began to fall and shatter. Roofs were lifted off, rolled up, and dropped on pitiful trees. Trees were picked up and slapped against church steeples, which broke. Houses were twisted. Factories tottered and tumbled. And it was all so easily done.

But the cyclone did not stop to look. It just tore on and on to the next town, sometimes skipping over one village entirely, only to plunge down and entirely demolish the next.

All this time there was roaring and wild howling, and the lit

tle air-current, like

all the air-currents, was doing his part with the rest. They forgot to ask questions now. They were no longer frightened. They had caught the wild ecstasy of the storm.

All that night they rushed on madly up the United States, howling and shrieking. It was no longer hard for the little air-current to keep up. He did it from force of habit.

With dawn the storm quieted a little, and they had time to look about.

"Oh, didn't we storm?" said the little air-current. "I tell you I knocked over some big trees!" Just then he let go to turn round and see who listened. It is always foolish to turn round in a cyclone.

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Keep still and come on!" whistled one of the big currents. Oh, wait!" cried the little air-current. "Wait-waitoh, I can't catch up!" he whispered.

He saw now, already quite far off in the distance, the cyclone

twisting ahead in its quiet, earnest manner, with his little brothers working hard, as if they all knew just what they meant to do and were doing it, while he was whisked quickly over a hill, across a river, and then right into the street of a great city.

Without having an idea of what he was doing, he darted up between two high buildings, on up the street between other high buildings, across a park, over a wall, and into a street where people lived. They were just getting up. A few were coming out-of-doors.

He was so weak by this time that the best he could do was to take a man's hat off. The man ran after it, while the little air-current went on ahead of the hat until he came to a large house with trees in front. He turned in and ran through the tree-tops with all his might, but he noticed that he could only make the leaves rustle, rather pleasantly.

Then before he knew what he was about, he had darted in hrough an open window, fluttering the curtains a little, and glided across the room to a bed where lay a baby quietly sleeping. Then the baby sneezed.

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Nurse," said a lady, "please go and cover the baby up. He is in a draft."

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And to think," sighed the little air-current, who was once part of a big cyclone, "that I can now only make a baby sneeze."

JESSE LYNCH WILLIAMS.

ec'sta-sy, the highest joy.

| de-mol'ish, utterly destroy.

JESSE LYNCH WILLIAMS was born in Sterling, Ill., and was graduated from Princeton. He has written "Adventures of a Freshman and also a history of Princeton University. The "Stolen Story" is the title of a collection of his short stories.

THE WIND AND THE MOON

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out!

You stare

In the air

Like a ghost in the chair,

Always looking what I am about

I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon;

So deep

On a heap

Of cloudless sleep

Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon,
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again!

On high

In the sky,

With her ghost eye,

The Moon shone white and alive and plain;
Said the Wind, "I'll blow you out again."

He blew, and he blew, and the thread was gone.

In the air

Nowhere

Was a moonbeam bare;

Far off and silent the shy stars shone

Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more;

On down,

In town,

Like a merry, mad clown,

He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar;

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What's that?"-The glittering thread once more.

He flew in a rage-he danced and he blew;

But in vain

Was the pain

Of his bursting brain;

For still broader the moon-scrap grew,

The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew-till she filled the night,

And shone

On her throne

In the sky alone,

A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!
With my breath,

Good faith

I blew her to death

First blew her away right out of the sky

Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair,

For, high

In the sky,

With her one white eye,

Motionless, miles above the air,

She had never heard the great Wind blare.

Winter-travel in Kamchatka is done entirely upon dogsledges. In no other pursuit do the people of that country spend more time or show their native skill to better advantage.

There is probably no more hardy animal in the world than their dog. You may compel him to sleep out on the snow in the coldest weather; you may drive him with heavy loads until his feet crack open and print the snow with blood; you may starve him until he eats up his harness; but his strength and spirit alike seem unbroken.

I have driven a team of nine dogs more than a hundred miles in a day and a night. I have often worked them hard for forty-eight hours without being able to give them a bite of food. They are generally fed, once a day, a single dried fish, weighing a pound and a half or two pounds. This is given to them at night.

The sledge to which they are harnessed is about ten feet in