pain to shoot through his arm, and he found that his hand and
wrist were covered with blood. The scout's bullet had torn its way
through the flesh of his forearm.

He grew very faint, and had to clutch the saddle tightly with his knees
to keep from falling. His weak arm had served to hold the reins, but it
was good for little else. He was so dizzy that he could hardly see, and
he only dimly realized that he was close to the streams of light coming
from the windows of the village tavern. The sound of a galloping horse
brought several men to the tavern door.

"Raiders from Canada are coming! They're close by!" he gasped, then his
head swam round and he fell from the saddle. After that there was much
shouting and hurrying to and fro, and finally the beating of a drum and
the quick clang of the bell in the village church. But Noel, stretched
out on a table in the tavern, was undisturbed by all the turmoil.

* * * * *

Even Congress heard of what had occurred that warm July night by the
Canadian border, and when the war was ended, Noel Duval was remembered
in such a substantial way that he was able to provide a good home for
his mother and the old Widow Marston and for little Ninette, and to keep
poverty from ever again pinching them.

One day in the autumn, Noel, who was now quite well of his wound, was
asked to come to the drill-ground. Jacobus Boonter met him, and led him
to where the company of boys were drawn up in line. "Noel Duval," he
said, "we ask you if you will please be our captain?"

THE LAZY HOUR.

So bright are the branches,
The shadows so cool,
So dark is the water,
So deep is the pool,
So hard is the lesson,
So hot is the school--
If I were the son of a merman
I never should hear of a rule!

Light as the arrow
Springs from the bow,
Off the big ledges
Down I should go
Into the hollow
Whose secret I know,
Up I should come like a bubble,
Shake off the water and blow!

Now for a breast stroke
Under the tide--
Arm o'er arm sweeping
I float on my side;
Deep in green crystal
Slowly I slide.
There goes the class up in Caesar!
I wish I'd a corner to hide!

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

ARTIFICIAL ICE.

Sign-boards bearing the legend "Boston ice" over the doors of cellars
and other places where ice was kept for sale have long been a familiar
si