caulking a boat, and Mrs. Eldredge following her daughter about with troubled eyes.

The noon dinner hour soon came. Turnips, onions, fried cod, brown pudding were in lavish quantities upon the table.

"What'd ye get done, Hi?" asked Sarah.

"Caulked only one side; she's aheelin' on now.'

"She'll be a-heelin' off ter-morrow and you kin finish the job," cheerfully replied Sarah.

“The fish house is a bit underminded," drawled Hiram.

"Oh, never mind; ye kin prop it up easy," encouraged Sarah.

"D'ye hear about Cap'en Eames?" queried Hiram lugubriously. "He wuz er-shinglin' the roof on his barn in that fog yesterday, an' the fog wuz so thick he shingled out too far, an' jest caught hisself when he wuz a-fallin' off'n the end of the ridge. pole. They had to get a ladder to get him where he wuz a-hangin' to the weather-vane post."

"Aha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" laughed Sarah; "aha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

Mrs. Eldredge and Hiram both started; Hiram recovering himself first, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and stared at his sister.

"This puddin's first rate," said Sarah, precisely as if nothing had happened. "Sauce just about right. Hev another plate, Hiram."

Hiram passed his plate, eyeing his sister as if she might be a dangerous

infernal machine.

"Hev ye heard about Mrs. Eden Butterfield's baby?" asked Sarah. "Only sixteen months old an' talkin' like a little parrot."

"It comes by talkin' honest. Eden Butterfield'd never selt that neu

ralgy cure by the ton without a gift of gab."

"Aha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Aha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" laughed Sarah. "Aha, ha, ha! Maw, ye're dretful clever."

Mrs. Eldredge's face was the picture of perplexity.

"I guess we've eat all the dinner there is," said Sarah cheerfully, pushing back her chair.

"D'ye feel well, Sary?" asked Mrs. Eldredge.

III.

Sarah stood in the doorway, looking out upon the sea. It seemed to her, this August Thursday morning, very beautiful; little waves lapping brightly upon the sand, sea-gulls glinting in the sunlight, the breeze blowing over the long dune grass and far out beyond the bar winged sails coming and going. Then she looked down at her garden by the cottage door; that was dry and colorless. Blue Love-in-the-mist looked gray, golden marigolds were shadowed with brown, the dahlias were too heavy-headed and the sweet peas were languid, with no suggestion of their crisp butterfly flight.

"What ye lookin' at, Sary?" asked her mother.

"At my garden, Maw; it don't look very cheerful. I've seen them as wuz brighter. There's Mrs. Butterfield's."

"Yes; but she ain't hed all our troubles."

"I dunno, Maw; she's hed her share. There wuz her brother what hanged hisself, an' her sister that died of the dippertheria, an' her first baby that didn't live, an' her mother that broke her leg, an'-"

"Well, I s'pose she hez hed some," grudgingly assented Mrs. Eldredge.

"That ain't neither here nor there, Maw. Some talk's like some people's

work, the kind that takes all day workin' 'round a peck measure. You don't get nowhere."

Sarah hurried briskly out to the shed and came back with a hoe.

"Sary, d'ye feel well?" asked Mrs. Eldredge for the tenth time at least. Mrs. Eldredge was thinking of 'Mandy and how she "wuz took."

"Yes, Maw, I do; never better. You an' Hiram might's well know I've made up my mind to somethin'. Praps ye'll understand me then. Tuesday night I wuz thinkin' about things an' I d'cided," Sarah dug her hoe in deep, "I d'cided we wuz all goin' crazy with gloom. I never seen Grandpaw when he wa'n't blue; Uncle Hi wuz alwuz moanin' over the judgments of the Lord; Paw didn't enjoy nothin'; ye're alwuz expectin' trouble; Mandy's out'n her head, an' Hi's that glum he ain't never set eye on a girl, an' I dunno's I ever heard him laugh. An', Maw, I've been the worst of ye all. 1 wuz thinkin' Tuesday night, after ye wuz in bed, supposin' Grandpaw, Uncle, Paw, Mandy, Hiram, you an' I hed all laughed real hearty every day, d'you s'pose we'd be what we are? I jest made up my mind to laugh every day as long as I live, an' laugh I'm a-goin' to."

"Sary Eldredge!" was all poor Mrs. Eldredge could say.

"Yes, Maw."

Mrs. Eldredge knew there was no use in talking with Sarah. This daughter had never done anything by halves, and now the signs were ominous. Mandy was mildly out of her head and "on the county," but Sarah-Mrs. Eldredge's heart sank down, down, down into a hitherto unknown abyss of melancholy. IV.

Jigs, even jigs, on the melodeon were now every-day occurrences to

which the mother and brother had resigned themselves. No one knew, of course, that Hiram sat down on the wood-pile oftener to listen to the jigs than had been his wont with the mournful psalm tunes of the past. Once he came into the house whistling, actually whistling the liveliest jig; seeing Sarah, he stopped short. Various aside conversations went on between Mrs. Eldredge and Hiram, all with the mournful conclusion that it was "dretful queer, an' it seems to be a-growin' on her." The mother did not confess that she herself stood more frequently by the door looking into the flower garden or that she noticed the brightness of lamp chimneys, milk pans, windows and other household articles; it was all merely "dretful queer."

When Sarah, laughing, told about the midnight teas held by Captain and Mrs. Eames, in which the cat Dixie took an extraordinary part, Hiram felt strange shivers run up and down his backbone, the corners of his mouth bothered him and he had a suffocating sense in the pit of his stomach of suppressing something. Mrs. Eldredge also experienced peculiar sensations. For weeks, however, they continued with lamentations to console each other for the laughter of Sarah. But one day the unexpected happened. Sarah was telling of Sophia Brown and her father, the Deacon.

"They wuz both opposed to the puttin' in of thet stove. Sophia said -you know how Sophia talks-if the Lord wanted stoves in churches in winter he'd put 'em there. But the new preacher t' Orleans wuz in favor of a stove, partic❜larly as his wife wuz kind of sickly, an' soap stones piled up 'round her didn't seem to make thet church less of a

tomb. But Sophia and the Deacon held out; an' there wuz a split in the church in no time. Last they wuz 'bliged to vote upon it, an' it went agin the Deacon's an' Sophia's faction. First Sophia said she wa'n't goin' no more to church, but her father kind o' got her out'n thet notion, an' she went. It wuz the first Sunday they'd hed the stove; some of the folks wuz rubbin' their hands cheerful like, an' some wuz fannin' themselves an' actin' faint. When Sophia struck the front door of the church she kind o' gasped like, but she marched right along to her pew and set down. Thet pew wa'n't so far away from the stove. Sophia fanned herself with her psalm-book and managed to make out pretty well, speakin' once in a while to Gamaliel Eames, who sat next to her. You know she ain't never been backwards in speakin' to Gamaliel, an' folks hez said she hed intentions if Gamaliel hedn't. Well, Minister Jones wuz in the midst of thet special part of the prayer where he alwuz said, 'We, Lord, we thank Thee, O Lord, thet we are the spared moniments of Thy mercy,' when Sophia let out a screetch an' fell right into Gamaliel's arms in a dead faint. Of course, everybody run to get things; Gamaliel didn't seem to know what to do, 'specially as Sophia'd fainted with her arms. tight 'round his neck. They fanned her an' sprinkled her with water, an' finally she come to, a-moanin', 'The stove! Oh, the heat! O-oh, the stove! So everybody runned for the stove to see what they could do to shet off the heat. Deacon Brown he pulled open the stove door with a jerk, an'-there wa'n't a smitch of fire inside, not even a stick. Aha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Aha, ha, ha, ha!" laughed Sarah.

"Oh, ho, ho!" broke in Hiram.

Sarah stopped short and stared at her brother.

"There wa'n't no stovepipe up," she added.

"Oho, ho, ho, ho, ho!" guffawed Hiram.

"Hee, hee, hee!" tittered Mrs. Eldredge.

"An's soon's Sophia saw there wa'n't none, she come to complete, an' let go Gamaliel, an'—"

"Oho, ho, ho, ho, ho!" roared. Hiram.

"Tee-hee, hee, hee, hee, hee!" giggled Mrs. Eldredge.

"An'," continued Sarah, "Gamaliel he coughed an' kind of straightened out his coat, an'-aha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

"Oho, ho, ho, ho, ho!" laughed Hiram. "Did he? Hee, hee, hee!" chuckled Mrs. Eldredge.

V.

People said it seemed as if that idea Sarah had of laughing was a good one. Captain Eames declared it put paint on the Eldredge house; anyway, the house was freshly painted. Mrs. Eden Butterfield began to be even more ambitious for her garden and to comment on the flourishing condition of Sarah's. And Mr. Butterfield said the "neuralgy cure couldn't have done more for puttin' flesh on them Eldredges than laughin' had." Hiram certainly had filled out remarkably in a year; Mrs. Eldredge was plump for the first time since she had married Joshua Eldredge, and Sarah had lost her sharp tongue and gained in good looks. In short, the recent sinking of Luff James's two-masted schooner was not half so important a topic of conversation as this year-old won

der.

For Sarah the year had had its trials. The story about Sophia Brown was merely an entering

wedge, and before they finally succumbed to the power of Sarah's gelastic influence, Hiram and Mrs. Eldredge often rebelled.

Sarah stood again in the doorway of the Eldredge home, light flickered on the calm surface of the sea, little breezes played over the long dune grass and the sweet peas were all "tiptoe for flight."

"I ain't never expected to see this day, Hiram a-courtin' an' about to be married! Well, I hope Cinthy Eames keeps him a-laughin'. Maw'll kind of miss Hi, an' I reck-❞

Sarah stopped, shaded her eyes with her hands and craned her neck forward. "Paw? No, it can't be. Maw, Maw! Come quick! Oh, Maw, see who's comin' up the walk!"

TH

HE American white pinepinus strobus-a native, strictly. of temperate North America east of the Rocky Mountainsis. I am inclined to think, the kingtree, on the whole, of these United States.

Its range, to be sure, is limited. It is at its best only within a region taking in New England and parts of Canada, nourishing great growths in Michigan and Wisconsin, and hardly going westward of Minnesota, nor very far into the Central or Southern States. It is true, too, of course, that our Western sequoias greatly excel the white pine in sheer mass and height; and that the American elm, which may be called our queen-tree, immeasurably surpasses it (and on the whole surpasses, probably, all other trees of our zone in either hemisphere) in gracious suavity of contour. Still others of our trees better it easily at some one point or other.

Yet taking sentiment and use to

gether, in an all-round survey, why is not the white pine our treemonarch? Its girth is noble, its loftiness august; its foliage of constant green,-responsive through all seasons in hushed whisperings to soft winds or in weird soughings to fierce blasts-drops down a carpet. richly dun and fragrant, on which its lulling shadow rests in fiery heats. It fends off mighty storms and keeps the ground it lives on stored with the cool, pure waters man must have or perish. It "calls the sunset" (as is said), and holds it wondrously:

When o'er wide seas the sun declines,
Far off its fading glory shines;
Far off, sublime and full of fear,
The pine woods bring the sunset near.

The blessed aroma floating from it brings health to the breathing of men. Its cones are objects of beauty. With maybe one exception, it invites and shelters the nests of more birds than can be found in any other of our trees. As it puts on its

strength, it becomes, perhaps, on the outside, a little rough, but nevertheless, in all its might, benignly fragrant, restful unspeakably, beneficent, protective, benedictive, calm; surcharged with deep, humane reserves of power.

And its more prosaic properties make it as Swedenborg might say, preeminently a "tree of uses." No tree of the whole temperate zone or perhaps of the world equals, it is believed, the white pine in its allround fitness for constructive service. For mighty masts and bridge and mill-timbers and then through a thousand uses, by descending grades, to friction matches, this tree is endlessly in eager demand. And so I say it stands among us a monarch, alike, in the realms of sense and of sentiment.

But the white pine, after all, has come, in our time, close to discrownment. I should, perhaps, have spoken of it throughout in the past tense as of a deposed rather than of a reigning monarch. Within the easy recollection of many readers of this article, white pine was one of the least costly and commonest of all woods for general uses. But the eager call for the wood on every hand despatched the axeman after it wherever it could be found, and laid it low. Throughout the favored belt, the mighty virgin growths of good white pine went down and were no more. To-day such white pine wood as can be found and cut, cautiously picked out and free of knots, is a costly luxury for the inner furnishing of ambitious houses.

A sapling white pine growth is coming up, indeed. There are places in Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and elsewhere in New England where a good deal of attention is formally paid to growth of

this sort. In time, by fostering, we may have third-growth white pines of small to fair dimensions back with us again in quantity. Meanwhile, inquiry does not reveal more than a few straggling first-growth (meaning virgin or primeval growth) white pines in either Vermont or Rhode Island. In Connecticut, excepting for a few at Cornwall, I hear of none. From Massachusetts virgin pine has almost wholly vanished. There is a little group of white pines standing in Carlisle, in this State, on land which was purchased a year or two ago through the agency of the Massachusetts Forestry Association and given to the Appalachian Mountain Club, by which it is held as a public reservation. These trees were probably just starting into growth anywhere from about the years 1650 to about 1700, and are properly reserved as venerable. White pines, more or less old (but very likely all of second growth) are reported, too, from Andover and Boxford. The last report of the Forest Commissioner of Maine (issued in 1902), a book of 150 pages, gives four pages to the hard woods and practically all the rest of the book to that one tree. which seems to-day to command, by