"Stray Steps" is not the preachment of a prude. It is the plain, unvarnished picture of goings on in all classes of society. When the hit birds flutter, they simply prove the correctness of our aim. With the other class, we employ only blank cartridges to arouse them to a sense of seriousness. The skirmish will make them, if sensible to its teachings, the better prepared to meet the fusillade of real battle for principle and life saving on the field of certain conflict. The bullets, poisoned arrows and destroyers of the enemy of pure living fly thick and fast today over the homes of countless thousands of non-combatants. These are safe from the range of sharp shooting only if arrayed in the armor of clean understanding. The iron hand that executes their destruction wears the glove of velvet. The smokeless powder and noiseless fire arms employed by the attacking forces are inventions of soulless invaders who look remorselessly upon the wrecks they strew along the highlands and in the trenches of human error.

Certain of our portrayals of happenings in "Stray Steps" to some may seem to border on the indelicate. Expressions we employ to describe the scenes enacted may jar the exacting sense of some of our readers. "Impossible?" is the term startled readers will employ as their verdict to our recitals in not a few instances. Their unfamiliarity with the phase of life we are treating of will excuse these conclusions. Those who know we are truthful, and hold steadfast to a contrary statement take that position to hide their own shame.

We have worked out this narrative with no purpose in view except the betterment of a regretable condition in every community, that requires radical changes. No mercenary incentive is father to our thought. A more popular and pleasing story would be possible with far less effort. If we succeed through our story, in helping one trusting daughter, or one noble son, starting out on the career of life eventful, our compen

sation will be adequate. If an erring child is awakened to the seriousness of fate that awaits those who defy the proprieties of early teachings and the parental advice of God fearing parents, so much greater will be our pleasure.

Young friends, remember this: The faster you live, the sooner you are through. Do you enjoy living! The better you live, the longer you will live.

HARVESTER HIRAM.

"STRAY STEPS"

CHAPTER I.

"The Adirondack Flier" South bound was plowing its way through a cloud of dust, lazily rounding the reverse curves just north of the antiquated railway station at The Glen.

The "Sleeper" had gone up a few hours earlier, carrying a sultry load of human freight to various points in the wilderness beyond, all bent on missions of pastime.

Just as the searching rays of an August sun started to light up the mountain passes, tourists on the North bound train began to stir themselves and sigh for a glimpse of Nature's loveliness, no where more apparent or vividly portrayed than in the "North woods."

In a sense they were like Mahomet. He made the people believe he could compel the mountain to come to him. Failing, when they assembled to witness the miracle, in no sense abashed, he had said: "If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill."

So the tourists were "going to the hill." Not to offer up prayers as believers in Mahomet did but simply to idle away their days in various forms of recreation.

The mountains they traversed were not the mythical eruptions of the Titans, where Mount Pelion and Mount Ossa were piled upon Olympus. Here no attempt had been made in fact or fancy by authentic history or in fiction to scale the dwellings of the Gods. Homer wrote no story of these, a couplet to the Tower of Babel,

consecrating them to readers of history. Their fame nevertheless is as wide as the towering Alps where eternal snow pierces the heaven above, or Olympus where the Omnipotent Father with his thunder made all things tremble, or Ossa from which Pelion was hurled.

Ancient giants may have plied their strength in Herculean tasks of moving these Adirondack mountains about as children strew their toy blocks. The startling formations of quartz, feldspar and mica, towering from Mother Earth, may be just the natural condition of a creative state. The monarchs of the majestic realms of vastness may mark the pathway of the God of mystery as tradition portrays. All this is merest speculation. They exist, piercing high, the friends of passing clouds.

The crowd of sightseeing city folks was soon to penetrate the habitations of that class of population known as country "rubes," who hail certain of their visitors as city "boobs." Between them honors are easy. At the end of their outing the former return home with stories of the idiosyncrasies of the latter. The ruralists sit back and count their rolls made fat from the visitors. All are happy.

One misanthropic individual, a little more cynical than his associates, awakened just as the north bound train drew into the station, and noted only the low wooden buildings which covered the land on either side of the track. Their hopelessness of adaptation to architectural exactions was striking. They were in

no sense things of beauty, just the ordinary surroundings of a rural railway station. The impression gained by the visitor was not inspiring. With his head protruding from a window where the shade had been drawn, the inquisitor hailed an idle station hand: "Neighbor, what is the name of this God forsaken

over-at-the-heel-generally run down and almost forgotten town?" Without looking up, with the least apparent concern, the employee, whose business was to handle trunks rather than supply information, replied: "Let it go at that; you have answered the question as well as anyone can answer it for you."