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POINT ROCK

BY FRANK STICK

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THE river winds around the base of the cliffs in a big curve that incloses several miles of pine and hard-wood forest in a sort of gigantic horseshoe. When seen from the foot of a widespreading white oak just above Point Rock, it resembles the practical omen of good luck to such an extent that the natives thereabouts have given this particular part of the river the name of Horse-Shoe Bend.

The oak that capped the bluff marked a favorite rendezvous for a boy and a dog I knew in my golden days, who, when tired with rambling over hill and down dale in search of squirrels and other small game, sought a suitable spot at which to enjoy the well-earned luncheon. There was never any regular hour for lunching-no twelve o'clock whistles or schoolhouse bell to be obeyed. If he was hungry the boy was wont to argue that there was mighty little chance of a fellow's seeing game during the heat of the day-which might mean almost any hour between 10 A.M. and 4 P.M. Many times, too, his decision to stop for lunch was due to the boy's thinking he noticed a hungry expression on the face of Bob, the dog. This fancy may have possessed a solid foundation, for beneath the love that existed between boy and dog, there had developed an understanding which is often lost about the time business or college takes the foremost place in a boy's thoughts.

A few rods below the oak, a cold, clear spring bubbles up into a little rock-rimmed basin and from there falls in a succession of tiny cascades to the river. This spring was one of the many attractions of the point, and you may be

sure the boy never neglected to refresh himself with its grateful coolness, ere he dipped into the satisfying substantials contained in the lunch-bag.

He always lingered for a time after eating, lying flat on his back, hands clasped under his head, feasting his eyes in their turn on the loved stretch of country below him. Every curve in the river, every grove and each tiny break in the timber became imprinted on his mind and possessed for him some secret individuality. Many of the rocks and trees were landmarks of events in his excursions in hunting or angling-the lightning-gashed trunk of the beech tree, where, one evening in early autumn, Uncle Lou's coon hounds had treed a lynx; the crooked cedar that marked the dens of those wily old foxes who defied his trapping knowledge for several winters. Almost directly below were Wild Cat Rapidsthe head of a pool from which he had enticed many a sizable bass and channel-cat. And some distance down the river Baily's Falls glinted in the sunlight and sent their many voices up to him, there on the point.

The picture he saw from his perch beneath the oak never grew tiresome, because the tones and colors of it were ever varying. It changed not only with the seasons, which marked a huge difference, of course, but also with the days. There were cloudy days when all the landscape was grayed and simplified. Days of sunlight when the hills and opens seemed to throb and pulsate, and only the shadowed valleys and the point were cool. Sometimes he saw huge cloud-shadows sliding over his picture, and could almost feel them when they enveloped his tree. Now and then it stormed. Dark clouds would hurry up from the horizon, and soon there would come a veil of rain like a heavy gray cloud, pressing down the tree-tops and ruffling the peaceful river as it approached. There were outcropping rocks close at hand which made capital shelters, so the rain bothered him not one whit.

Mostly, though, there was the sun.

It is n't at all strange that the bigness and sweetness of this bit of "God's out-of-doors" should have impressed itself so deeply on his boyish mind that it influenced his grown-up life even to his innermost thoughts, and his days were the happier and his deeds the bigger and better because he had known this influence.

Sometimes I think it were good if every boy might learn the path to a Point Rock.

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THIS old darky and his team of dogs were once a familiar sight to the residents of Nashville, Tennessee, but they never failed to call a crowd of interested spectators. The old fellow was as proud of his horseless carriage as if he were the owner of the finest touring-car in the country, and he paraded the streets with as much joy as the most finished artist in the ranks of the chauffeurs. He had his faithful dogs in good training, using neither reins nor whip, but guiding them by a word of command. He had only to say "Start!" and off they went at a "dog-trot"; "Stop!" and they came to an immediate halt; a motion of his hand, and they swung around a corner as deftly as the swiftest little runabout. Usually he had eight dogs in harness and three outrunners, but occasionally the whole eleven were in the traces, and a pretty sight they made. Not only did they lend picturesqueness and interest to the streets of Nashville, but the lesson of patience and love and

fidelity taught by this humble old colored man and his cheerful little servants was one that lingered in the hearts of all who knew them. Sometimes they were out on a pleasure trip, as seen in the accompanying photograph, but more often we saw them with a little delivery cart, for Uncle John earned his living with these canine friends of his. Once he was asked if they were not more expensive than one good horse would be, and he replied: "Law, child! dey don' cos' me nuffin'. De man what Ah buys mah p'ovisions f'om, he gives me meat foh de dawgs."

Though Uncle John has emancipated his team of dogs and now drives a mule, several of his canine friends still live and follow him on his daily rounds; while in the hearts of Nashville's young people, and, indeed, of many who are no longer young, lives the memory of the happy, noisy little fellows who barked their joyful greetings in merry opposition to the "Honk, Honk," of the motor horn.

A TEAM OF OSTRICHES

BY LAWRENCE W. NEFF

FROM the time when the oldest books of the Old Testament were written, and doubtless long before that time, the ostrich and some of its peculiar habits have been more or less familiar to dwellers in those portions of the earth where the human race appears to have had its earliest home. The writer of the Book of Job speaks of the ostrich, and there are several other references in the books of law and prophecy. Even before their era the rich and flowing plumes plucked from the wings of these great birds were in demand for the adornment of the dusky Oriental queens, so that parties of expert hunters went on long and dangerous journeys to the desert to procure them. It remained for enterprising Americans to bring the ostrich-plumes to our very doors by bringing the ostriches themselves. Thus it came to pass that farms for growing them were established at various places in California and Arizona where climatic conditions were generally similar to those of their native haunts-the great deserts of western Asia and northern Africa. At these ostrich farms there are several thousands of the

adult and young birds, and the proper care of them has been reduced to a science as well as an industry.

None but very fleet horses can overtake the ostrich upon the desert. His strength enables him to carry a man upon his back and yet travel with remarkable speed. Upon a few occasions there have been exhibition races between a horse and an ostrich, each hitched to a racing sulky, and honors were usually divided. Yet it must be confessed that the ostrich is not strictly suitable for driving purposes. His stride at full speed is a trifle over twenty feet, and this is not at all conducive to the comfort of the driver; still less so when two are hitched together and are careless in the matter of keeping step. Of course a special set of harness is required to meet the needs of the case, but, as will be seen, this difficulty was overcome in a satisfactory manner. It is a strange spectacle to witness these gigantic birds, eight feet in height, trotting complacently along the highway and obeying the will of the driver as if they were to the manner born.

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THE TOWNSEND TWINS-CAMP DIRECTORS

CHAPTER XII

BY WARREN L. ELDRED

COUSIN WILLIE SEES A GHOST

AFTER the excitement which had attended the first few days at Beaver Camp, the boys were not sorry to have a period of calm, with no sensational developments to interfere with the quiet enjoyment of camp life.

On Sunday evening, they went up to Mrs. Spencer's and had an informal service of song about her piano, Tad and his mandolin joining in with the others.

Monday found them at work on the athletic field. This plot never would be ideal, but each day's efforts made it a little better, and Lefty hoped to commence base-ball practice by the end of the week.

Wednesday was clear and cool, so the boys attacked the athletic field again, and talked hopefully of arranging games with their neighbors.

Wednesday evening brought the first really startling experience of the week. It was Cousin Willie's turn to bring the drinking-water for the camp, so, when the others had gathered about the fire, he set off along the familiar path to the spring.

His courage was stronger than in days past, and he had grown somewhat accustomed to prowling around in the dark, so he took the lantern and pail and started on his way without any conscious shrinking from the unknown perils of the night.

Once within the shadow of the woods, however, he had to acknowledge a feeling of sudden fright. Something in front of him and a little to the right claimed his fascinated attention. It was tall-at least two feet taller than a man—and white. The formless whiteness seemed to slip in and out among the trees in a manner truly spectral, and the boy was sure that the figure drew nearer to him.

He rallied his rapidly waning courage, and tried to persuade himself that it was foolish to believe in the existence of ghosts. He even attempted to convince himself that the terrifying object was only a blanket which one of the campers had hung up in a tree and forgotten to remove. Still his knees trembled uncomfortably, and his teeth chattered. The report that the camp was haunted came freshly to his mind, and this increased his alarm. Had the ghost of Beaver Camp arrived for one of its reported visits?

He turned to retrace his steps, but just then a new and very reasonable idea occurred to him. Perhaps one of the campers, knowing that he must pass along that path after dark, had draped a ghostlike figure and placed it there to test his courage.

Well, he would just convince his companions that he had as much grit as any of them. It required heroic effort to turn about, pick up the pail, and walk resolutely forward, but his will power had been stimulated lately, and he forced himself to continue on to the spring.

He filled the pail with water and started back, a little astonished at his own "nerve," but thankful that every step would bring him nearer the camp-fire. Hurrying as fast as he could with his burden, he reached the clearing beyond the woods, and approached the boys grouped about the big fire.

"There's a ghost in the woods," he remarked casually, as if such visitors were quite usual. "A what?"

"A ghost. We heard that the camp was haunted, you know, and it looks as if one of the ghosts had come back to see who 's here." "It's probably a stray cow."

"No, it is n't, Eliot. Really! It was about eight feet tall, and white, and it had long arms, sort of stretched out."

"Wow! I'm glad I did n't meet it, kid! Where was it?"

"Not far from the spring-off in the woods." In spite of his effort to appear unconcerned, the boys could not help noticing that Cousin Willie had been frightened. They wondered what apparition had confronted him in the dark, silent woods.

"Shall we go forth and dare him to mortal combat?" Tom asked.

"Ghosts are not supposed to be mortal, you know," his brother suggested. "That makes it extremely hard to carry on any kind of combat with one. Of course I am ready to draw my sword in defense of Beaver Camp, but-erhad n't we better wait until the ghost comes out on the beach? There's so much more space here, and the light 's better, not to say—”

"Oh, look!" gasped Charlie. "There comes the ghost!"

"Two of 'em!" added Jack, excitedly. "What spooky things! They must be fully eight feet tall, just as Bill said!"

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