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“that his stealing the other horse is n't our affair. I suppose we shall have to let him go."

"That's where you 're wise, gentlemen," remarked Branlow, grinning with a greenish-yellow face. "Thank you!" he added, with mock politeness, as Lon stepped aside for him. "Sorry I could n't trade with you to-day, Miss! Good-day!"

The Bentings all were so sure he was a rogue that Elsie was ready to cry with vexation (thinking, perhaps, of Kit's wrongs), and the boys were highly chagrined at their own unheroic conduct in letting him off so easily.

"If I'd been sure we had a right to take him, I would n't have minded his bluster," said Lon.

"Nor I," said Tom. "Our mistake the other day has made me think twice when I go catching horse-thieves."

"See the scamp swaggering along the road! laughing in his sleeve at us, I 've no doubt!" exclaimed Charley.

"I wish I were certain we had the least claim on him," said Lon, his courage rising again.

"I'd like no better fun than to tackle him," muttered the ferocious Tom.

brother made a swift detour of the fields to head him off. Discovering this movement when Lon was nearly abreast of him, Branlow broke into a run.

An interesting race followed, Lon running in the field and Branlow in the road, while Tom followed at a distance. Cassius was fleet of foot, but he had his bag to bother him, and he soon perceived that in the kind of endurance denominated "wind," he was no match for the sturdy young farmers. He stopped, and turned defiantly.

"Well! what's the trouble now?" he demanded, as Lon leaped over the road-side wall.

"You 've my sister's thimble," said Lon. "It's a false charge," replied Branlow. "Don't you touch me!" He snatched something from his pocket, which flew open in his hand, and became a shining dirk.

"False or not," said Lon, "strike one of us with that knife and you will have a worse charge

to answer."

Tom, at the same time, came rushing to the spot, and Charley was not far off. The Benting blood was up in all of them, their courage no "I would n't have let him go!" declared longer honeycombed with doubts as to their right Charley.

While they followed him thus courageously with their eyes, but not at all with their feet, Branlow was indeed laughing in his sleeve, and congratulating himself on his lucky escape.

"I thought 't was all up with me, for a minute," he said to himself. "How under the sun did it happen that I should come to the house of those fellows I saw at Peaceville? Well, they wont see me here again very soon."

He was walking away at a brisk pace, when something caused Elsie to think of her workbasket. She examined it hastily, and cried out : "Oh, my thimble! he has taken my best thimble!"

Branlow had in fact practiced that light-fingered industry of his once too often. He was well aware of the unfortunate circumstance, when, casting furtive glances behind, he saw two of the brothers come out of the maple grove before the house and start toward him with an excitement of manner which did not seem to him of good augury.

"Hold on!" called Tom, beckoning him back, "if you want to sell some of your solder."

But Branlow was never in his life less anxious to make sales than at that moment. Instead of waiting for the boys to come up with him, he quickened his walk. At the same time he was seen to take something from his pocket and give it a little fling toward the road-side.

The two boys continued to call and beckon, to attract his attention; while the other and eldest

to capture a scoundrel.

"If a thimble is all you want, you can search me," said Cassius; "but promise to let me go if you don't find it."

"Don't promise that," Tom cried breathlessly; "he threw something away when he saw us coming. Did you find it?" he shouted back at Charley, who had remained to search the roadside.

Charley held up something as he ran. It was not a thimble, but a pair of scissors.

"So he took her scissors, too!" said Tom. "Elsie did n't know that."

"You may as well give up, Branlow!" Lon said. "Put away your knife, and go with us peaceably, or you'll be knocked down and dragged." With these words, he took a step forward and stood sternly facing the coward.

For coward Cassius was, with all his recklessness and bluster. He dropped his hand to his side, still holding the open knife.

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'Shut it, I say!" ordered Lon.

As Branlow still hesitated, backing off and remonstrating, Lon sprang upon him, seizing his arm before it could be raised to strike.

"Grip him, boys!" cried Lon, and in a moment Branlow was disarmed and a prisoner.

"Now, what do you want of me, my fine fellows?" he said, assuming an air of innocence. "Why do you accuse me about those scissors that you found back there? I thought it was a thimble that you said you wanted."

"That 's just what we do want," said Lon. "Search me, then!" said Branlow.

"I don't imagine you are!" laughed Lon. "But you 're going to take a sensible view of

"That, again, is precisely what we propose to the situation, are n't you?" said Branlow. do!" was the reply.

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"You can't gain anything by keeping me; you've recovered your scissors and thimble. Now, if you object to receiving the trifles I have come by, in the way of business, take what money I have in

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"BRANLOW BROKE INTO A RUN." (SEE PAGE 825.)

said Elsie; "though I had n't missed them." "Go back and examine your work-basket, and make sure, please," said Lon.

She was gone but a few minutes, when she returned, exclaiming: "They have been taken! That pair must be mine!"

About the same time, Charley, after some further search in the road-side grass, cried, "Eureka!" He had found a thimble, which Elsie immediately identified.

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my pocket-book, call it an even thing, and say good-bye. How's that for a fair proposal?"

"It's a proposal we can no more accept, than we can take your miscellaneous plunder!" said Lon. "Bring around the horse and wagon from the orchard, Charley, while Tom and I cultivate the acquaintance of this slippery gentleman."

The wagon was brought, the baskets of apples were taken out, and the seats put in; and in a few minutes the boys were ready to set off for town

"You see how it is, Mr. Branlow," said Tom, with their captive. exultingly.

"I owe this to you, Miss! I shall remember the favor!" said Branlow, looking back with a malicious glance at Elsie standing in the door to see them start. (To be continued.)

"I see how it is," replied Cassius, recklessly. "You 've caught me! But you need n't hang on to my arm so hard; I'm not going to get away."

FROM BACH TO WAGNER.

A Series of Brief Papers concerning the Great Musicians.

VI. SCHUBERT.

BY AGATHA TUNIS.

through life. One of them, Joseph Spaun, furnished him with music-paper as long as he was in

FRANZ PETER SCHUBERT was born January 31, the school, and was ever ready to give him money 1797, at Vienna. and appreciation.

He

His father supported himself by teaching. appreciated the marvelous power of his little son, and did all he could to cultivate it, but his "all" was unfortunately very little. From his earliest years Franz's genius showed itself, and it reminds us of Mozart, whose infant triumphs were very similar. A young friend often took him to a pianoforte factory, where he practiced, and between this chance and what he could accomplish on an old piano at home, he taught himself the rudiments of his art. His brother Ignaz taught him the violin and clavier, but he soon outgrew his master, and was sent to Holzer, a choirmaster, who instructed him in pianoforte and organ playing, and in singing. This teacher used to say with tears: "If ever I wished to teach him anything new, I found he had already mastered it." At the age of eight, Schubert wrote his first pianoforte composition, and thus began his career. When eleven, he sang in the parish church, where his fine voice and beautiful style of singing attracted great attention. Soon after this, with several other candidates, he was examined for admittance into the Emperor's choir, a position which would entitle him to instruction in the Imperial school. The other boys were much amused at the lad's appearance, and, from his gray suit, thought he must be a miller's boy; but their laughter changed to admiration when they heard the child sing, and the committee was only too glad to secure his services. Schubert was now a good violinist, and was made a member of the school band, which studied the symphonies of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. All these composers made a deep impression on him, especially Beethoven, whom he almost worshiped, and whom he always looked up to as his master.

Schubert now began to neglect everything for composition. We must remember that besides music, he received instruction in history, geography, mathematics, drawing, French, and Italian. During the first year, his progress in all these branches was excellent; but afterward music absorbed every thought and feeling he possessed. Schubert made weekly visits home, where his compositions were frequently played by the family. It is said that if Schubert's father made a mistake in playing, the boy, on the first occasion, would pass it over, but the second time, would say, very timidly: "Father, there must be a mistake somewhere"; and soon the mistake would be corrected.

Franz received little help in the art of composition from his school; his teacher, like Holzer, seems to have been awed by the boy's genius. His life at the school had its dark side; the practice-room was often too cold to sit in, and in a letter to his brother, he begs him to send him a roll or an apple, the meals were so wretched, and he had to wait eight hours between dinner and supper. In 1813, he left the school and taught as his father's assistant for three long and weary years, composing constantly in addition to his regular duties. It was during this period that he met Salieri, who received him as a pupil, and took the greatest delight in teaching him. Schubert owed more to this man than to any of his instructors, and was always grateful for his interest.

In 1815, Schubert wrote nearly a hundred songs, besides his symphonies and other compositions. Everything he touched turned to music, from the most lovely poems to the most worthless verses; the text mattered little to him if only he could set it to music. It was during this year that he wrote the famous "Erl-king," through which he first When about thirteen, his longing to write over- became known to the public. "When I finish one powered him, and he shyly confided to his friends song," he says, "I turn to the next." He wrote that he had already composed music, and could with the greatest ease, and never corrected his work. produce much more if only he could get more We are told that once, during a stroll through a little music-paper; his friends were sympathetic and village, he happened to see a volume of Shakeappreciative, and whenever an opportunity arose speare, and on reading "Hark, hark, the lark at would produce one of his works. Perhaps one of heaven's gate sings," he said: "Oh, such a melody the greatest advantages that Schubert drew from has come into my head; if only I had music-paper the school was the intimacies he formed there at hand!" Some one drew some staves on a bill with boys who were to be his truest friends of fare, and there, amid the noise and confusion of

an inn, he wrote the lovely song that bears that title. Schubert was obliged to support himself from his songs, and as few of them were ever published, it is a mystery how he ever managed to live.

The year 1822 was a memorable one to Schubert, for he then had an interview with Beethoven. We have already spoken of his enthusiasm for the great master. When poor Schubert stood in the presence of the man he had so long adored, every bit of courage forsook his gentle, sensitive spirit, and he was scarcely able to utter a word. It was not till long afterward that Beethoven knew Schubert's work. During his last illness, he read some of his songs, and expressed great surprise that he had not seen them before. Schubert visited him before he died, and was so overcome with grief at his illness, that he burst into tears and rushed from the room.

In 1823, Schubert wrote an opera, which was returned without examination; soon after this he wrote another, with the same result; a third one was performed, but proved a complete failure. Schubert was then completely discouraged and became very despondent.

Fortunately for him, he entered upon a trip through upper Austria with his friend, Franz Vogl. This man was a fine singer, and devoted to Schubert, who often played the accompaniments of his songs while Vogl sang them. It was mainly through Vogl's efforts that Schubert's songs became known to the public. Sometimes Schubert played alone, and in speaking of such a time he says:

"I felt that the keys under my hands sang like voices, which makes me very happy, for I can not endure that dreadful thumping, which even some great players adopt, but which pleases neither my ear nor my judgment."

This trip through the country did everything for

Schubert. Everywhere the minstrels were received by friends, who were entranced by their music. Schubert now set some songs from "The Lady of the Lake," all of which, especially the "Ave Maria," were greatly admired. Schubert delighted in the free country life and the beautiful scenery; every peak, every valley, every tree consoled and charmed him, and he returned home with his health restored.

For the next few years, Schubert's life was uneventful; he worked as industriously and ceaselessly as ever. In 1828, he was anxious to visit some friends in the country, but lack of money prevented him. Instead, he moved into a new house, which was still damp, and which probably caused his death. His health now began to fail; but after a while it improved, and among other places, he made a short journey to Eisenstadt, where he visited the grave of Haydn. On returning to Vienna, he became much worse, and at last he took to his bed. He does not seem to have endured any pain, but only to have suffered from low spirits and weakness. Poor, lonely, unappreci ated, there seemed no joy for him in life. We have seen how completely his musical education was neglected. He never heard his most beautiful creations.

He died November 19, 1828. During his last illness he begged to be buried with Beethoven; and his poverty-stricken father and brother Ferdinand made every sacrifice in order to lay him near his master. Some friends raised a monument, on which is written:

"Music has here entombed a rich treasure,

But still fairer hopes."

How inadequate the tribute; and yet, what record of Schubert save his music could satisfy us?

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A SEPTEMBER DAY ON THE LAKE. (SEE PAGE 874.)

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