nd of little Jimmy Duffy, youngest member of
the "Animal Rescue Club," that had saved it from a crueller death than
even old, heartless Niagara could have given it, and it was his hands
that gently removed the bars of the crate in the Duffys' big backyard.

"There, you beautiful thing," he said, as he removed the last slat,
"stay with us if you can, but go when and where you want. There are
no prisons around here."

But the next morning the swan was still in the yard. The ducks talked
to it, but its sad, wondering eyes and listless wings spoke louder than
words of its weariness and woe. Scores of boys came to see it that day,
and the evening brought Benson's father. After hearing the story all he
could say was: "It's a good thing for me that I was not there. I'm a
pretty big fellow, and can lick chaps that are even bigger than I am,
and if I'd caught that brute killing those uninjured birds, I'd have
thrown him into the Whirlpool Rapids, sure as you're born; I'd be
in jail now, and probably get hanged in the autumn. Yes, taking it
altogether, I'm glad I wasn't there!"

Of course, many of the townspeople were for having Jimmy confine the
bird, or at least send it to a museum, or enclose it in a wire netting;
but the boy replied:

"No, thanks. I have seen enough of them die, and I don't want my swan
to die of a broken heart."

But the swan stayed on day after day, seemingly content and happy. Then
there dawned a beautiful day in May. The sun shone hot and level on the
little backyard. In the middle of the morning a clear, musical, distinct
whistle brought Jimmy running to the side door. The swan's head was
uplifted, its crimson beak pointing away from the sun. Presently it
spread its regal wings and floated up, up, up. One more clear, lingering
whistle, and it was away, while Jimmy watched it with eyes both dumbly
sad and unspeakably glad, until it was but a radiant white speck sailing
into the north, to search for others of its kind.

The Delaware Idol*

[*This tale is absolutely true. The writer's father was the boy
who destroyed the Delaware idol, the head of which is at this time
one of the treasures in the family collection of Indian relics and
curios.]

Young "Wampum" sat listening to the two old hunters as they talked and
chuckled, boasted and bragged, and smoked their curious stone pipes hour
after hour. He was a splendid boy, this Wampum of the Mohawks, as quick
and lithe as a lynx. His face was