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had done that; and Skipper was glad, for he liked the

name.

There was much to learn in those first few weeks, and Skipper learned it quickly. He came to know that at inspection, which began the day, you must stand with your nose just on a line with that of the horse on either side. If you didn't you felt the bit or the spurs. He mastered the meaning of "right dress," “left dress," "forward," "fours right," and a lot of other things. Some of them were very strange.

Now on the farm they had said, "Whoa, boy," and "Gid a-a-ap." Here they said, "Halt" and "Forward!" But Reddy used none of these terms. He pressed with his knees on your withers, loosened the reins, and made a queer little chirrup when he wanted you to gallop. He let you know when he wanted you to stop, by the lightest pressure on the bit.

It was a lazy work, though. Sometimes when Skipper was just aching for a brisk canter, he had to pace soberly through the park driveways-for Skipper, as I mentioned before, was part and parcel of the mounted police force. But there, you could know that by the yellow letters on his saddle blanket.

For half an hour at a time he would stand, just on the edge of the roadway and at an exact right angle with it, motionless as the horse ridden by the bronze soldier up near the entrance. Reddy would sit as still in the saddle, too. It was hard for Skipper to

stand there and see those mincing cobs go by, jingling their pole-chains and switching their absurd little stubs of tails. But it was still more tantalizing to watch the saddle-horses canter past in the soft bridle path on the other side of the roadway. But then, when you are on the force you must do your duty.

One afternoon, as Skipper was standing at his post like this, he caught a new note that rose above the hum of the park traffic. It was the quick, nervous beat of hoofs which rang sharply on the hard macadam. There were screams, too. It was a runaway. Skipper knew this even before he saw the bell-like nostrils, the straining eyes, and the foam-flecked lips of the horse, or the scared man in the carriage behind. It was a case of a broken rein.

How the sight made Skipper's blood tingle! Wouldn't he just like to show that crazy roan what real running was! But what was Reddy going to do? He felt him gather up the reins. He felt his knees tighten. What! Yes, it must be so. Reddy was actually going to try a brush with the runaway. fun!

What

Skipper pranced out into the roadway and gathered himself for the sport. Before he could get into full swing, however, the roan had shot past with a snort of challenge which could not be misunderstood.

"Oho! You will, eh?" thought Skipper. "Well, now, we'll see about that."

And a

Ah, a free rein! That is, almost free. touch of the spurs! No need for that, Reddy. How the carriages scatter! Skipper caught hasty glimpses of smart horses drawn up trembling by the roadside, of women who tumbled from bicycles into the bushes, and of men who ran and shouted and waved their hats.

"Just as though that little roan wasn't scared enough already," thought Skipper.

But she did run well; Skipper had to admit that. She had a lead of fifty yards before he could strike his best gait. Then for a few moments he could not seem to gain an inch. But the mare was blowing herself, and Skipper was taking it coolly. He was putting the pent-up energy of weeks into his strides. Just as Skipper was about to forge ahead, Reddy did a queer thing. With his right hand he grabbed the roan with a nose-pinch grip, and with the left he pulled in on the reins. It was a great disappointment to Skipper, for he had counted on showing the roan his heels.

Skipper knew, after two or three experiences of this kind, that this was the usual thing. Those were glorious runs, though. Skipper wished they would come more often.

-SEWELL FORD.

sound of wind: sound or healthy power of breathing.-blemish : spot, or mark that disfigures.-withers: the ridge between the shoulder bones of a horse.-roan: a brown or black horse thickly sprinkled with gray.-try a brush: try a race.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him!

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory, We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory.

-CHARLES WOLFE. (Abridged.)

corse: corpse, dead body.-martial: suited to war.

LAURENCE COSTER, THE DISCOVERER OF TYPE-PRINTING

In Holland there is a very ancient town called Haarlem. It is a drowsy, humdrum old place, with quaint houses of many gables, and irregular grassgrown streets, and long reaches of straight, stagnant canals. Some of the streets are so narrow that you can shake hands with a passer-by on the opposite sidewalk, and in some places the upper stories project so far over the lower ones that two people in opposite houses can easily converse with one another.

On one of these streets stands a house which seems even older than most of its neighbors. It looks as if it were toppling over, and might fall down over the rough sidewalk any windy day. Its windows are full of tiny, dust-covered panes, and its single upper story so projects as to form a shelter and shade over the doorway. This ancient house is pointed out to strangers who go to Haarlem to see the curiosities of the old town, as one of especial interest. It is said to be at least six or seven centuries old.

But the reason why it is especially worth seeing is that once upon a time, long, long ago, there dwelt in it a man of whom the people of Haarlem are still very proud. His name was Laurence Coster. He was the warden of a little church which stood not far from his modest dwelling, and passed his time in his not

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