what it is," said he.

"Well, let me see the manuscript," said I.

"There is n't any manuscript," said he.

"Oh, it is n't prepared yet?" said I. "When will it be ready?"

"There never will be any manuscript for it," said he.

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"Then what in the world is it? And how do you suppose I am though he felt obliged to admit that some of the going to print a thing for you, unless I know what tenses were a little out of joint.

Holman said he put the moral in English because that was the important part of it, and ought to be in a language that everybody could understand.

Monkey Roe said he was glad to hear this explanation, as he had been afraid it was because Holman had got to the end of his Latin.

Charlie Garrison, in attempting to criticise the title of the fable, only exposed himself to ridicule. "It must be a mistake," said he; "for you know you can't eat beer. It's plain enough that it

it is that I am to print?"

"That's the point of the whole business," said Isaac. "I want you to let me come into your office, and use your type and press to print a little thing that concerns nobody but myself, and I don't care to have even you know about it. I want you to let me do all the work myself, when you are not here, and I shall wash up the rollers, distribute the type, destroy all my proofs, and leave everything in the office as I found it. Of course I shall pay you the same as if you did the work."

"But how can you set the type?" said I. "You morning, I found the oil all burned out of the big don't even know the case, do you?"

"No," said he; "but I suppose the letters are all in it somewhere, and I can find them with a little searching."

"And do you know how to lock up a form?” said I.

"I've often seen you do it," said he; "and I think I'm mechanic enough to manage it."

"When do you want to go to work?" "Duo eques, rectus ab-to-night, right away." "Very well-good-night!" said I.

When I went to the office next day, I found Ned

lamp,--I filled it yesterday,—and these torn scraps in the wood-box. I got so many together pretty easily, but I can't find another one that will fit." "It looks as if it had been a poem," said I. "Yes," said Ned; "of course it was. And oh, look here! It was an acrostic, too!"

Ned took out his pencil, and filled in what he supposed to be the missing initial letters, making the name VIOLA GLIDDEN.

"It may have been an acrostic," said I; "but you can't tell with certainty, so much is missing." "There is n't any doubt in my mind," said Ned;

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"Did you print this?" said he, suddenly, looking Holman would break in here at midnight, and put into my face suspiciously.

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his mushy love-poetry into print at our expense. He must have been here about all night, for that lamp-full of oil lasts nine hours."

"There's an easy way to punish him, whoever

he was," said Phaeton, who had come in, in time to hear most of our conversation.

66 'How is that?" said Ned.

"Get out a handbill," said Phaeton, "and spread it all over town, offering a reward of one cent for the conviction of the burglar who broke into our office last night and printed an acrostic, of which the following is a fac-simile of a mutilated proof. Then set up this, just as you have it here."

"That's it; that 'll make him hop," said Ned. "I'll go to work on it at once."

"But," said I, "it'll make Miss Glidden hop, too."

"Let her hop."

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"I say Jimmy the Rhymer 's killed! And you done it, too!"

I am sorry that Patsy said "done," when he meant did. But he was a good-hearted boy, nevertheless; and probably his excitement was what made him forget his grammar.

"What do you mean?" said Ned, who had turned as pale as ashes.

"You ought to know what I mean," said Patsy. "Just because he had the bad luck to spill a few of your old types, you abused him like a pickpocket,

"But then, perhaps her brother John will call and said he 'd got to pay for 'em, and drove him around and make you hop."

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"He can't do it," said Ned. "The man that a printing-press can make everybody else hop, and nobody can make him hop—unless it is a man that owns another press. Whoever tries to fight a printing-press always gets the worst of it. Father says so, and he knows, for he tried it on the Vindicator when he was running for sheriff and they slandered him."

At this point, I explained that Holman had not come there without permission, and that he expected to pay for everything.

"Why did n't you tell us that before?" said Phaeton.

"I was going to tell you he had been here," said I, "and that he did not want any of us to know what he printed. But when I saw you had found that out, I thought perhaps, in fairness to him, I ought not to tell you who it was."

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All right," said Ned. "Of course, it's none of our business how much love-poetry Holman makes, or how spoony it is, or what girl he sends it to, if he pays for it all. But don't forget to charge him for the oil. By the way, so many of the boys owe us for printing, I 've bought a blank-book to put the accounts in, or we shall forget some of them. Monkey Roe's mother paid for the 'Orphan Boy' yesterday. I'll put that down now. Half a dollar was n't enough to charge her; we must make it up on the next job we do for her or Monkey."

While he was saying this, he wrote in his book: Mrs. Roe per Monkey 12 orphan boys 50 Paid. Hardly had he finished the entry, when the door of the office was suddenly opened, and Patsy Rafferty thrust in his head and shouted:

out of the office. And he 's been down around the depot every day since, selling papers, tryin' to make money enough to pay you. And now he 's got runned over be a hack, when he was goin' across the street to a gentleman that wanted a paper. And they 've took him home, and my mother says it's all your fault, too, you miserable skinflint! I wont have any of your gifts!"

And with that, Patsy thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out the visiting-cards that Ned had printed for him, and threw them high into the room, so that in falling they scattered over everything. "I'll bring back your car," he continued, " soon as I can get it. I lent it to Teddy Dwyer last week."

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Then he shut the door with a bang, and went away.

We looked at one another in consternation. "What shall we do?" said Ned.

"I think we ought to go to Jimmy's house at once," said I.

"Yes, of course," said Ned.

And he and I started. Phaeton went the other way-as we afterward learned, to inform his mother, who was noted for her efficient charity in cases of distress.

Ned and I not only went by the postern, but we made a bee-line for Jimmy's house, going over any number of fences, and straight through door-yards and garden-patches, without the slightest reference to streets or paths.

We left in such a hurry that we forgot to lock up the office. While we were gone, Monkey Roe sauntered in, found Holman's acrostic, which Ned had pieced together, and, when he went away, carried it with him.

(To be continued.)

"THE SHINING DAYS OF MAY."

BY LUCY M. BLINN.

OH, the shining days of May!

Don't you hear them coming, coming,

In the robin's roundelay,

In the wild bee's humming, humming?

In the quick, impatient sound

Of the red-bird's restless whirring,

In the whispers in the ground

Where the blossom-life is stirring?

In the music in the air,

In the laughing of the waters;

Nature's stories, glad and rare,

Told Earth's listening sons and daughters?
Surely, hearts must needs be gay

In the shining days of May!

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THE PRINCE OF THE BIRDS.

BY ERNEST INGERSOLL.

F all the beautiful birds you ever saw, is not the peacock the most beautiful and showy? Have you ever thought how beautiful it is? I suppose the trader of the South Sea islands has no appreciation of the loveliness that we see in the bird-of-paradise, nor does the Hottentot fully know the grace and richness of the ostrich plumes which he sticks in his hair. What is familiar to us loses beauty in our eyes, simply because we see it commonly; and I fancy that if we came suddenly upon a peacock, his glorious tail spread before our delighted gaze for the first time in our lives, we should not hesitate to consider him the prince of the feathered race.

Peacocks have been domesticated fowls for a great many years, but have not degenerated and lost their original tints or shape as have the barnyard fowls and ducks, and, to some extent, the turkeys. Nevertheless, travelers tell us that the wild peacocks are far handsomer than the tame ones. It seems impossible. The peafowl is a native of India, and some of the islands of the Indian or Malayan archipelago. Various parts of Java abound with them, yet there are none in Borneo nor in Sumatra, though these islands are close by. But then, some other birds of the family to which the peacocks and pheasants belong occur plentifully in Sumatra and Borneo, and are unknown to Java. On the main-land of Asia, peacocks of some sort for there are half a dozen species-abound, from southern India to the northern table-lands, and even through the high passes into the forests and steppes of Thibet. Our domesticated variety is the common one in India, where it is known as the crested peacock. The peacock of Java is different, "the neck being covered with scarlet-like green feathers, and the crest of a different form," but the eyed train is equally large and beautiful. The remote Thibetan species has a lesser train, and its general color is white, upon which ornamental feathers are distributed in a most striking manner.

These birds prefer wooded districts, especially low, tangled, thickety forests, partly cane and partly hard-wood growths, called "jungles," and there

they congregate in large flocks. One writer says that from an eminence he once saw the sun rise upon more than a thousand of these dazzling birds. What a sight that must have been! How the level golden beams of light must have been reflected in a hundred crossed and gleaming rays from the trembling and iridescent plumes! I can not understand how any foreground to a sunrise could be devised better than the waving green summit of a forest, covered with a thousand swaying peacocks.

The food of these birds, like that of the argus pheasant and other such fowls, consists of seeds, small fruits, buds, or the juicy tops of tender plants,. and insects-particularly beetles. To get this food, the peacock, of course, spends much of his time on the ground, and he is sometimes caught there by being run down with dogs, or by men on horseback. He can make good speed on foot, however.

The nest is a rough little heap of grass and straw, placed on the ground, and hollowed out enough to keep its dozen eggs from rolling away. The young are at first as dull-colored as the hen, and it is only after the third year that the male gets his full regalia.

It would seem as if a bird carrying so long and cumbersome a train would find it very difficult to mount into the air, but he manages to do so by running a little way upon the ground and then leaping upward. Once started, he can rise to a considerable height, and gracefully swing his broad tail over trees that it would try your muscle to cover with an arrow from the stoutest bow. One way of peacock-hunting, which used to be much pursued, was by falcons. Here was game well suited to falconry. It gave a glittering prize to the eager kestrel or gyrfalcon or goshawk, and fitted the gayly dressed lords and ladies who followed the falconer, and watched with lively excitement the flights of their brave hunter of the air.

The peacock's train is his glory. It eclipses all the burnished tints and reflections of his proud little head and jaunty crest. I have read a very good and minute description of this most superb specimen of Nature's feather-work, which I would rather quote than try to equal:

"The train derives much of its beauty from the loose barbs of its feathers, whilst their great number and their unequal length contribute to its gorgeousness, the upper feathers being successively shorter, so that when it is erected into a disk, the eye-like or moon-like spot at the tip of each feather is dis

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