Harper's Young People, January 10, 1882

"Not a red-skin in sight," he remarked. "We'll go straight on down. There must be plenty of ways out of the valley."

No doubt of it, but the first business of those wanderers, after they reached the spring and unhitched their mule-teams, was to carefully examine every hoof-mark and foot-print they could find.

The fact that there had been lodges was proof that the Apaches were not a war party, but there was plenty of evidence that they were numerous enough to be dangerous.

"Glad Bill didn't pick a quarrel with such a band," grumbled Captain Skinner. "But how did he happen to show so much sense? I never suspected him of it."

This was not complimentary to Bill, and it was clear that the Captain's opinion of him had not changed.

"Some kind of an accident," he said. "Nobody need waste any time looking out for another one just like it."

It was getting late in the day, and a better place for a camp could not have been found.

"This'll do for to-night, won't it, Cap?" asked one of the miners.

"Of course it will. We'll try to move east from here, or south, when we leave it."

"Shall any of the boys go for game? Must be plenty of it all around."

"Game? Oh yes. Plenty of it, after a hundred Apache hunters have been riding it down for nobody knows how long. The red-skins leave heaps of game behind 'em, always."

This answer prevented any further remarks on the subject of hunting that afternoon. They had plenty of fresh meat with them, nevertheless, and there was no reason why they should not cook and eat.

There was a reason why they should not be altogether pleased with their camping ground. They found the coals of one fire still hot enough to kindle with.

"The Apaches haven't been out of this a great while," said Captain Skinner, "but the trail of their lodge poles shows that they set off to the west'ard. That isn't our direction. I don't care how far they go, nor how fast."

The other miners did not agree with him. Neither did they like the looks of the mountain range through which the Apaches had come.

"Danger behind us or not," said one of the men, "I move we spend a day or so in huntin' and findin' out jest what's best to be done before we light out of this. We must be getting pretty close to the Mexican line."

They were even closer than he had any idea of, but when their evening conference ended, Captain Skinner was outvoted, and a "hunt and scout" was agreed upon.

[to be continued.]

THE STORY OF A LITTLE DOG'S TAIL

BY HELEN MARVIN

Flash was the name of the little dog whose tail I am going to tell you about. Flash's master was a great actor, whose name was David Garrick. Flash and his master lived more than a hundred years ago.

One evening the family and a number of their friends were at a theatre in the great city of London. Flash's master was on the stage, playing his part, while Flash was in the audience, lying on his mistress's lap.

The play was almost over, when a big countryman, whom nobody knew, came out on the stage, and spoke a piece that was called the epilogue. Everybody asked, "Who is he?"

"I don't know," said Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was a great artist, and painted beautiful portraits, to Miss Angelica Kauffman, a lovely young lady, who was also very famous as an artist.

"I don't know," said Dr. Burney to his daughter, Miss Fanny, who had written a charming story-book.

"I don't know," said Dr. Samuel Johnson to his friend Mr. Boswell, who had taken the liberty to nudge the great man's elbow.

"Can you tell me who that actor is?" asked Mrs. Thrale, the wife of a very wealthy brewer.

"No, I can not tell you who he is," replied Mrs. Garrick.

At this the little dog in Mrs. Garrick's lap jumped to his feet, pricked up his ears, looked toward the stage at the big countryman, and began to wag his tail.

Wig-wag, wig-wag, wig-wag went Flash's tail, and Mrs. Garrick said, "Why, it is my husband; Flash knows his master better than his own wife does."

"Sure enough, it is Mr. Garrick!" they all exclaimed.

"We might have known it," said Miss Kauffman.

"Yes, yes: yes, yes," replied Sir Joshua Reynolds. "You see, my dear young lady, the little dog knew more than all of us put together."

This is how Flash Garrick recognized his master, and told everybody in the theatre by the wagging of his little tail.

This is a true story, and it happened, as I told you, more than a hundred years ago.

MY FAMILY OF ORIOLES.

BY W. O. AYRES

We were down in the country last summer, Fred and I, at Blackberry Farm. Fred is a bright, lively boy, nine years old, and everything there was novelty to him, for he had never been out of the city before, excepting once, when he was too young to notice and remember what he saw. Perhaps no boy who left New York in July enjoyed his vacation more than Fred did his two months at Blackberry Farm.

Among the residents at the farm-house was one Tiglath-Pileser, commonly called Tig for short, though Fred almost always gave him at least one of his two names in full in speaking either to him or of him. Tig was a very handsome Maltese cat, to whom his little mistress, who was very fond of him and very proud of him, had given this name of the old King of Assyria. Now Tig was a very industrious cat; he not only caught mice about the house and barn, but birds also out in the orchard, and once I saw him come in dragging a garter-snake much longer than himself.

One morning Fred came hurrying to the veranda, where I was sitting, closely followed by Tig, both of them in a state of great excitement.

"Oh, Uncle William, Tiglath has killed such a beautiful, beautiful bird! Only see! I made him give it up, though he tried hard to keep it."

And in fact Tig was at that very moment manifesting great dissatisfaction with the condition of things, and a decided determination to recover his property.

"Did you ever see such a beautiful bird, Uncle William? Tiglath-Pileser, keep your foot down. His head is so black and his breast is such a bright orange."

"Yes, Fred, there are few birds of more brilliant plumage which come so far north as New England. It is a Baltimore oriole, though if you should ask any one of the people about here, you would probably be told that it was a hang-bird, or perhaps a fire hang-bird – a name which they give it from the nest which it builds, and from its very bright colors. There are various species of orioles in other countries, but this and the orchard oriole are the only ones which are ever seen in New England."

"But why is he the Baltimore oriole if he comes here to Connecticut to live?"

"Who was the first Governor of the colony of Maryland, Fred?"

"Cecil Calvert, known as Lord Baltimore," replied Fred, in regular school-boy style.

"Yes; and when Lord Baltimore came to America his servants wore a livery of orange with black trimmings; and so this bird, which is very common in Maryland, was called the 'Baltimore oriole' from the colors of his coat. And it is very true of him, as it doubtless was of the servants just mentioned, that his wife and children are much more plainly dressed. The female bird and the young ones wear no such gay colors; you would scarcely suspect that they were part of his family. The people of Baltimore always speak of the oriole as 'our bird,' and if you had kept watch of the papers, Fred, you would have seen that last year in October, when they wanted to have a great festival to celebrate the completion of their splendid water-supply system, they called it 'The Baltimore Oriole Celebration.' Everywhere in the decorations, and in the dresses of the ladies, and in the scarfs and neckties of the gentlemen appeared the black and brilliant gold of the oriole."

"What does he live on, Uncle William? His bill is very smooth, and comes to a round, sharp point. It does not look as though he could bite anything hard."

"Ah! that bill, Fred, is a wonder. And it is not merely for eating that he uses it. You remember I told you the people called him hang-bird, because of the sort of nest he builds. Now that nest he never could build unless he had this curious bill. I must tell you a story about his mode of using his bill; but before I do it we will start out for a walk, and find one of their nests, if possible, even an old one of last year will do. We will put this dead bird away, so that we can examine him again. So, Tig, if you want a bird for your breakfast, you must go and catch another."