letter from me, not Jenny, that he foundhe said it almost knocked him over, and then he seemed to come to himself all of a sudden. He said he hadn't thought of me for weeks. It was just as if everybody in the old life was dead, and he and Jenny and the baby were all there was left in the world.

I was out of the hospital by that time, and back in my old place, though pretty weak. Of course the first thing I did was to hunt up Harry, for I hadn't forgotten him by any means, if he had me. I'd been having a fight for life, too, but it didn't equal his.

I got track of Jenny first, and went up there on a Sunday. I found the baby pretty low, and as for Jenny, you'd never 'a' known her. She'd lost all her pretty color, and there was a hard, hungry look in her eyes.

I mailed a letter to Harry from Lawrence, and inclosed a ten-dollar bill, telling him to start for Boston by train as soon as that reached him, and come straight to my wharf.

He did it. He got his breakfast, and, without even stopping to get a shave, he took the train home, and turned up here about five o'clock.

I vow I didn't know the poor feller. Why, he'd been the slickest-looking of our set, and now I took him for a hobo, sure the kind, the twenty thousand out of work were thought to be made up of. I'm inclined to think he was the kind they were made up of, mostly, but still I'm not setting up to judge.

We went right to Lawrence, but the baby was dead before we got there. I can't talk much about that. You see, Harry and Jenny have been just like my own folks for years, and the baby was named after me.

Oh, yes! They're all right now. Harry's got a very good place in our office, and they've got another flat and another baby, and they even keep up their life insurance.

But it isn't the same flat, and it isn't the same baby; and sometimes I think it isn't the same Harry and Jenny, either.

mies. Privately the enemies were greatly frightened themselves at this invasion by four-footed people.

The hissing, gobbling, quacking, cackling, increased in volume and terror.

Dash said something. Suddenly they all ran, Dash in the lead, for the opposite fence, and wriggled through into the open field on the other side. They did not look behind them; they did not listen, or they would have discovered that the noise had ceased, and that the feathered people were standing gazing at the place in the fence through which Dash, Bijou, Flipper, Wrinkle, and Daisy had disappeared. and on they ran, until, looking back, Daisy missed Wrinkle. "Dear, dear!" she cried. This stopped the others. "Where, "Where, where! oh where is my darling Wrinkle ?" He was nowhere in sight. Wrinkle was lost. This was the most terrible thing that had come to them. What would their mother say? Oh! could those terrible creatures have eaten him!

On

They turned back, Daisy leading them. On they walked, heads down, tails drooping. Could these be the frolicking puppies who made everybody laugh?

In a hollow out of which a big tree had been taken lay little Wrinkle, panting. He was not injured, but he could not get out. Daisy found him and gave a glad bark. How they jumped when they saw him! but they could not get him out. They hung over the edge, but they were helpless.

How hungry and tired they were! How they longed for their dear mother and home! At last, discouraged and hopeless, they lay round the edge of the big hole, looking at poor, tired Wrinkle.

Suddenly the four rose to their feet; their tails gave signs of life. They looked; all rushed to the far side of the hole, and then it did seem as if their tails would come off.

There were Ruth and Harry running over the field toward them. Coming more slowly, big brother George, the mamma who was so good to all of them, and the coachman.

"Here they are, the darlings!" said Ruth, who looked as if she had been crying. "Where is Wrinkle? Where is my own darling Wrinkle?" she asked, standing still with clasped hands.

George began to run, and nearly fell on top of Wrinkle. Down he jumped, caught

the dog in his arms, and scrambled out to Ruth, putting Wrinkle in her arms.

Then another procession went across the field, George leading, with Daisy in his arms. She did not understand him, of course, when he said, "You won't play this trick again. We'll put wire on the fences."

Mamma carried Dash, who looked so meek that you would never dream he had given an order, or led his brothers and sister through the enemy's lines.

Gipsey lay on the floor while her children were eating their supper of bread and milk, standing round the big pan.

This is what she heard:

"I never want to go into the world." This was Daisy. This was Daisy. The others said: "We will grow bigger, and go with mother." "I shall keep very close to her, very close," murmured Wrinkle, as she gave a sorrowful little sigh.

The Prairie-Dogs' Homes

The prairie-dog, as you know, is a queer little animal that makes its home in the ground, but near its neighbor. The habit of the prairie-dogs to keep together results in the making of villages known as prairiedog villages. It is said that these little animals do this to protect themselves from enemies and against the weather. It was thought that every hole in the ground in these villages represented a home of prairie-dogs, but this is not so. When Mr. and Mrs. Prairie-Dog begin housekeeping, they select a place where there is a possibility of getting food close at hand. When the prairie grass near their home is eaten, they dig another hole about which the grass is plentiful; from this hole to their home they dig a tunnel. It is said that the prairie-dog is as helpless as a rabbit; it cannot defend itself from the other animals who hunt it for food. If it is eating at a distance from its home, it cannot escape its enemies if it has to keep above ground for any distance. By digging a tunnel from the feeding-ground to its home, it can dart into it and escape. The worst enemy of the prairie-dog family is the rattlesnake, which devours its young. The prairie-dog, when it discovers that a snake has entered its hole during its absence, gives a peculiar cry, and then all the dogs near respond and begin filling the hole, entombing the snake. It is said

that the appearance of a snake always brings this cry from the dog who discovers it; the snakes will come out of any hole they have entered if a handful of dirt is thrown in the hole, for they know how the prairie-dog revenges itself, and they are on the alert to escape.

Who Was to Blame?

This is a book that belonged to our papa when he was a small boy. He lets us look at it sometimes, and tells us we must be careful and not tear it. When we were little he used to turn the pages for us, but now that we are big he lets us turn the pages alone; that is, we may take the book from the shelves and look at the pictures when we are alone. Papa made this book himself. His papa was in the navy, not in the war with Spain, but the Civil War, and papa cut the pictures from the picture papers and pasted them in this book. There are pictures of warships and soldiers and guns and camps. When this last war came, papa told Ned he would enjoy making a book of the pictures of this war, and Ned has. It is quite interesting to

see how different everything is the warships, the guns, and the battles.

Yesterday morning we woke up early. We have to keep quiet when we wake up, for papa says it's impolite to waken other people before it is time to get up. Ned and I got papa's book down to prove that a gun in one of the new magazines was just like one of the guns in the Civil War. We put the book on the table, and were turning the leaves, that is, Ned was, when I moved my elbow and put it on the corner of the page. I did not notice, neither did Ned. He turned the leaf and tore a corner, the corner under my elbow. We were greatly frightened, for we knew papa would be angry. Ned said he would tell papa he did it, but I say we did it. If I had looked where I put my elbow, it would not have happened. Ned says he should not have jerked the leaf. I think we did it, not Ned. What do you think?

The Queen in France

Queen Victoria was in France recently, and two incidents have been told that show the Queen's goodness and kindness of heart. She was driving when her carriage overtook a peasant's funeral. The poor people drew aside, but the Queen requested them to proceed, and her carriage drove for some distance behind the funeral procession. Another day a little child was passed in the road, who was crying. The Queen stopped, and gave the child a few small coins. He was so surprised that he stopped crying; doubtless he forgot the cause of his tears.

A Large Umbrella

If certain plans are carried out, an enormous umbrella, the largest ever made, will be seen in Paris next summer. The

handle will be a hollow metal column, to which will be attached cafés, musichalls, and rooms to be used for different purposes. Above the cover it is proposed to build a cupola to be used as a restaurant. This restaurant will revolve slowly, so that the people, while eating there, may see

the exhibition grounds. Elevators will carry the people to the different rooms under the umbrella, which is also designed to protect people from showers and from the sun, as it will spread over a great space.

Dropped in the Mail

One of the collectors of the New York Post-Office found, when he opened the mail-box, that everything in it was in motion. He began taking out the mail matter, when he was startled by a yelp, and in a moment a tiny pup poked his head through the parcels. He seemed delighted when he saw the man. When the collector picked him up, he found the pup was carefully tagged for a Western city, and on the tag was a two-cent stamp. The collector took the pup to the station to which he belonged. The little fellow was kept at the office, for there is no provision for sending dogs by mail.

Books of the Week

[The books mentioned under this head were received by The Outlook during the week ending April 21. Prices will be found under the head of Books Received in the preceding issue of The Outlook. This weekly report of current literature will be supplemented by fuller reviews of the more important works.]

BIOGRAPHY

The Outlook, in which Edward Everett Hale's James Russell Lowell and His Friends first appeared, naturally feels a special pleasure in seeing what so many of its readers found the most attractive feature of last year's Magazine Numbers, now printed in admirable and satisfying book form. The publishers have made of it a library model; type, size of page, printing, binding, cover-design, illustration, all are of the best. As to the work itself, our readers know that it carried out consistently and entertainingly the plan upon which it was written. Nothing was further from Dr. Hale's thoughts than to write a formal biography. The title tells the story. This book is good reading for those who care at all about its general subject precisely because it is informal, in a measure desultory, ready to stop consecutive narrative at any time to relate a characteristic anecdote or follow some enticing side-path. Dr. Hale knew Lowell and he knew many of Lowell's friends; he shows us the poet as he appeared to those who knew him best, and equally well he shows us the notable circle of people with whom Lowell was intimate. The chapter division, under such topics as "Literary Work in College," "Boston in the Forties," "Lowell as a Public Speaker," "As an Editor," "Politics and the War," "In Spain," " Minister to England," "Home Again," allows a freedom from chronological bonds while preserving reasonable consecutiveness. What Dr. Hale has to say in this book, like everything else he has to say, is interesting because he himself is interested. The volume is rich in anecdote, reminiscence, literary history. Its spirit is cheerful and optimistic. (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.)

In the Memoirs of Sergeant Bourgogne we have the personal narrative of one

of Napoleon's soldiers who fought at Jena, Eylau, Wagram, Lützen, and a dozen other battles, large and small. He died as late as 1867; in many ways he was a man of great force of character and individuality. His reminiscences of the disastrous Russian campaign are full of human interesta pitiful story of suffering and endurance. The pictures of soldiers' life are throughout lively and readable. Not as a historical or military record, but as a narrative of personal experience, the book has distinct value. (Doubleday & McClure Company, New York.)

It is gratifying to Americans that their countryman, Mr. Samuel Harden Church, by a passage in his History of Oliver Cromwell, published in 1894, incited a movement in England which, after temporary defeat, succeeded this year, when Cromwell's bust was placed by Her Majesty's Government in the Palace of Westminster. Curiously enough, this "official acknowledgment of successful rebellion," as Mr. Church has termed it, took place on the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the execution of Charles I., January 30, 1899. Mr. Church has fittingly observed the tercentenary year of Cromwell, who was born April 25, 1599, by a splendid commemoration edition of his work, Oliver Cromwell: A History (limited to six hundred copies), with eighteen illustrations in photogravure. It is much more than a biographical sketch, as many others are. It is an adequate story of Cromwell and of the events which conditioned his career, such as is not found outside of such general histories as Gardiner's. Even in such histories Cromwell's unique individuality is somewhat obscured in the crowd of other important characters. In Mr. Church's history it is drawn in striking contrast with that of his great adversary, Charles I. Mr. Church is not blind to the defects of the great Protector's colossal figure. But what even Liberals like Mr. John Morley and historians like Professor Gardiner have censured as cruelty in his slaughter of the garrisons (English more than Irish) of Drogheda and Wexford, is shown vindicable by such competent authority as the Duke of Wel