eventy-three years before.

"'It is yours,' said Ok-wa-ho, placing it in my hand. 'See, the sun
shines on it; perhaps that will lessen the darkness of the deed, but
I obeyed the Indian law. Seventy-three years this knife has lain
buried. [Fact.] It was the last law, the last law.'

"That night Ok-wa-ho began to hammer and beat and mold these silver
links. When they were finished he welded them firmly to the tomahawk,
and, just before he went up the long, long trail, he gave it to me,
saying, 'This blade has never tasted blood, it will never have dark
spots on it like those on the knife. The silver chain does not tarnish,
for it means peace, and brotherhood of all men.'"

Queetah's voice ceased. The tale was ended.

"And peace has reigned ever since?" asked the boy, still looking at the
far-off sky through the branches overhead.

"Peace has reigned ever since," replied Queetah. "The Mohawks and the
palefaces are brothers, under one law. That was the last Avenging Knife.
It is Canadian history."

The Signal Code

Ever since Benny Ellis had been a little bit of a shaver he had played
at "railroad." Not just now and again, as other boys do, but he rarely
touched a game or a sport before he would ingeniously twist it into a
"pretend" railroad. Marbles were to him merely things to be used to
indicate telegraph poles, with glass and agate alleys as stations.
Sliding down hill on a bobsleigh, he invariably tooted and whistled like
an engine, and trudging uphill he puffed and imitated a heavy freight
climbing up grade. The ball grounds were to him the "Y" at the Junction,
the shunting yards, or the turn bridge at the roundhouse, for Benny's
father was an engineer, who ran the fast mail over the big western
division of the new road, where mountains and forests were cut and
levelled and tunnelled for the long, heavy transcontinental train to
climb through, and in his own home the boy heard little but railroad
talk, so he came by his preferences honestly.

"Well, Benny, been railroading to-day?" his father would often ask
playfully, on one of the three nights in the week when he was home,
with the grime of the engine coal-oiled from his big hands, and his
blue over-jeans hanging out behind the kitchen door.

"Yes, daddy," the youngster would begin excitedly, and climbing on to
the arm of his father's chair, he would beat his little heels together
in his eagerness to get the story out in speech, and proceed to explai