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born rover, and heartily dreaded any kind of regular employment. So far as he could see, to travel with a circus would about suit his ideas. But his friend of the pier looked to something higher for his protégé, and constantly told him of the many hardships the circus people had to endure how they never slept, but worked all day and traveled at night. This view of the situation did not strike Christie's fancy at all. It was the music, the always changing crowd, and the out-of-door life that he wanted. Whenever he saw a circus billed he worked very hard and slept on the pier so that he might save enough money to be able to go just as often as possible. When the first day came for him to go he never did any work at all, but went over to the grounds early and talked to the tentmen and any one connected with the circus who would listen to him. The accounts they gave him were not very encouraging, and generally tallied with those of his friend on the pier; but Christie would not be convinced.

It was in the spring of the year, and Christie was not yet twelve years old, when he got a chance to satisfy his life's ambition. It was not a first-class circus, but it had two rings, and sometimes played as many as three days in one town. The duties assigned him were not very onerous, and his salary was correspondingly small. Before the performance began, he stood behind a wooden stand and helped a man to sell peanuts and lemonade. At eight o'clock they left the stand, and while the man carried around trays of lemonade Christie peddled peanuts among the audience.

For all of this Christie was paid only five dollars a week, but he was pursuing his chosen profession, and was much happier than he had ever been before. His great pleasure was in the morning, when he rode a donkey in the procession, and afterward stood outside the tent and was surrounded by a circle of small boys of the town, and was sincerely envied as an attaché of "Clyde's Monster Allied Shows." Marcus Clyde, the proprietor of the show, was perhaps no better or no worse than the proprietors of small circuses usually are. He had originally been a butcher, then a horsedealer, and on account of some bad debts had taken an interest in a small circus. From silent partner he had drifted into sole proprietor. Now he wore a high silk hat, and a diamond horseshoe in his shirt-front, and drove about the circus grounds in a buggy, which was always taken along for his personal use. He knew the name of every man and woman connected with the show, and frequently superintended the raising of the tents when the manager, Mr. Ross, was indisposed or drunk. He knew Christie well, and frequently honored him with a ride in his buggy. On these occasions the red

haired boy amused him by recounting some of his escapades in New York. He used to embellish them a good deal, for Christie wanted to appear a person of importance in the eyes of his employer, and had, indeed, strong hopes of some day becoming a junior partner of the Allied Shows.

The proprietor's liking for the boy gave Christie a certain importance in the eyes of the other employees, and he was generally regarded as the mascot of the company. But Christie did not care very much for most of the people. He lavished all the affection he had on one family called Boynton. There was Boynton, his wife, and their little girl Patricia. The man did a bare-back act, in which he was assisted by the little girl. The woman, who had been born a little above the circus business, confined herself to riding around the ring dressed in a habit and a high hat. She really rode very well, and the act was extremely popular with the masses.

The friendship between Christie and the family came about through the boy's devotion to the daughter Patricia, or "Patsy," as she was called by the circus people. She was very pretty, with her long yellow hair and blue eyes, and Christie no sooner saw her than he found himself very much in love with her. The first time he saw Patsy was when she was doing her act with her father in the ring. Dressed in a short, red silk dress, with red stockings and gold shoes, she was led out from the dressingtent. Her father took her on the horse with him. Then he stood up and held her out at arm's-length, with one of her feet resting on his hip, while the horse slowly galloped around the ring. The act ended with the little girl standing on his shoulders while the horse jumped some low hurdles. When, amid the shouts of the audience, Boynton led the girl from the ring, Christie followed her, and talked with her about her act, and how she had learned to do it, and what she generally thought about while she was doing it.

In a short time the two children became great friends, and the Boyntons almost adopted Christie as their own. The girls he had known in New York were very different from Patsy. So different was their language and the way they spoke it that the low English voice of this girl sounded almost like a different tongue to Christie. There was much time in which neither of them had anything to do, so the two children used to go on trips of exploration around the town in which the circus was stopping, or out into the country, where they played like other children who do not have to work for their living. As long as Christie was with her he did not think of the circus, and was only sorry when the time came for him to go back to the peanuts and the lemonade.

It does not take a girl of twelve very long to reciprocate such a strong passion as Christie's, so in a short time Patsy came to care for the boy as much as he did for her, and together they even planned to marry some day and have a circus of their own. He would have a buggy even better than Clyde's, and she would always drive by his side. Some day they would make enough money to retire, and together they would go back to her home in England, which she told Christie many times was the most beautiful place on earth.

It was in August that Boynton came to the manager one morning and said that his girl was too ill to appear. She had some sort of fever, and the doctor said she must not leave the hotel. Then he suggested that Christie might be allowed to try the act with him. The manager consented, and the horse was brought out into the ring, and Christie had his first rehearsal. It was not very difficult, and so long as he kept cool there was really very little danger of falling off. He was a little shaky at the afternoon performance, but at night he felt more at home, and when he had finished the act and ran out into the dressing-tent, with the applause of the crowd ringing in his ears, he was happier than he had been or ever hoped to be in his life. The next day Clyde got him a beautiful red suit of his own, with silver spangles all over it, and a white wig to cover his red hair, which, it was found, did not match with the red of his suit at all.

In a week Patsy was up again, had rejoined the circus, and was able to go on with her act. If it had been any one else than she, Christie would have very seriously objected to his return to the peanut-stand. But as long as it was Patsy, he was only too glad to see her out and able to start again on their long walks. But now that the ice had been broken, and Christie had been tried and not found wanting, Patsy often resigned her place in his favor, and he had many opportunities to wear the red tights and the white wig.

And yet Christie was not perfectly happy. He had seen so much of the Boyntons that he knew their affairs pretty well, and his New York training had not dulled his powers of taking in a situation. He knew that Mrs. Boynton was not altogether happy in her present position. She had left a comfortable home to run away with a circus performer, and had gradually drifted into the business herself. As time wore on, and the romance wore off, she put the blame of her position more and more on the man who had taken her from her home. As for Boynton, he worshiped his wife as much as men usually do who marry above them and are never allowed to forget it. He tried to keep her out of the ring and away from the public, but as long as

she had to spend her life traveling she insisted on doing a turn, as it gave her a certain amount of excitement and a little more money for the winter months, when they were idle.

Now Christie had noticed that the relations between the two had been very strained of late, and he thought he knew the cause. There was a man connected with the business part of the circus who had been very attentive to Mrs. Boynton, and Christie saw that the husband was desperately jealous. The woman had always borne such a good reputation in the company that no one attached any importance to the affair, regarding Mrs. Boynton as perhaps a little foolish, but nothing more. The flirtation had been going on for several weeks, when they came to a little one-night stand in Connecticut. Patsy and Christie had gone out for a walk after the afternoon performance, and had eaten their supper in the tent with the other employees on their return. When Christie went to his stand that night the man asked him if he had heard the news.

"What news?" said Christie.

"Only Mrs. Boynton has run off with the business manager, Ross. That's all."

Christie looked very serious, and ran his fingers through his red hair. He had never had any experience in domestic tragedies before, and as a friend of the family his duties were not at all apparent to him at first; but after a few minutes' hesitation he went to look for Boynton. He found him alone in one of the small tents. It was dark, but Christie could hear him sobbing like a child.

"Do you and Patsy do the turn to-night, Mr. Boynton ?" he said.

Boynton looked up suddenly, and then, seeing who it was, said:

"Yes, Christie; if I never do it again."

Christie stood for a moment in the doorway. He saw the man who had been as good as a father to him with his head buried in his hands and shaking from head to foot like a leaf trembling in the wind.

"Clyde would hardly expect it," he blurted out; "and really, Mr. Boynton, I 'm afraid you 're not fit."

"Don't you worry, Christie," said Boynton; "I'll be steady enough when the time comes."

But Christie did not think so. He saw the danger of accident or even death for the girl. He started off in pursuit of Patsy. He found her just as she was going into the women's dressing-tent. He recognized her by her long white ulster, and a big hat that shaded her pretty, delicate face. He called to her, and when he came up he saw that she knew nothing of what had happened.

Patsy," he said, "I'd like very much to do the turn to-night."

"Why?" said Patsy.

Now Christie was usually very prompt with an answer, but it was different to-night as he talked with Patsy. He was very ill at ease, and hesitated some time before he spoke.

"Well," he said, after a long pause, "there's some boys out there in front, and I think I'd like them to see me in my red tights and the spangles, see?"

"Oh, all right," said Patsy; "I don't care." "Do you mean it?" he replied. "Thank you ever so much."

"YOUR hand's as cold as ice," said the ringmaster, as he led Christie out.

"Think so?" said Christie. “Great house, is n't it?"

In a minute he was on the horse's back, and a moment later Boynton was holding him out at arm's-length. Christie saw that the rider was doing the act unconscious of everything about him. The man seemed dazed, and moved mechanically. If the horse had not been so well trained the act must have ended at once in a failure. As it slowed down to a walk Christie gave vent to a long sigh of relief. "That was easy enough," he said to himself; "but I wish I was over those five sticks."

The hurdles were brought out, and the horse started on a slow gallop around the ring. Boynton, who was probably unconscious of what he was doing, or over-anxious to get through the act and be alone away from the awful crowd, suddenly yelled to his horse. Christie, who was standing on the man's shoulders, felt the animal make a sudden start, and just managed to steady himself for the first hurdle.

"One-two-three-four," he counted, as the horse jumped each hurdle. In another second it would all be over. At the exit he saw Patsy standing. She was leaning against the band-stand with her hands stuck deep down in the pockets of her ulster. Then he looked at the man holding the last hurdle. As the horse jumped each stick, the man always lowered it;

but now he was looking away from them, and might not lower it in time. The blood rushed to Christie's head. He felt as if a furnace was raging within him.

"Lower that hurdle, you d―!" The rest of the sentence was lost in the yells of the men and the shrieks of the women. The audience was on its feet. The horse had hit the stick with one of its fore-feet. The man fell uninjured, but the boy was picked up with a deep cut just over his temple.

The ring-master called for any doctors that might be in the audience, and a little group of men followed the two attendants that carried the boy into the big dressing-tent. They laid him on a wooden chest, and covered the little body with the spangled clothes that hung about the tent. When he opened his eyes he saw the three Boyntons standing by his side. "So you came back, did you?" said Christie.

"Yes, Christie. I hope it's not too late," sobbed Mrs. Boynton.

"It's never too late," he said. "You 're never goin' to leave Patsy again though, are you?"

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"That's good, that 's good," said Christie. "But what's the matter with the band? Why ain't it playin'? And the lights, they're all goin' out. Say, please don't leave me alone here when I'm hurt."

The proprietor stood in the background, biting his nails. One of the attendants tiptoed noiselessly across the floor of the tent to his side.

"The audience, Mr. Clyde ?" he said. The proprietor looked up sharply. "The audience be

He did not finish the sentence, for he saw the little group about Christie slowly turning their backs on the little rider and moving away.

"I guess you'd better tell 'em it's all over," he said. Charles Belmont Davis.

THE BIRD'S SONG, THE SUN, AND THE WIND.

THE

HE bird's song, the sun, and the wind —
The wind that rushes, the sun that is still,

The song of the bird that sings alone,

And wide light washing the lonely hill!

The spring's coming, the buds, and the brooks-
The brooks that clamor, the buds in the rain,
The coming of spring, that comes unprayed for,
And eyes that welcome it not for pain!

Charles G. D. Roberts.

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THE COFFEE-HOUSE.

THE COFFEE-HOUSE, MAARKEN.

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AT nine o'clock the

coffee-house is full. It is a long, low room, well smoked as to ceiling and walls and well sanded as to

floor, and although it is the official meeting-place of the town, where the burgomaster and the principal men of the locality congregate, it can hold them all, and still give bench-room to the chance stranger.

A high-backed, oaken bench, well polished by use, follows the wall on three sides, leaving space for the high, white-tiled fireplace. The fourth is occupied by a leaden-faced bar, or counter, well garnished with the tall delft jars in blue and white with shining brass tops, wherein is contained the material for the goodly array of clay pipes in the racks overhead. Small, round tables are set before the bench, leaving the center of the room free. The bench itself is well occupied by a line of stolid, substantial-looking, ruminating Hollanders smoking furiously, the gray wreaths of pungent vapor slowly curling upward about the hanging models of vessels, high as to poop and rounded as to bow-models of the time of Van der Decken.

Only occasionally does a mynheer remove his pipe to let fall a sentence epigrammatic in its terseness. Your North Hollander speaks

VOL. XLIV.-60.

slowly, and is economical with his words. He

neither looks for nor attempts smartness of repartee; does not smile easily; and rarely tells a story, because all the stories are known and worn threadbare by repetition, and he is shy of new ones. If one listens to the talk one finds that it is of the sea. Everything in Maarken belongs to the sea. How can one be interested in crops that are grown in tubs; in farms that number feet instead of acres; in land brought from Amsterdam at that, for Maarken is all sand? Then, again, when one goes abroad in Maarken, one must either walk over the water on bridges or sail upon it in a boat, and even the housetops are ornamented with bellying nets hung up to dry, and with long masts from which Juvrowe flies a signal of welcome to Hnedrik or Nikolaas on his way home in his blunt-bowed, lee-boarded tjalk.

E

A PEASANT.

E

TOWN-HALL.

It is in the coffee-house that your talker, your romancer, is discouraged. He is quickly made to understand by means well known to the phlegmatic frequenters that they will have none of him; that he must either observe the proprieties. well established there, or go away at once.

In the coffee-house whist is much in vogue- an excellent method of disguising the poverty of conversation, or of excusing the lack of it. So happily

457

constituted are the players, that with the exception of an occasional grunt of pleasure or dismay, as it so happens, when a card is laid down, and the contin

CARD-PLAYERS.

gings. Still stirring the coals, he seated himself beside the stranger, and looked him critically over from the corner of his eye. The inspection seemed to be satisfactory, for he offered his tobacco-box with a ceremonious bow. The stranger accepted, and bowed in return, and uous puffing of the salutation was repeated by the mynheers pipes manufac- on the slippery bench; which formality being turing fragrant at an end, the burgomaster, filling his pipe, fog, the silence ejaculated:

is well-nigh unbroken for, I was about to say, hours at a time. This evening the current was interrupted excitement reigned; that is to say, as much excitement as could be permitted within the hallowed precincts of the coffee-house. A stranger was present. Enough would it have been had the stranger been a countryman from Sneek, or even from Monnikendam; but lo! this was no common, every-day stranger, actually sitting in the corner by the tilegarnished fireplace, drinking his thin beer and smoking a new clay pipe as stolidly as if he had occupied the spot for a score of years. This bearing of his conferred a dignity upon him in the eyes of the mynheers that they could not conceal. Whist languished, pipes went out and needed relighting, a necessity in itself marvelous and hitherto unheard of. Whispers were heard from the burgomaster's corner. The mynheers slid along the polished bench until they were all in a knot, with their heads together about the burgomaster's. The whispers became louder; horny palms smote one another; an unheeded pipe fell to the floor, and broke in pieces with a metallic click. The group parted, and it was evident that a crisis had arrived. The burgomaster drew apart in a dignified manner, and approached the stranger. The others also slid their persons along the polished settle in his direction. The burgomaster bowed, ejaculated, "Dag, mynheer," seized the poker, and made shift to stir the lumps of glowing charcoal in the brass box on the hearth.

It was like a scene from a comic opera, with the line of fascinated mynheers in very small skull-caps perched upon their shock heads, bright neckerchiefs fastened with huge gold buttons, coats abbreviated as to tails and tight in the waist, and breeches of indescribable width. There was, however, a trifle more of dignity in the dress of the burgomaster. His was a long-tailed coat of clerical cut, a widebrimmed felt hat, knee-breeches, and leg

"Van Amerikaa?"

"Van Amerikaa," avowed the stranger.

"Van Amerikaa," triumphantly sounded in chorus the mynheers on the bench. There was a long pause, during which heavy volumes of smoke arose.

"Nord Amerikaa?" asked the burgomaster in a doubtful tone.

"Nord Amerikaa," responded the stranger.

"Nord Amerikaa," sounded the chorus of mynheers, nodding to one another in great enjoyment of the perspicacity of the burgomaster. Another long interval followed, during which the mynheers allowed the fact to percolate through their gray

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matter.

"New York?" suddenly called out, in a burst of genius, a fat fellow, with an absurdly thin neck and an emaciated head, who sat at the farthest end of the bench.

The stranger's answer to this brilliant inquiry was breathlessly awaited. Finally, when he had succeeded in lighting his pipe, he nodded. With a sigh of relief the mynheers gravely repeated the nod to one another, and all settled back on the bench.

BURGOMASTER.

Here the burgomaster began to shuffle his feet and to blink his eyes. He was evidently formulating an interrogation, but before he could get it in form, from the emaciated head on the end of the bench came in jerks: "New York has got a Brasident-Gleveland, heh? Shoo-fly! I spik Engelsch!" Much to the disappointment of the mynheers, who evidently regarded the speaker as a scholar of the first magnitude, the stranger did not vouchsafe any reply to this piece of information, but

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