ad placed in his
strong young hands.

He stood for a moment, awed by the wonder of the granite walls that rose
like a vast fortress, towering above him, silent and motionless. Then he
gave one clear whistle, then listened. Almost within stone's throw came
the response the half-sad, wholly eager whine of a dog. Maurice was
beside him in a twinkling, patting and hugging the beautiful animal, who
lay, with shining eyes and wagging tail, his forepaws resting on the
coarse canvas which bore, woven redly into its warp and woof, the two
words: "Canada Mail."

What a meeting it was! Boy and dog, each with a worthy trust, worthily
kept. But it was one, two, three hours before Maurice, footsore,
exhausted, and with bleeding fingers, followed by Royal, panting and
thirsty, regained the trail where the horses stood, ready for the onward
gallop, three of them failing to understand why they were to be left in
the lonely forest, while the fourth was quickly bridled, packed with the
mail sacks and Maurice, and told to "be careful now!" as he picked his
way down and around the bridgeless gorge and "hit the trail" on the
opposite side.

It was very late that night when the men at the mines heard the even
gallop of an approaching horse. Many of the miners had gone to bed
grumbling and threatening when no mail had arrived and no wages were
paid. The manager and his assistants were still up, however, perplexed
and worried that, for the first time, old Maurice Delorme had failed to
reach the camp with the company's money bags. But up the rough makeshift
of a road came those galloping hoofs, halting before the primitive
post office, while the crowd gathered and welcomed a strange trio. The
manager himself lifted poor, stiff, tired "Little" Maurice from the
back of an equally stiff, tired mountain pony, while a hot, hungry
hound whined about, trying to tell the whole story in his wonderful dog
fashion; but, when they did hear the real story from Maurice, there was
a momentary silence, then a rough old miner fairly shouted, "Well, by
the Great Horn Spoon, he's old Maurice Delorme's son all right!" Then
came--cheers!

The Whistling Swans

For several evenings early in October the North Street boys had been
gathering at Benson's to try and organize a club, but the difficulty
seemed to be to decide upon what kind of a club would be most
interesting. The ball season would soon be over, the long winter would
soon be on them, and things