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CHAPTER V.

My own Adventures.

(Continued from page 15.)

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THE little town of Salem was situated at the foot of a mountain, consisting of wild and broken ridges, forming the boundary between the states of New York and Connecticut. Being now almost entirely at liberty, I spent a great part of my time in rambling among the mountains. In these excursions, Bill Keeler was my almost constant attendant. My uncle, disposed to humor me in everything, allowed me to dispose of my time as I chose, and permitted Bill to leave his work or school, whenever I desired his company, and this was almost every day.

This boy was, in general, very good

natured. He was ingenious in making whistles, and setting snares and traps for quails, partridges, and rabbits; in cutting fish-poles, attaching the hook to the line, digging worms for bait, and putting the bait on the hook. He had also a knack of putting the hook and line into the water in such an insinuating manner, that he always caught more and bigger fish than any one else. He was a dexterous swimmer, expert in strapping skates, formed the best flying kites in the village, made bows and arrows to perfection, and could gather more chestnuts, butternuts, and shagbarks, than any boy in the town.

All these various accomplishments rendered Bill Keeler a delightful companion to me, who, having been brought up in the city, had little acquaintance with those arts, so well understood by boys in the country. He was particu

larly devoted to me, partly because of his good nature, and partly because my uncle was so indulgent to me, that all around had caught his habit of yielding to my wishes.

But although Bill was thus clever, and thus obliging to me, he was so restless and enterprising, as always to be in some scrape or other. One day, he had seen the burrow of a woodchuck in a field behind the house of Mistress Sally St. John. So he took a large fox-trap, and sunk it to the level of the ground, in the very path where the woodchuck was accustomed to go. He then sprinkled it over with earth, so as to make it appear as if no trap was there. Next morning, pretty early, Bill went to see his trap, expecting of course to find that he had caught the woodchuck. But what was his dismay, on approaching the place, to find Sally St. John herself, standing bolt upright, screaming and piping with all her might, and throwing up her hands in despair! Bill went near enough to see that she had one foot fast in the trap. He then turned about, and left the poor school-mistress to be extricated by her neighbors. For this Bill got a sound flogging from my uncle, but he felt well compensated by being released from school for a month; for, during that period, poor Sally was too lame to resume her duties at the schoolhouse.

My companion's next exploit was equally serious. If there was anything on earth that he loved better than another, it was gunpowder. Why he had such a fancy for it, I cannot tell, unless because it was a noisy, tearing, dangerous thing, like himself. But be this as it may, he spent more than half the little money he could get in buying it. Every day he was touching off some old pistol-barrel, rammed full of powder; or he was trying to split a pepperidge log with it, by filling some knot-hole, and

exploding it. But his greatest delight was to get my uncle's gun, one of the real old "King's arms," taken at the battle of Princeton, and go forth with as big a feeling in him as that which inspired Nimrod, the first hunter that history tells about.

Well, one afternoon he got the gun, and he and I went among the mountains to hunt for something. Pretty soon we saw a squirrel, but Bill was so intent on killing a bear, a raccoon, or some large animal, that he scorned to shoot a squir rel. So we went on, and met with various kinds of small game, but none worthy of the attention of my heroic friend. We proceeded for some time, and finding no large game, Bill determined to shoot a squirrel if he could meet with one. But no squirrel was now to be seen. He gradually lowered his pretensions, until, at length, he was so anxious to shoot something, that he drew up at a wren, and was on the point of discharging his piece at it, when the bird flew away, and we saw no more of it.

It was now evening, and we were at a considerable distance from home. We walked along as fast as we could, and Bill, who was never out of spirits, beguiled the time by telling what he would have done, if something had fallen in his way. "If a wolf had come along in the woods," said Bill, drawing up the old piece, and taking aim at a mullen stalk, "and if he had come near enough, how I would have peppered him!"

Just at that instant we heard a rustling sound in a meadow, that we were passing. It was too dark to see distinctly, but Bill peeped through the railfence, and, saying to me with an emphatic whisper, "Be still; I see one!" he cocked the gun and brought the heavy old piece to a level with his eye. After a long, portentous aim, during which I winked so hard as nearly to put

my eye out-whang! it went, and Bill was stretched backward upon the grass in an instant, by the kicking of the gun! He very soon got up, however, and jumped over the fence to pick up his game. He was gone but a minute, and. when he came back he only said, "Well, I peppered him!" "Peppered what?" said I. "No matter," said he; and that was all I could get out of him. But the next morning one of Deacon Kellogg's cows was found in a thicket, shot through the head, and dead as a hatchet! Bill was obliged to confess, and my uncle settled the affair by paying thirteen dollars and forty-two cents. It was not till several years after, that Bill would tell me what he took the cow for when he fired at her. He then said, that his fancy was so full of shooting a wolf, and he was so ravenous to shoot something, that he really took the poor old cow to be a wolf, or a creature very like one.

The next event of my life, that seems worth recording, was very interesting to But I must reserve this story for another chapter.

me.

(To be continued.)

Origin of Words and Phrases.

A TAILOR of Samarcand, a city of the East, chanced to live near a gate that led to the public burying-place; and, being a fanciful fellow, he hung up by his shopboard a little earthen pot, into which he dropped a small stone, whenever a corpse was carried by. At the end of every moon, he counted the contents of the pot, and so knew the number of the deceased. At length, the tailor died himself, and, some time after, a person unacquainted with his decease, observing his shop to be deserted, inquired what had become of him. "Oh," said

a neighbor, "the tailor has gone to pot, as well as the rest!" And this is the origin of the phrase, "to go to pot."

Few words have so remarkable a history as the familiar word " bankrupt." The money-changers of Italy had, it is said, benches or stalls in the burse or exchange, in former times, and at these they conducted their ordinary business. When any of them fell back in the world, and became insolvent, his bench was broken, and the name of broken bench, or banco rotto, was given him. When the word was first adopted into the English, it was nearer the Italian than it now is; being bankerout, instead of bankrupt.

Though any man can put his pony to the canter, few are able, in general, to explain the word by which they designate the animal's pace. The term canter is a corruption, or rather an abbreviation, of a Canterbury gallop, which signifies the hand-gallop of an ambling horse. The origin of the phrase is as old as the days of the Canterbury pilgrims, when votaries came at certain seasons to the shrine of Thomas à Becket in that city, from all parts of the nation. Mailcoaches and railroads being then unknown, the pilgrims travelled on horseback, and from their generally using easy, ambling nags, the pace at which they got over the ground came to be called a Canterbury gallop, and afterwards a canter.

The word dun first came in use, it is said, during the reign of Henry the Seventh of England. It owes its birth to an English bailiff, by the name of Joe Dun, who was so indefatigable and skilful at his business of collecting debts, that it became a proverb when a person did not pay his debts, "Why don't you Dun him?" that is, " Why don't you send Dun after him?" Hence originated the word, which has so long been in universal use.

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THERE is nothing more interesting than to study into the works of nature, and remark their infinite variety. It is also pleasing to discover in all this variety, that each individual thing is adapted to fill a particular place in the scale of creation, and that it is often adapted to its end with wonderful ingenuity. The pelican affords a striking instance of this. It is made to live the life of a fisherman, and, being endowed with a strong appetite, we shall see how well he is fitted to his vocation, and how curiously he is provided with the means of securing and storing his prey.

This bird, of which there are several kinds, all being about the size of the

swan, is found in almost every part of the globe. Its neck somewhat resembles that of the swan, but its bill, and the pouch beneath, render it entirely different from all other birds. This bill is fifteen inches long, and at its lower edges hangs a bag, which, it is said, will hold fifteen quarts of water. When this is not in use, the bird wrinkles it up under his bill. The upper mandible is of a dull yellow in the middle, with a reddish tinge towards the edges, and a blood-red spot at the extremity. From this color of the bill, resembling blood, arose the idea, formerly entertained, that the bird fed its young with its blood. In disgorging the food, the full pouch is

pressed against the chest, and the red spot on the bill comes against the delicate plumage of the breast, giving the bird an appearance of tearing away its feathers and drawing its own blood.

Some years ago, there were a male and female pelican in the menagerie at the Tower of London. The female built herself a nest, in which she laid three eggs. She then commenced sitting with the utmost patience, never leaving her eggs for a moment. When the male was fed, following the plan dictated by nature, even in confinement, he crammed his pouch in the first place with double the portion of the food offered to him, and then emptied half the quantity into the female's pouch. This process over, they disgorged and devoured their food at leisure.

In his natural state, the pelican is very inactive, sitting for hours in the same posture. When he feels the calls of hunger, he raises himself over the surface of the sea, and holding one eye downwards, watches with keenness for the appearance of his finny prey. When a fish approaches near the surface, he darts downwards with great swiftness, and never fails in securing his prize. In this way, he continues his labors, ascending and descending, putting one fish after another into his pouch, until he has laid up enough for a meal. Being a large and clumsy bird, he rises in the air with great difficulty; and we may suppose that the long repose in which he indulges, and which has gained him a sad character for indolence and inactivity, is really rendered necessary by the toilsome nature of his fishing.

Pelicans are said sometimes to assemble in large numbers, and, rising in the air, hover about in a circle, gradually drawing nearer and nearer, thus driving the fish in the water beneath into a narrow space. They then plunge into the water suddenly, pick up their victims

with great rapidity, and store them in their pouches. If this be true, it is certainly a very judicious plan, adopted probably by the oldest and most experienced fishermen among them.

The pelican is capable of domestication, and some degree of instruction. The natives in some parts of South America are said to turn their fishing powers to good account, as the Chinese do those of the cormorant. They train them to go out on the water and fill their pouches with fish; and, on their return, they are made to disgorge their contents for the benefit of their mas-. ters, receiving a part only for their

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