of him: but to me he behaved as if he had consciously taken Billy's place. I sent to Turin to get him a companion, and the merchant sent me one guaranteed young and a female; but I found it a male, which died of old age within a few weeks of his arrival. Hans had hardly become familiarized with him when he died. The night before he died I came home late in the evening; and having occasion to go into my study, I was surprised, when I opened the door, to find Hans on the threshold nodding to me to be taken, with no attempt to escape as of old. I took him up, wondering what had disturbed him at an hour when he was never accustomed to be afoot, put him back in his bed, and went to mine. But thinking over the strange occurrence, I got up, dressed myself, and went down to see if anything was wrong; and found the new squirrel hanging under the curtain in which the two had been sleeping, with his hind claws entangled in the stuff, head down, and evidently very ill. He had probably felt death coming, and tried to get down and find a hiding-place, but got his claws entangled, and could not extricate them. He died the next day, and I took Hans to sleep in his old place in the fold of my bed-cover; where, with a few days' interruption, he slept as long as he lived. He insisted on being taken, in fact, when his sleeping-time came, and would come to the edge of his shelf and nod to me till I took him; or if I delayed, he would climb down the curtain and come to me. One night I was out late, and on reaching home I went to take him; and not finding him in his place, alarmed the house to look for him. After long search I found him sitting quietly under the chair I always occupied in the study. He got very impatient if I delayed putting him to bed; and like Billy, he used to bite my hand to indicate his discontent, gently at first, but harder and harder till I attended to him. When he saw that we were going up-stairs to

the bedroom he became quiet.

Whether from artificial conditions of life or because he suffered from the loss of Billy (after whose death he never recovered his spirits), or as I fear, from a fall from some high piece of furniture,—for he loved still to be on any height, and his claws, grown too long, no longer held to the furniture, so that he had several heavy falls,- his hind legs became slowly paralyzed. He now ran with difficulty; but his eyes were as bright and his intelligence was as quick as ever, and his fore feet were as dexterous. His attachment to me increased as the malady

progressed; and though from habit he always scolded a little when my wife approached him, he showed a great deal of affection for her toward the end, which was clearly approaching. Vacation came again, and I took him once more with me to the Black Forest, hoping that his mysterious intelligence might find some consolation in the native air. He was evidently growing weak very fast, and occasionally showed impatience as if in pain; but for the most of the time he rested quietly in my pocket, and was most happy when I gave him my hand for a pillow, sometimes, though rarely, licking the hand-for he was even then far more reserved in all his expressions of feeling than Billy. At times he would sit on the window bench, and scan the landscape with something of the old eagerness that used to give me so much pain, snuffing the mountain air eagerly for a half-hour, and then nod to go into my pocket again; and at other times, as if restless, would insist, in the way he had made me understand, that like a baby he wanted motion, and when I walked about with him he grew quiet and content again. At home he had been very fond of a dish of dried rose-leaves, in which he would wallow and burrow; and my wife sent him from Rome a little bag of them, which he enjoyed weakly for a little. But in his last days the time was spent by day mostly in my pocket, and by night on my bed with his head on my hand. It was only the morning before his death that he seemed really to suffer, and then a great restlessness came on him, and a disposition to bite convulsively whatever was near him: but at the end he lay quietly in my hand, and when the spasm was on him I gave him a little chloroform to inhale till it had passed; and when he breathed his last in my pocket, I knew that he was dead only by my hand on his heart. I buried him, as I had wished, in his native forest, in his bed of rose-leaves, digging a niche under a great granite bowlder. He had survived his companion little more than six months; and if the readers of my little history are disposed to think me weak when I say that his death was to me a great and lasting grief, I am not concerned to dispute their judgment. I have known grief in all its most blinding and varied forms, and I thank God that he constituted me loving enough to have kept a tender place in my heart "even for the least of these," the little companions of two years; and but for my having perhaps shortened their innocent lives, I thank him for having known and loved them as I have.

FRANK R. STOCKTON

(1834-)

RANK R. STOCKTON holds a unique position among American makers of humorous fiction. His vein is so quaint and enjoyable, his invention so unfailing, that his work is a perennial source of pleasure. He was born in Philadelphia, April 5th, 1834, and is a graduate of the High School in that city. As a young man he worked at wood engraving as well as literature, furnishing illustrations for Vanity Fair and writing child stories; his first two books, 'Roundabout Rambles and Tales Out of School,'-like the later What Might Have Been Expected,' 'A Jolly Fellowship,' The Story of Viteau,' and a great number of delicious wonder stories, being intended for the critical audience of children. Mr. Stockton was early a magazine contributor, his work appearing in the Philadelphia Post, the New York Hearth and Home, Scribner's, and St. Nicholas. His first successful book was the set of sketches called 'Rudder Grange,' which was published in 1879. It was widely welcomed as a fresh and amusing account of a picturesque phase of American life, and made Stockton's reputation as a humorist. His subsequent books-novels and collections of short stories - count up to a dozen or more, with great variety of motive.

FRANK R. STOCKTON

His special talent is for writing a tale, which in a few pages and with the lightest of touches, explicates an odd plot or delineates an odd character, dealing so gravely and logically with an absurd or impossible set of circumstances that they seem reality itself. More than once this singularly graphic quality has suggested to critical readers a likeness to Defoe; but he has an excellent style, while Defoe has none at all. His humor is sly and unobtruded, yet it pervades all his writing like an atmosphere. His longer storiesespecially The Adventures of Captain Horn' (1895) and its sequel 'Mrs. Cliff's Yacht' (1897)-indicate a broader range than might have been inferred from his earlier whimsies. Both stories in their romantic incidents introduce an element of strong narrative interest. Whether in these broader delineations, or in the delicately turned fantasies of his short tales, Mr. Stockton's quality is unmistakable and

distinctive. His inventions are always refined and wholesome; introducing the reader to the company of well-bred folk, whether they know anything of etiquette or not. Even his burglars are not coarse.

His humor is most kindly, having the sparkle of dry wine; and his manner of writing is quite as much a merit as is his fecund originality in the imagining of the story. Mr. Stockton resides in Madison, New Jersey, and devotes himself to literary production. He is essentially a man of letters.

THE CASTING AWAY OF MRS. LECKS AND MRS. ALESHINE From the novel so named. Copyright 1886, 1892, by Frank R. Stockton. Reprinted by permission of the Century Company, publishers

I

WAS on my way from San Francisco to Yokohama, when in a very desultory and gradual manner I became acquainted with Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine. The steamer, on which I was making a moderately rapid passage toward the land of the legended fan and the lacquered box, carried a fair complement of passengers, most of whom were Americans; and among these, my attention was attracted from the very first day of the voyage to two middle-aged women who appeared to me very unlike the ordinary traveler or tourist. At first sight they might have been taken for farmers' wives who, for some unusual reason, had determined to make a voyage across the Pacific; but on closer observation, one would have been more apt to suppose that they belonged to the families of prosperous tradesmen in some little country town, where, besides the arts of rural housewifery, there would be opportunities of becoming acquainted in some degree with the ways and manners of the outside world. They were not of that order of persons who generally take first-class passages on steamships, but the state-room occupied by Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine was one of the best in the vessel; and although they kept very much to themselves and showed no desire for the company or notice of the other passengers, they evidently considered themselves quite as good as any one else, and with as much right to voyage to any part of the world in any manner or style which pleased them.

Mrs. Lecks was a rather tall woman, large-boned and muscular; and her well-browned countenance gave indications of that conviction of superiority which gradually grows up in the minds of those who, for a long time, have had absolute control of the

destinies of a state, or the multifarious affairs of a country household. Mrs. Aleshine was somewhat younger than her friend, somewhat shorter, and a great deal fatter. She had the same air of reliance upon her individual worth that characterized Mrs. Lecks; but there was a certain geniality about her which indicated that she would have a good deal of forbearance for those who never had had the opportunity or the ability of becoming the thoroughly good housewife which she was herself.

These two worthy dames spent the greater part of their time. on deck, where they always sat together in a place at the stern of the vessel which was well sheltered from wind and weather. As they sat thus they were generally employed in knitting; although this occupation did not prevent them from keeping up what seemed to me, as I passed them in my walks about the deck, a continuous conversation. From a question which Mrs. Lecks once asked me about a distant sail, our acquaintance began. There was no one on board for whose society I particularly cared; and as there was something quaint and odd about these countrywomen on the ocean which interested me, I was glad to vary my solitary promenades by an occasional chat with them. They were not at all backward in giving me information about themselves. They were both widows, and Mrs. Aleshine was going out to Japan to visit a son who had a position there in a mercantile house. Mrs. Lecks had no children, and was accompanying her friend because, as she said, she would not allow Mrs. Aleshine to make such a voyage as that by herself; and because, being quite able to do so, she did not know why she should not see the world as well as other people.

These two friends were not educated women. They made frequent mistakes in their grammar, and a good deal of Middle States provincialism showed itself in their pronunciation and expressions. But although they brought many of their rural ideas. to sea with them, they possessed a large share of that commonsense which is available anywhere, and they frequently made use of it in a manner which was very amusing to me. I think also that they found in me a quarry of information concerning nautical matters, foreign countries, and my own affairs, the working of which helped to make us very good ship friends.

Our steamer touched at the Sandwich Islands; and it was a little more than two days after we left Honolulu, that about nine o'clock in the evening we had the misfortune to come into