another down in a most ferocious manner. Their looks and actions were frantic, and they fought like madmen. While they were thus engaged, a third shrill yell assailed our ears. I thought another engine was coming, and wondered what would be the result, when Artyn exclaimed: "Ah! There comes the Ser-Asker, the minister of war! He'll soon settle their dispute!" And he did. He was preceded by a neovbetjee, who cleared the way for him, and when he came up, he promptly ordered the companies to take up their engines and follow him, which they did with the utmost meekness and alacrity. There was no chance now for either party to claim the victory, but they kept up a subdued rattle of words all the way. "Does the minister of war belong to the fire department?" I inquired of Artyn. "Oh, no!" said Artyn. "But all the ministers and high officers of the Government assist voluntarily at great fires, in order to encourage the men and to keep order, as you have just seen. Even the Sultan himself is sometimes present." "How much pay do these zealous firemen get?" put in George. "Pay!" exclaimed Artyn, with a hearty laugh. "No pay at all. They do it for the love of it. Glory, sir; glory and excitement are sufficient pay for them! They are exempted, however, from taxes, and each fellow gets one pair of shoes a year from the Government; and if, by accident, they should succeed in saving a house from the flames, they get a backshish, or present, from the owner, smoke ascended, followed by bright flames which shot suddenly upward like so many tongues of fire trying to lick the sky. The crash of the falling houses, the rattle of the tiles with which the roofs were covered, the clanking of the engines, the yells of the firemen, the screams of distressed women and frightened children, the hoarse shouts of men madly endeavoring to save their furniture, - made a terrific din. The fire originated in a valley on the north side of Pera hill. The houses, being principally built of wood and dry as tinder, fell an easy prey to the devouring element. There was, besides, a strong northerly wind that fanned the flames. Cinders in quantities were floating in the air like fireworks. Even large pieces of wood were detached from buildings on fire and carried by the wind Under these circumstances, the tiny fire-engines could do but little toward arresting the progress of the fire. It was fast making its way up the hill, taking in everything in its path. The water supply, too, was very deficient. It was either obtained from the public fountains (whence it was carried to the engines in leather bags and pails), or it was drawn from deep wells and private cisterns. These latter, Artyn informed us, being used as receptacles for kitchen utensils, are often unavailable; so that the water gives out soon, or is very slow to reach the engines. Artyn now suggested that we should retreat from the place where we were standing; for it was becoming not only uncomfortably hot, but even dangerous. From the windows above us, beds, bedding, and various articles of furniture were being thrown into the street, where the friends of the owners scrambled forward to assist in saving the property. Before retiring, however, we wit nessed two tragic events. We saw a young woman brought out of a burning house with a copper kettle in her hand. She was screaming wildly, "My baby! Oh, my baby!" The woman had been engaged in the kitchen, with her infant in her arms, and had been busily occupied saving her cooking utensils by throwing them into the cistern, quite unconscious that her dwelling was already on fire. The firemen, having discovered her in that perilous place, had rushed into the kitchen and forced her to hasten out. On her way she had espied a copper kettle, and had instinctively seized it; but in her fright and bewilderment, she had thrown her baby into the cistern instead of the kettle. Fortunately, a sturdy fellow succeeded in rescuing the baby, and restoring it to the distracted mother. The other incident was even more dreadful. As we stood looking at the fire, we beheld a man struggling, and the next moment saw him thrown deliberately into the flames. George and I exchanged looks of horror, but the bystanders seemed to pay little heed to the occurrence, merely remarking that the man was an incendiary who had been caught in the act of spreading the fire for the purpose of robbery. We now found, that to abandon our position was not an easy matter. We had to fight our way through the crowd, and when, by hard effort, we gained the main street, we discovered that there was no possibility of getting to our hotel, the fire having intercepted us. So we had to make a wide circuit by going down the hill toward the Bosphorus and up again at the other end of Pera. We noticed on our way that every vacant spot along the street was filled with heaps of household furniture, covered with carpets as a protection from thieves and fall ing embers, the owners, or friends of the owners, standing guard near by. On the way back, Artyn took us through a most dismal place, which frightened us almost out of our wits. We had to pass through the large Turkish cemetery that lies in the outskirts of Pera. The somber darkness of the cypress trees was gloomy enough, and against it the standing monuments, lit by the glare of the fire, looked like so many ghosts arisen from their graves to witness the conflagration. We reached at last the foot of the hill by the Sultan's palace, and struck out toward Topanné. When we arrived there, we learned that we could not get to our hotel, for the simple reason that there was no longer any such hotel in existence. It had been burnt to the ground! We thought of our parents, and were greatly alarmed. We felt confident that they had escaped from the place, but even if they had, how and where were we to find them? To appease our anxiety on that score, Artyn said: 66 'Well, young gentlemen, we will go to every hotel that is not burnt down, and inquire for them. If not in any of the hotels, they probably are at the American Legation, which is not touched by the fire." We were greatly comforted at this and trudged on with redoubled vigor. And within an hour, to our great joy, we found both father and mother comfortably lodged at the Hotel D'Angleterre. They were anxiously hoping for our coming, and were as delighted as ourselves at the reunion. They, too, carried away by the excitement that surged around them, had gone out, and before they had returned the hotel was in ashes. But we have never become fully reconciled to the loss of our "bargains," which were consumed and buried in the ruins of the hotel. A BOBOLINK and a chick-a-dee Sang a sweet duet in the apple-tree. "When I'm in good voice," said the chick-a-dee, "I sing like you to 'high' C, 'high' C; But I've caught such a cold That for love or for gold I can sing only chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee!" FRIEDA'S DOVES. BY BLANCHE WILLIS HOWARD. FRIEDA grieved most at leaving the cathedral. For Freiburg itself she cared little. She was only a lame child, who could not run about with her strong brothers, and sometimes, indeed, when her back was very weary, she could not even walk. But she was not unhappy, for Bäbele was always kind, and was so gentle on the days when the pain came that the touch of her rough, hard-working hands was as tender as an angel's, Frieda thought. And then Bäbele was so droll, and knew how to tell such delightful tales about the Höllenthal, the wild mountain pass near Freiburg, through which the boys often tramped to gather and bring home flowers for the little sister. "Here are your weeds, Frieda," they would shout, laughingly, and would almost bury the little girl under the fresh fragrant mass of blossoms. The brothers were rough sometimes with one another, but never to Frieda. Johann, the eldest, worked with his father in the picture department of a publishing house. Heinrich and Otto were still at school. In the twilight, after the day's work was done and before it was quite dark enough to light the candle, for they were poor and thrifty people, who had to be careful not to waste anything,Bäbele used to take Frieda in her arms and tell her wonderful tales, not only of the wild Höllenthal, but of the Wildsee, the Mummelsee, the Murgthal, and many another spot in the Black Forest, as well as legends of the Rhine and the Hartz Mountains, and of the Thuringian Woods and the Wartburg; and the most astonishing thing was, there was never a day when the pain came that Bäbele, although she had been telling fairy tales all these years,- and Frieda was nine years old now,- did not have a perfectly marvelous story to tell, full of unheard-of adventures, and irresistible charm. And Frieda would listen entranced, until she forgot the poor little aching back that did not grow straight like other children's backs. But it did not always ache, and Frieda was really a contented little girl, and merry, too, in her quiet way. She used to sit in her low chair and watch Bäbele at her work, and croon sweet solemn airs she heard in the cathedral, and help, too, whenever she could. Sometimes she could sew a button on Johann's shirt, or even darn a sock for restless little Otto, who wore everything out so fast; and she was always pleased to be useful. tell her what had happened to them during the day, and she was clever enough to assist Heinrich and Otto with their lessons, for in her feeble body dwelt a sweet, strong, and helpful spirit. Then Johann would explain to her how they made pictures, until she understood the process almost as well as he. As for her papa, she saw little of him except during the dinner hour at noon; for he worked hard all day, and when evening came sat with his fellow-workmen smoking his pipe, and seldom came home until after the children were asleep. He did his best for his family, but he had never been the same man, Bäbele said, since his bright, cheery wife died, and that was a few months after Frieda was born. And these nine years Bäbele had staid on, and kept the house and the children clean, and toiled early and late, and all for love of Frieda; for it was little wages that she received, and the growing boys needed more and more every day, and Frieda's father would have been desperate and helpless without faithful Bäbele. When the neighbors remonstrated and told her she could get higher wages as servant in some grand house, she replied scornfully: "A gown on my back, a roof over my head, and bread enough for the day - what more do I want? And I would n't live without Frieda, no, not in the King's palace and on the King's throne, and that's the beginning and the end of it." The neighbors shook their heads and advised this and that, because neighbors like to seem wise and delight to give advice, but in their hearts they thought all the more of Bäbele for her devotion to Frieda. So, though lame and motherless and poor, Frieda was not an unhappy child. She had many joys, and the greatest joy of all was the cathedral. They lived close by, almost in its shadow, and on her "well days" Bäbele used to lead Frieda over and leave her there alone for hours, knowing that no harm could come to her in that sacred place. The old beadle knew her well and was kind to her, and all the people who came regularly learned to look for the quiet little figure sitting alone by the great pillar, and to be glad of the gentle smile of greeting from the pale child with the large brown eyes and the heavy chestnut hair falling below her waist, concealing with its beautiful luxuriance the pitiful little hump between the shoulders. Strangers often turned to wonder at the blessed, At night, when the boys came home, they would peaceful look the deformed child wore. But they |