em of their rights."

"By the new system?"

"By having wrecks prevented, and saving the property for the owners."

"Isn't that strange! Did you say they were good men?"

"Some of 'em. Honest as the day is long about everything else. But they
weren't all so. There was old Peter, and he lives on the Island yet.
There's his cabin now. You can just see it in the edge of that great
sand-hill."

"What a queer thing it is!"

"Sometimes the storms drift the sand all over it, and old Peter has to
dig it out again. He's snowed under two or three times every winter."

They were now coasting along the island, at no great distance, and,
although it was not nearly noon, Dab heard Joe Hart say to his brother:

"Never was so hungry in all my life. Glad they did lay in a good stock
of provisions."

"So am I," returned Fuz. "Isn't there any such thing as our getting into
the cabin!"

No, there was not, so long as Mrs. Kinzer was the "stewardess" of that
expedition, and Joe and Fuz were compelled to wait her motions.

(_To be continued._)

THE FOX AND THE TURKEYS; OR, CHARLEY AND THE OLD FOLKS.

By Susan Coolidge.

[Illustration: [A cunning fox perceived some turkeys roosting securely
on the bough of a high tree. Unable to climb, he resolved to get at them
in another way. Night after night he stationed himself beneath the tree,
and there played off all sorts of curious tricks. He jumped, he capered,
he turned somersaults, he walked on his hind legs, he pretended to be
dead, he raised and expanded his tail until, in the moonlight, it looked
like a flame of fire,--in short, he performed every antic conceivable.
The turkeys, who, to sleep in safety, had only to turn their backs and
forget the fox, were so agitated and excited by his pranks that for
whole nights they never closed their eyes; the consequence was that they
lost strength, and one by one dropped from the bough and into the jaws
of Renard, who soon made an end of them.

_Moral_.--It is unwise to concern one's self with the tricks and antics
of mischievous persons.--_La Fontaine's Fables_.]]

It was midsummer at the old Brush Farm. When I say "midsummer," how many
pretty things it means,--woods at their freshest and greenest, meadows
sweet with newly cut hay, cinnamon-roses in the hedges and water-lilies
in the ponds, bees buzzing in and out of the clove-pinks and larkspurs
which edge the beds of cabbages and carrots in the kitchen-garden, a
humming-bi