careful not to hurt it," said Canning Forbes, sarcastically.

"I've got it!" declared Notty, without noticing Canning's cruel speech.
"Grayson is an Indian, a chief's son. You don't suppose he could have
made believe so well as all that, do you? That's it. I knew he was a
great person of some sort. Sh--h! he's coming."

Somehow the boys who had been able to peep out at the tableau did not
laugh at Notty this time. Paul, in his Indian dress, had greatly
impressed them all before he left the dressing-room, and certainly his
acting had been unlike anything the boys had seen other boys do. The
subject was talked over in whispers, so that Paul should not hear,
during the remainder of the evening, with the result that that very
night at least six boys told other boys or their own parents, in the
strictest confidence, of course, that there was more truth than
make-believe about Paul Grayson as an Indian. And the parents told the
same story to other parents, the boys told it to other boys, and within
twenty-four hours Paul Grayson was a far more interesting mystery than
before.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

[Illustration: "HAPPY AS THE DAY IS LONG."--FROM AN ETCHING BY W. S.
COLEMAN.]

THE PARASOL ANTS AND THE FORAGING ANTS.

BY CHARLES MORRIS.

Was there ever such a prattler as the warm-hearted little brook that ran
by the foot of the garden of Woodbine Cottage? To be sure, it had good
reason to be jolly, for the sunlight buried itself in its bubbles till
they sparkled like diamonds; and a hedge of roses overhung it, and
dropped crimson leaves that floated away like fairy boats on its bright
surface; and broad-winged butterflies floated, like tiny ships of the
air, above the happy stream. And away it ran, prattling and chattering,
and picking its way through moss-covered stones that lifted above its
surface, and tumbling hastily down in little cascades, as though it were
in a desperate hurry to get on in the world, and altogether misbehaving
itself just as any madcap little stream might when out on a frolic.

Its bank beyond the garden was bordered with the white and gold of
daisies and buttercups, and the red and green of blossoming clover, in
which Harry Mason was almost buried, only his bright cheeks and curly
hair showing out of this verdant nest. As for Uncle Ben, he was gravely
seated on the bank of the brook, holding his little friend Willie on his
knee. The little chap was quite as grave as his big uncle.