WHEN Robinson Crusoe landed on his island, the first thing he did was to look about him to find out where he was. And it is pretty certain that any person who lands in this world of ours must do the same thing, if he is going to get through life at all well and nobly. The reason many young people stumble at the threshold, as some one expressed it, is because they have not taken a square look at the world where they are going to spend their lives. A certain book says, "The wise man's eyes are in his head," that is, they are where they ought to be, where he can look straight in front of him and all about him, and take a survey of his surroundings.

I often meet with persons who say to me, "If I had only had some one to tell me, I would n't have made that great mistake." Now it is well enough to have some one to tell us, but it is vastly better to learn how to see for ourselves, and so gain our knowledge at first hand. It is better to have our eyes in our own head, and so be wise, than to have them in some one else's head, and so be only second-hand wise.

So in what I am now saying, I do not want you to take my eyes, but to learn to use your own. I only want to tell you one or two directions in which to look. And if you honestly look, you will see what sort of a world we live in. Seeing that, you will know both how to make a friend of the world and so gain companionship, and also how to conquer the world instead of letting it conquer you.

The word friend is a good one to begin with. For, first of all, the world we live in is a friendly world. It was not meant to be an enemy to men. Its coal-mines warm us. Its seas carry us around as a father carries his child on his shoulders. Its sun gives us light by day, and, as if that were not enough, we have the stars at night. Even the air which, as it seemed, would never be conquered, will, before long, prove itself a servant, perhaps, wafting our air-carriages here and there. It is true that the forces of nature sometimes kill men by scores and hundreds; but, in the long run, nature is on our side, not against us.

It is important to know this friendly character of the world, for this reason: no man is ever half a man if he is all the while afraid. I used to be afraid of the wind at night. I used to be afraid of the dark; I am ashamed to confess it. The little room up-stairs where I slept was very far away from the rest of the family. I used to be

afraid of a dozen or more things, and suffered accordingly, until I took a good look at them. Then, one day, fear suddenly left me. Since then all these supposed enemies have seemed to me like old friends. If we run from such things, we will always fear them; if we look at them, we will no longer do so. It reminds one of the story told of a great general in our Civil War. Speaking of a certain battle, some one asked him if he was not very much afraid. "Yes," he replied, "I was. But the lucky thing was, I did n't run away!"

That's the whole secret! To be afraid, and yet not run away! That is bravery! To look at the world, and make it our friend by standing still, right at our post. And all this we can apply to people as well as to things. There are evil men in the world, but, after all, there are a great many more who want to do us good than there are who want to do us harm. Beside which, evil men are always cowardly, and the best thing to do is to look them in the face and say, "I am not afraid." It then becomes their turn to run away. I have seen them do it.

Another thing to learn about this world is that it was here, most of it at least, and running along comfortably, before we came to it. Most of us seem to think that we must make it all over again. We waste many years trying to rebuild it. Now, of course, we must change things about us as we go along, but we can do that for the better only when we realize that much has been very well done without our help. It does n't do to be always criticizing. Good men have worked in all past ages, and we are their heirs. So a wise man or boy must always look behind him as well as before him. Old books, old stories, old ways, old lessons of honesty, and old thoughts of goodness, many of these have been tried and found worthy. We cannot afford to throw them all away, even though we may hope to add something of our own to them.

Yes, it was a world, an old world, before we came; and we ought to learn some of its old lessons, be ready to listen to the past, before we get on very far in it. Of course, we want our own new enthusiasm, and our fresh eyes to see things for ourselves, but we must also link up with all that the world can tell us about itself.

And if we use our eyes rightly, I think we must next see that, though the world is old, it is not yet complete. No matter how much has been done, there is much yet to be done. It will never do to

say, "Everything is finished. I have no chance; and I have no responsibility." Each of us has a responsibility, and we cannot get rid of it. If I fail in my place, or you in yours, we make a spot of failure in the world.

And the world is not complete yet. I have still a chance, as good a chance as the very first man had. I have a responsibility. In this sense, the world is not finished, but brand-new, almost as if it waited for me to come and do my part. One of the saddest things is to feel that the world does not need us; to feel "out of place," as we say. But no person is out of place who realizes how much in this old world still remains to be

done. The United States would never have been the United States except for the minute-men of Lexington. The world will not even continue to be as good as it is now unless we are world "minute-men," ready, at short notice, to step out and fight in the places of those who fall or pass on.

These are some of the things that seem very plain about the world we live in. It is, first of all, a friendly world. Then it is a world with a past that I must listen to and heed. And then it is a world with a great future, that depends upon me and asks me to do my best for it.

Like Abraham Lincoln, let us sign ourselves, "Yours to count on."

A HARD-UP band of vacation spenders wanted something to do. Therefore the "plotter" laid a plot. With pencil and bits of paper he wandered about, keeping "shy" of the rest, till at last he announced he knew where there was "buried treasure."

The mention of buried treasure at once aroused interest. "What?" "Where?" they asked. But he would not say what it was nor where it lay. He offered, instead, to help them on their way toward finding it by giving them a few clues.

The clue "to begin with" was simply a sprig of hawthorn which he presented to the searchers. Of course they all went straightway to the little hawthorn-tree standing in the yard. In a few moments they discovered well up in the branches, where some of the tallest of them could just reach, a bit of gray paper stuck upon a long thorn. Opening the folded paper, they found a sketch done roughly with pencil (Fig. 1). They took this to be a swing, and knowing where such a swing was hung, went and examined it. Sure enough! on the under VOL. XXXIX.-90.

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CHAPTER VIII

AN INHABITANT OF IVY-CLAD RUINS

ABOUT the same time the girls were nearing home, the boys at Beaver Camp were assembling to sample the specimens of camp fare which the amateur cooks provided.

"This business of sprawling around here on the grass to eat, is highly informal, no doubt," Bert remarked; "but what are you going to do when it rains?"

"We must build some sort of shelter around our fire," the doctor replied. "We 'd better have two fires-one for cooking purposes in the rear of the bungalow, with a protection over it, and a wind-shield, another out in the open, to be lighted after dark for warmth and cheer. On stormy nights, we 'll kindle a fire in the big fireplace over there in the corner of the assembly-room, and make a cozy place of it."

"Yes, that's all right, but how about us?" Bert persisted. "I was n't thinking of the fire. When it rains, where shall we eat?"

"Oh, we 'll take our meals inside," Tom told him. "You generally take 'em inside, don't you?" Lefty chuckled. "How about a dining-room table and chairs? A few luxuries would n't hurt us."

"We can make a table out of those packingboxes that our things came in," Eliot suggested. "They would give us plenty of material."

"Sure! Every time we want to make it bigger, we 'll just add a box. Then it 'll be a kind of multiplication table. But if you sit on the floor and eat off a box, don't you think it will be just a trifle awkward? Don't let me discourage you at all. I'm willing to sit on the box and eat off the floor, if it gets to be stylish up here. I only mention the matter because it lies very close to my heart," and Lefty concluded with a comical flourish which drew howls of merriment from the others.

"There's a sawmill over at North Rutland," Tad observed. "Why not get some planed boards and make a few benches? Neighbor Pettingill can bring 'em over with the cots and trunks, and we could put 'em together, easy enough."

"We ought to have something to sit on," Bert asserted vigorously. "We may have visitors some time, and you would n't want to ask them to sit on a trunk or a barrel."

"If we have some visitors I know of, we may have to sit on you," Lefty reminded him. "For instance, Mr. Cjax Cat may call."

"I was n't thinking of Cjax," Bert protested.

Finally it was agreed that some one should visit North Rutland the next day, and order enough lumber to make several benches for the comfort and convenience of the campers and their possible guests.

The cots had not arrived at nine o'clock, so the party sought Tad's camp beds laid out on the piazza floor. The night was warm and still. There was no moon, and the dark shadows of the woods seemed to shut the bungalow in on every side.

Edgar Sherman did not know how long he had been asleep, when suddenly he opened his eyes and looked about him. Perhaps a muscle had become cramped; perhaps a bad dream had aroused him; perhaps some unusual noise had disturbed his slumber. Whatever the cause, he awoke with a start, and seemed vaguely conscious of something amiss.

He raised himself on one elbow and looked up and down the piazza. As far as he could see, each camper was in his place, some sleeping quietly, others restless, but asleep nevertheless.

Then he sat up to survey the grounds. Nothing unusual there, except-what was that light, gleaming for an instant along the path to the lake, then becoming invisible, only to shine out again? It must be a lightning-bug; but, no! the fireflies darted hither and thither, and, by contrast, their glowing lights were dim. As Edgar watched, the mysterious light moved, as if signaling to some one in the bungalow. What could it mean?

He crept to the end of the piazza and peered into the dark shadows beyond. Involuntarily, he gasped in astonishment. There was another light, so like the first that it might have been a duplicate. It gleamed and signaled from the dense blackness of the woods near the camp road. For a minute, Edgar was paralyzed with bewilderment, and stood staring at the uncanny swinging of these strange signal-lights. Then a novel plan suddenly suggested itself, and he quietly disappeared inside the house.

Hurrying through the hall and out of the back door, he found that a pile of glowing embers still remained in the trench dug for the camp-fire. A few of these he hastily transferred to a small pan, using two pieces of wood as a pair of tongs. He stopped in the house only long enough to grasp two objects, shaped like cylinders, and then returned to the piazza.

Yes, the two lights could still be seen. Now they were drawing closer together and nearer the bungalow. Onward they came, slowly, uncertainly, nearer, ever nearer! Now stealthy footsteps could be heard; now a cautious whisper

reached Edgar's ears; now the lights stopped less than ten yards away.

Edgar held one of the cylinders over the pan, close to the red-hot coals. Then, rising quickly, he hurled it toward the lights.

There was a sharp, sudden explosion, two distinct cries of terror, a crash, a sound of breaking glass. Then the intruders could be heard running

away.

The explosion rudely awakened the campers, and Edgar was surrounded by an eager group of blanket-clad forms, all talking and questioning at once. He told them of the invasion of their premises, of his discovery of the intruders, and of his suddenly formed plan to discomfit them. Some of the boys had purchased a few fireworks to celebrate the Fourth of July, which was close at hand. Edgar knew where the giant crackers had been placed for safe-keeping, and, in this emergency, had thought of using one to hurl at the trespassers. In the stillness, the explosion had sounded like the bursting of a bomb. Little wonder, then, that the intruders were so terrified that they fled at top speed, leaving behind them a broken lantern.

Of course, the camp was now thoroughly awake, and excited comments fell from the lips of one and another of the boys.

"You say one came up from the lake, Ed?" cried Lefty. "Let's have a lantern! I'll go down and investigate if somebody 'll come along. Who 'll go with me?"

No one cared to volunteer. The shock of sudden awakening, and the sensational news graphically and excitedly told by Edgar, had, just for a moment, stricken them with the paralysis of panic. Then a voice cried:

"I'll go with you, Lefty!"

The boys were dum founded. It was Cousin Willie !

"All right, kid! Put on your shoes, and come along."

Some one had brought a lighted lantern, and this Lefty took. Waiting only long enough to slip on their shoes and wrap their blankets about them, the two boys hurried out into the dark shadows. Then Willie discovered that he had his right foot in his left shoe, and his right shoe on his left foot; but he was too excited to pay much attention to the discomfort.

They made as little noise as possible, and kept close together as they hurried down the path, now colliding with a tree when they failed to notice a turn, now stumbling over some obstruction, but keeping steadily on until, finally, they stood on the landing.

Lefty flashed the lantern around, but there was