Amy's Trip to the Seashore.

For seven long weeks Amy had been under the doctor's care, suffering from Chorea; she had grown thin and pale, and her mother was beginning to worry over her condition.

"What do you think, Lucy, of sending Amy to Atlantic City?" she asked one day when they were consulting what had best be done for the child.

"Dear sister, I feel sure the salt air is the best tonic for nervous trouble. I will take Amy down, but you know it is impossible for me to stay away for any length of time, as I have an important engagement for the summer."

"Well, I shall write to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, begging them to receive our invalid for a few weeks."

Mother Evans, who was Mrs. Allen's particular friend, answered the letter, saying she would gladly care for the little girl, and that she could be sent down as soon as convenient.

When Amy heard of the proposed trip, she was delighted, then upon reflection, expressed herself as being afraid to meet so many strange girls, but when she saw a nice little trunk packed with every article of clothing, suitable for a sojourn by the sea, she was anxious to begin the journey.

When all was ready, Mr. Allen decided that they should take a very early train, so as to arrive in a strange town in full time to be at their destination before dark.

Bo heard the sound of wheels, and looking out saw the pony chaise at the door, Amy gave her mother a fervent good-bye kiss, then all got into the chaise. Bo sprang on the seat, seized the reins, and was soon driving quickly down the road. They were not long in reaching the station. Amy was interested in watching the important business of procuring tickets and seeing her pretty trunk labeled; she wondered if she would be as well equipped as the other girls in the convent, but she need not have wondered, as there are so many little girls and boys, whose treasures bear ample evidence of Mother's loving hands. Those little touches of motherhood, hardly noticed by those whom they are so tenderly lavished upon, seldom, if ever valued until after those dear hands have been removed to another sphere, whence, perhaps, they may be sometimes allowed to come, unseen by mortal eye to bear the loved ones up, whilst these may be longing wearily for that sweet "Touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still."

It was a delightful place to visit, that convent by the sea, and many a pleasant hour Amy spent watching the waves come in on the white sands and break over her bare feet. Sometimes she donned her bathing suit, and paddled in the water with the other children, one of the Nuns always watching over them.

It seemed nothing short of a miracle how quickly the child recuperated. At the end of six weeks she had so far recovered that her mother, who had come to visit her, thought to take her home, but Mother Evans recommended a stay of sometime longer, so it ended in a visit of twelve happy, joyful weeks.

The kind Nuns became very much attached to Amy, and she to them, and dear Mother Evans began her preparation for First Holy Communion.

August was nearing its end when Mrs. Allen paid another visit to Atlantic City, this time, to bring her little girl home. She took board in a cottage near the convent, wishing to enjoy a few days of sea air.

One day when seated on the beach, both mother and daughter silently watched the waves as they came in gentle ripples almost to their feet. Amy awoke from her reverie, exclaiming: "Oh, it is so beautiful!" She had been reading of the early explorers of our country, the self-sacrificing missionaries who crossed this same boundless ocean, which now lay so calm before them. Amy went on musingly, as if talking to herself, such a softness had come into her voice—her eyes took a dreamy far-off look, as though it were fresh in her mind—the story of the gallant De Soto and his brave company of six hundred men, the flower of Spanish chivalry, leaving the sunny slopes of his native Estramadura, sailing across these unknown seas, and landing upon these western shores; day after day pressing on through pathless wilds, on towards the sunset, in pursuit of that fabled El Dorado in which they thoroughly believed. And then that sad death upon the banks of the river which his eyes first of all Europeans had beheld—the sorrowing band who resolved to hide his body in the waters—the little skiff, in the gloom of the soft summer night, pushing silently out from the shadowy shore, with oars muffled and voices hushed, for fear of the savage arrows hidden among the dark vines—the dull sound as they dropped the body in mid-river, and the sweet, sad music as the priest sang low the requiem of the departed chief—the first requiem that had ever sounded upon those solitary shores, where the waves have for four hundred years chanted their long dirge over the man whose prowess first gave them to the world.

There was, too, the grand old Ponce de Leon, who saw one Easter morning, a land rise out of the Western Sea—a land lovely in all its luxuriant vegetation of a Southern spring, with breath and beauty of flowers. What better name could the romantic hidalgo devise than "Florida," and where more fitly than here could he search for that wonderous fountain of perpetual youth?

Ah, brave old Spanish Cavalier. Did no soft wind wafted gently from afar over the flowery sunset land, whisper to you that, instead of youth and life perennial you should find, under the magnolia shade—a grave?

A hundred wordless dreams went flitting through Amy's mind. I say wordless; for who shall say how we think; by what subtile art a thousand pictures pass swiftly on before one's fancy, all so lovely and beyond the power of language—I mean our language to describe.

For this reason it is, I suppose, that when a great poet speaks, all the dumb world recognizes what he unfolds. It is for us to feel, for him to paint.

Amy was a very serious girl for her twelve years, constant association with her mother and aunt had given her a taste for books which some might think dull for one so young, but she was always a dreamy child, from the time she used to lie in her baby crib and watch the round moon plowing through the feathery clouds, to this moment when she looks up at the blue sky spanning the boundless ocean.

When Amy and her mother returned to the convent they found that dear Mother Evans had been called to New York. Mrs. Allen made a hasty preparation so as to return home on the same train, happy in being able to avail herself of her dear friend's company on the journey. Amy bade good-bye to all the household, thanking the Nuns for their kindness during her sojourn amongst them.

Bo's Summer Adventures.

Bo too, spent a pleasant summer, he and several of his chums often went fishing, or hunting for wild flowers and curious stones, going into swampy places for specimens of plants, and sometimes coming home, as Hetty said, "Looking worse than Italian tramps."

One day Walter Rhue and Ned Thornton came to spend the day, Bo begged Hetty for a basket of luncheon, and off they went to have a day of it in the woods. It was the last week of August, rather warm, and after such a long tramp, they wanted to find a cool place for their picnic.

They reached a brook, which was usually so low that it could be crossed on some stepping stones. But today it was much swollen, owing to a heavy shower, which had fallen the preceding night, the water was three feet deep, and rushed angrily over the stepping stones.

Walter and Ned took up poles, and rolling up their pants, were about to pick their way through the noisy current, but Bolax stopped them, and said: "Look here, fellows, I'll show you how to cross a brook."

"You show me," retorted Ned, "I guess I can beat you at that business any time."

"I guess you can't," rejoined Bo, "just wait a minute and see how I do it."

He then stepped upon an old log on the bank of the brook, and grasping the drooping branches of a large tree, which grew on the opposite side, prepared to swing himself across. He pulled the branch as far toward himself as possible, and then leaped forward, shouting in boastful tones: "This is the way to cross a——"

Alas! For Bo and his boasting. The branch broke and his weight tore it from the tree, so, instead of swinging across, he fell with a tremendous splash into the water.

Walter and Ned burst into a fit of laughter, so uncontrollable, that they almost fell from the stones on which they stood. As soon as they could speak, Ned cried: "I say Bo, you had better take out a patent for your new way of crossing brooks."

But Bo was not prepared to enjoy his friend's joke. He was seated in the brook, with the water almost up to his chin. Seeing him so still, Walter went to the edge of the water, as near to him as possible and said:

"Bo you are rather in a wet place; why don't you come out of it?"

Bo then scrambled out, the water dripping from his clothes. Walter, with all his fun, was not without some thoughtfulness, and fearing lest Bolax's wetting might injure his health, urged him to hurry home to change his clothes.

"No, I'll sit in the sun and dry myself," replied Bo in a surly tone.

Ned tried to persuade him to run home, but he got angry with both boys.

"Bolax, you're a snapping turtle today, and I'll leave you to recover your good temper."

"I don't care; you may both go to the moon, if you like."

"Oh, very well, Mr. President, of the Patent Brook Crossing Company," said Walter with a provoking laugh.

"You shut up, or I'll throw you in the brook."

Bo did not usually show such temper, but his ducking had given him a chill, and made him nervous. Ned, the peace-maker, then remarked that it was silly for friends to quarrel.

"Let us make up and get you home, Bo, or Hetty will never give us another lunch for a picnic."

When Master Bo got home, he tried to sneak up to his room, but his mother caught him on the stairs, such a sight as he was! mud, slime, weeds clinging to his soaking clothes.

Hetty raised her hands, horrified at the condition of her favorite.

"Whar yous done ben? you is getten' dreadful. Dat's de second big scrape yous been in since you' sister been away."

"Why, Hetty!" exclaimed Mrs. Allen. "What else has Bo been doing? I hope you are not keeping things from your mother, my son. I fear something is very wrong with you. Did you get to confession last week?"

"Mamma, I was going, but Father Clement was so cross to a fellow, who did a couple of mortal sins, and the fellow said he got pitched out of the box, so I got afraid."

Ma—Did the boy tell you what the sins were?

Bo—I asked him, but he looked at me with such a face, and called me a "greeny."

Ma—Oh, you should not have asked him.

Bo—Well, I just wanted to know if his sins were like mine. I couldn't dare to go to confession, if he got put out for only two mortal sins, I would catch it, for I have committed such a pile of them.

Ma—Merciful goodness, child! When did you commit the sins? I was sure you told me all your thoughts and actions of each day.

Bo—I do pretty much, Ma, dear, but you see I have not been having many talks with you at night for a long time. You let me say my prayers alone.

Ma—My darling, I have been attending to poor, sick Papa, but I am sorry if my negligence has caused you to be careless about your conscience. Do tell me what sins you have committed.

Bo—Well, you know that night I came home late? I did not actually tell a lie, but I twisted the truth. Ma, dear, if I tell you all about that day, promise you won't get angry—Father Clement says anger is a mortal sin.

Ma—Never mind that, I take care of my own conscience, just tell me about that day.

Bo—Well, then, I went up to St. Thomas' as you know, after luncheon, while waiting for the train to come home, a freight car passed and slowed up. I heard a fellow say, "Hello," I said "Hello," too, and when I looked up at him, I saw he was a friend of mine.

Ma—A friend of yours!

Bo—Yes, Ma, dear, I often see that fellow when I am waiting at the station; his name is Warner. He let me on his train several times.

Ma—Oh, my son! how could you be so disobedient! Getting on trains when you know I have strictly forbidden it.

Bo—I know it was an awful mortal sin, and I came near being made to repent of it all my life. One of the college boys had made me mad, that was the reason I started for home. When I got to the station, Warner was standing on his train, he said: "Hello! are you the little kid that helped me stoke the fire last fall?" I said I wasn't a kid now; I was ten years old. "That's so," said he, "come to look at you, you're round as a barrel, but you ain't growed taller." Then I told him to shut up, and he said: "Oh, don't get mad, just step inside the caboose, I'll give you a ride to Dorton, and you can walk back home." I got into the caboose, and Warner laughed and talked, and I never felt the time going until we came to a standstill and I found myself at Lockfaren.

Ma—Great goodness, Bolax, it is a wonder you were not killed! Oh, how could you be so wicked, and who helped you home?

Bo—I never thought of the wickedness until I saw where I was. Warner laughed at me, and said I was big and fat enough to walk home. Then I said to myself, "ha! ha! old fellow, now you're in a fix. I can never walk twenty miles." Lockfaren is only a flag station, there was no light—not a house to be seen, only the thick woods all around. My heart stood still with fear. When I found myself stranded in that lonely place, I knelt down and made an act of contrition for all my sins, then I begged our Blessed Lady and St. Joseph to help me. I expected some wild beast would come out of the woods and kill me, for wild cats have been seen in that neighborhood. Suddenly it came to my mind to pray to the Angel Guardian, for the Engineer on the next passenger train that would pass, to make a stop. Oh, how I prayed! even more fervently than when I am sick, and you know how wonderfully I can pray then. Well, after a long wait in the pitch dark, for it was cloudy, and not even a star to be seen, I heard the welcome sound of a whistle, a bell rang, and I knew a train was coming. Sure enough it did come and stopped. The conductor and three men got out, each with a lantern, began examining the wheels; I jumped on the car, and when the conductor came in, I walked up to him and told the whole story. He listened and said: "Well, little man, it seems we stopped in direct answer to your prayer. Just as we reached Lockfaren, the Engineer warned me that the Wheels were grating as if there was a 'Hot box.' When we examined them, nothing was wrong." I thanked the Conductor and told him my name and where he could see my father to get the fare, but the kind man said he was only too glad to have rescued me. "I have a little boy of my own, so my heart warms to all boys, and I firmly believe kind Providence watches over them; in your case the stopping of the train seems almost a miracle in answer to your earnest prayer."

Ma—Why did you not tell me all this before?

Bo—Oh, dear Ma! I did not want to worry you. Papa was sick and Amy and Aunt Lucy away from home. It's no use scolding me now, it happened two months ago.

Ma—I know it happened two months ago, but dear, you should never hide anything from your mother. That good conductor should have been seen by your father, and thanked for his kindness, if not substantially rewarded.

Bo—Well, here is his card; I wish you or Papa would write to him and pay my fare. Kiss me, darling mother, and forgive me, and pray that I may never commit a mortal sin again.