don't mean to be robbed."

The next moment my heart gave a great throb, for the shovel struck
something hard.

"Hold the lantern down here, Frank, quick!" I commanded in a hoarse
voice.

He obeyed, but to my disappointment the object proved to be a large
stone.

"I guess it's under that," I whispered, stopping work for a moment.

"Pop, there's another piece of paper," said Frank.

I stooped over and picked it up. I saw that there was writing on it,
and holding it up beside the lantern read:

"Dig three feet under the Beacon Tree and you will be an April fool."

Once again the truth flashed across me. The whole thing was a
practical joke.

"Boys," said I, "what day of the month is this?"

They reflected a moment and answered:

"Why, it's the first of April."

"Let's go home," I added, stepping out of the excavation, "and here's a
half a dollar apiece if you don't tell anybody about it."

As we moved mournfully away I was sure I heard a chuckling laugh
somewhere near in the darkness, but the author of it was prudent enough
to keep beyond reach.

It was not until three months afterward that I learned all the facts
connected with the writing found in a bottle. My neighbor, the father
of Arthur Newman, on whom I had played several jokes, adopted this
means of retaliating on me. He took my son and his own into his
confidence, and I am grieved to say that the young rascals were just as
eager as he. When I proposed to make the search on the last day of
March, my friend resorted to the subterfuge I have mentioned, so as to
insure that it should not take place until the following evening, which
was unquestionably appropriate for my first and last essay in digging
for buried treasure.

THAT HORNET'S NEST.

There was an indignation meeting of the boys at Bushville school, one
sultry day in August. From stress of circumstances it was held at the
noon recess, in the piece of woods back of the old stone building, and
on the banks of the crystal stream in which the youngsters swam and
revelled at morning, noon and night, during the long, delicious days of
summer.

All the lads, not quite a score, belonging to the Bushville school,
were present at the impromptu convention, but the proceedings were
chiefly in charge of the lads, Tom Britt, Dick Culver and Fred
Armstrong. There were but a few months' difference in their ages, none
of which was more than fourteen years, but all were so much larger and
o