the moonlight on the opposite hill. In a moment he touched Rob on the shoulder and handed him the telescope. Rob looked and saw a dark speck on the snow moving along the hillside. It was the big stag. Now and then he would stop to snuff and search for a mouth- 5 ful, but was evidently making for one of his feeding places-most likely that on the Chief's land. They did not stop for more than a glance, however, but made for the valley as fast as they could walk; the noise of running feet would be heard too far on such a clear 10 night. The whole way, without sound uttered, father and son kept interchanging ideas on the matter.

From thorough acquaintance with the habits of the animal, they were quite certain he was on his way to his favorite haunt. If he reached there, he would be 15 safe; it was the Chief's ground and no one would dare to touch him. But he was not yet upon it and was in danger. If they found him at his usual feed, and danger threatening, they must scare him eastward; if no peril was at hand, they would watch him awhile, that 20 he might feed in safety.

They approached the castle; immediately beyond that they would be in sight of the feeding ground. But they were still behind it when Rob of the Angels bounded forward in terror at the sound of a gun. His father, 25 however, who was in front, was off before him. Neither hearing anything, nor seeing Rob, he knew that a shot. had been fired, and, caution being now useless, was in a moment at full speed.

The smoke of the shot hung white in the moonlight over the end of the ridge. No red bulk shadowed the green pasture, no thicket of horns went shaking over the sod. No lord of creation, but an enemy of life, 5 stood regarding his work, a tumbled heap of death, yet saying to himself, "It is good."

But

Rage filled the heart of Hector of the Stags. He gave a roar like a wild beast and raised his gun. Rob of the Angels caught it ere it reached his shoulder. 10 He yielded, and with another roar like a lion bounded bare-handed upon the enemy.

It was not merely that the enemy had killed the great stag of their love; he had killed him on the Chief's own ground, under the eyes of the man whose 15 business it was to watch over him. It was an insult as well as a wrong to his Chief. In the fierce majesty of his wrath he threw himself upon the poacher. Sercombe met him with a blow straight from the shoulder, and he dropped.

20 Rob of the Angels, close behind him, dropped his gun, his knife flashed pale in the moonlight, and he darted upon the enemy. It would have gone ill with the bigger man, for Rob was as lithe as a snake-not only swift to parry and dodge, but to strike. Sercombe's arm 25 would have had at least one terrible gash, had not at that moment, from the top of the ridge, come the stern voice of the Chief. Rob's knife "made lightnings in the splendor of the moon," as he threw it from him and sank down by his father. Then Hector came to

himself and rose, trembling with excitement, for he saw the stalwart form of his Chief on the ridge above him. The Chief had been wakened by the gun, and, at the roar of his friend Hector, sprang from his bed. But when he saw his beloved stag dead on his pasture, he 5 came down the ridge like an avalanche. He gazed speechless for a moment on the slaughtered stag and heaved a great sigh. "Mr. Sercombe," he said, "I would rather you had shot my best horse. Are you aware, sir, that you are a poacher?"

10

"I had supposed the term inapplicable to a gentleman," answered Sercombe with entire coolness. "I will pay whatever you choose to set on the brute." It would be hard to say which was less agreeable to the Chief, to have his stag called a brute, or be offered blood money. 15 "Stag Ruadh priced like a bullock," he said with a slow smile, full of sadness; "the pride of every child in the glen! Not a gentleman in the county would have

shot Clanruadh's deer."

Sercombe was by this time feeling uncomfortable, 20 and it made him angry. He muttered something about superstition.

"He was taken when a calf," the Chief went on, "and given to a great-aunt of mine; but when he grew up he took to the hills again, and was known by his 25 silver collar till he managed to rid himself of it. He shall be buried where he lies, and his monument shall tell how the stranger served the stag of Clanruadh."

From "What's Mine's Mine."

PINE TREES.

JOHN RUSKIN.

JOHN RUSKIN was born in London in 1819. He was a bright, active boy and learned to read when he was four years old. He amused himself by making little books, printing them by hand, and illustrating them with his own drawings.

His parents spent several summers in driving about England enjoying the sights and historical places. John went with them, and as soon as he could write he kept a journal.

Several years later he traveled with his father through Germany, sailed across the Italian lakes, and saw the Alps.

Ruskin was educated at Oxford. When he was graduated he had already become well known as a writer, gained the most popular

university prize, and was considered a clever artist.

He

20 He became deeply interested in the artists of his time, and published a number of volumes entitled "Modern Painters." has also written many other works, each containing common sense and truth, as well as beauty and imagination.

Mr. Ruskin is still living in his delightful home at Brantwood.

25 THE pine is trained to need nothing and to endure everything. Tall or short, it will be straight. Small or large, it will be round. It may be permitted to the soft, lowland trees that they should make themselves gay with the show of blossom and glad with pretty

charities of fruitfulness. We builders with the sword have harder work to do for man, and must do it in close-set troops.

To stay the sliding of the mountain snows, which would bury him; to hold in divided drops, at our 5 sword points, the rain, which would sweep away him and his treasure fields; to nurse in shade among our brown, fallen leaves the tricklings that feed the brooks in drought; to give massive shield against the winter wind, which shrieks through the bare branches of the 10 plain, - such service must we do him steadfastly while

we live.

Our bodies also are at his service; softer than the bodies of other trees, though our service is harder than theirs. Let him take them as he pleases for his houses 15 and ships. So also it may be well for these timid, lowland trees to tremble with all their leaves, or turn their paleness to the sky, if but a rush of rain passes by them; or to let fall their leaves at last, sick and sere. But we pines must live amidst the wrath of clouds.

We only wave our branches to and fro when the storm pleads with us, as men toss their arms in a dream.

20

And, finally, these weak, lowland trees may struggle fondly for the last remnant of life, and send up feeble 25 saplings again from their roots when they are cut down. But we builders with the sword perish boldly; our dying shall be perfect and solemn, as our warring; we give up our lives without reluctance, and forever.