"Must have been that fool Jed!" snorted Kaylor. "The boss told him to run six of 'em in here, and he 's got just about enough sense to pick that outlaw along with the rest." He paused, his thin lips curving in a slow smile. "Where'd you learn to ride, son?" he asked.

Ramsey slid out of the saddle and bent to unbuckle the cinch. "In Montana," he answered, flushing a little. "I was brought up on a ranch there."

"I'll say you was," nodded Kaylor, approvingly. "It 's some stunt to rope a beast like that roan from another bronco. Easy, boy, easy."

He spoke soothingly to the horse while they removed saddle and bridle, and then sent him flying with a gentle slap.

"I hope the kid ain't hurt," he went on, as they started for the gate. "How 'd he come to get thrown? Generally he can stick on anything with four legs."

Briefly Ramsey told him; and together they hastened from the pasture, where Kaylor's anxiety was set at rest by the sight of Sutton sitting on the grass surrounded by the other boys and apparently little the worse for his adventure save for a prominent swelling on his forehead and a series of deep scratches along one cheek.

"It was that beastly squeeze against the fence that did it," he was saying. "I did n't seem to have a particle of strength left in that leg; it's a wonder to me I-stayed-on."

Suddenly meeting Ramsey's eyes over Gilcrist's shoulder, his voice trailed off into silence and a deep flush crept up to the very roots of his fair hair. Impulsively he tried to gain his feet, only to slip back with a twisted, embarrassed smile.

"I-I'll be all right—in a minute," he murmured, his glance shifting. "It 's only a little strained."

He paused, biting his lips, and Gilcrist, filled with delight and overwhelming satisfaction at his friend's dramatic vindication, decided he had never seen Lynn so utterly at a loss before. Then all at once Sutton's lips straightened and his level gaze sought Ramsey's again.

"Oh, I don't know about that," returned the Westerner, almost as much embarrassed. "You would n't have been thrown but for that squeeze."

"I was n't thinking of that." Sutton drew a long breath and a little twinkle came into his eyes. "You certainly did put it all over me," he confessed. "I was so dead sure you could n't ride."

"That's where you made one mighty big mistake," put in Sam Kaylor, gruffly. “This kid acts to me as if he was pretty near born on horseback."

"Oh, I know that, Sam," shrugged Sutton. "Don't rub it in when I 'm giving such a beautiful imitation of a crawling worm." Again his glance sought Ramsey's. "But what was the idea? Why would n't you show us until you had to?"

Ramsey drew himself up a little. "When you fellows would n't believe what I said, II was n't going to-to prove it by doing— stunts," he returned stiffly.

Again the blood crept up into Sutton's face and his eyes fell. One outstretched hand grasped a twig, which he began to break absently into little pieces. Suddenly he looked up, his face serious.

"I'm sorry," he said simply. "We-we were all donkeys, and I was the worst of the lot. I'll lay down and let you walk on me if you like," he added, his lips twisting in a whimsical smile.

For the first time Ramsey's face lightened. He was a friendly soul at heart and he had not enjoyed this period of self-imposed aloof

ness.

"I'll wait till your leg 's well before I try that," he shrugged.

Sutton laughed. "Good! You're a bit too husky to do any very light stepping. Give us a hand, will you? I believe I can stand on the blooming thing now."

Ramsey bent over and, catching Sutton's outstretched hand, drew him easily to his feet. As their fingers met he was conscious of a pressure on the other's part, a little harder and a trifle more prolonged than seemed quite necessary. And Lynn's eyes, serious for the moment, gazed straight into his and thanked him mutely.

That was all. But Bob Ramsey would have hated anything more; and as Sutton limped over to speak to Kaylor, the Westerner took hold of Gilcrist's arm and pinched it.

"Not a half-bad day after all, Gil," he said smilingly. "I'm rather glad you nagged me into coming."

THE third observance of Children's Book Week will begin on November 13, and during these seven days many agencies, such as the public libraries, the schools, the churches, the General Federation of Women's Clubs, the Boy Scouts, and the Girl Scouts, will direct attention to the fact that books are about the best friends one can have-and there are few people who do not want to make as many good and lasting friendships as they can.

Most readers of ST. NICHOLAS probably do not need this special urge to read and own books, but they can do their share in spreading the joy there is in good literature by telling their friends what is worth reading. In this same number of ST. NICHOLAS Hildegarde Hawthorne says, "Training your capacity for reading, your understanding of the fine things of literature, is another sure pathway toward your happiness job. The love of books is a great love, a great power for happiness, and you can train yourself to find that love."

Boys and girls of this generation, so some

timated in the books especially written for them, and their parents were apt to think the books they themselves enjoyed were too old for their children.

Then some people began to realize children had a greater capacity than they had been credited with for understanding and appreciating what was fine in literature. It was the realization of this that brought about the founding of ST. NICHOLAS exactly forty-eight years ago. And with a champion of the boys and girls in the field, authors were encouraged to write for children, and thus a great impetus was given to the publication of books for young readers. To-day there is a rich field to browse in, and, instead of half a dozen volumes, there are hundreds to satisfy the hunger for information, entertainment, and culture that seizes so many of the million and a half boys and girls in this country who come into the reading age every year. We are told by one leading authority among librarians that America is giving more thought to the subject of children's reading than is any other country.

So perhaps this may be called the golden age of literature for boys and girls. Certainly it is, as compared with other days and years, and only so long ago as the time of Lincoln's boyhood. In the ST. NICHOLAS LEAGUE this month one contributor writes, as her favorite episode in American history, the story of the book which Lincoln borrowed, and, as it became damaged while in his possession, had to work three days to pay for. Lincoln loved his books. He preferred them to hunting, trapping, and other frontier sports that attracted his companions. His private book-case was between the logs next to his bed; and the books kept there were the Bible, "Esop's Fables," "Robinson Crusoe," "Pilgrim's Progress," and Weems's "Life of Washington.'

coln read his books over and over, and made each one a choice and lasting friend. The style of the authors who became his teachers, so to speak, gave him a command of precise English which has never been excelled, and rarely equaled by any writer. Another American boy, one who climbed the heights of literary and editorial fameThomas Bailey Aldrich-leaves us a record of his boyhood days at his grandfather's house in Portsmouth, N. H., and the photograph of his own room, reproduced on this page, is described in his book, "The Story of a Bad Boy," which, by the way, was published serially in 1869 in "Our Young Folks," a magazine later taken over by ST. NICHOLAS. The room in the Nutter house is the same as it was then, for it is now the Aldrich Memorial. The paper, with its two hundred and sixty-eight birds ("not counting those split in two where the paper was badly joined"), is still on the wall; there are a small bed covered with a patchwork quilt, a chest of carved mahogany drawers, and, most important of all, over the head of the bed a book-shelf on which young Tom kept his books. "Shall I ever forget the hour," he asks, "when I first overhauled my books? The thrill that ran through my fingers' ends then has not run out yet. Many a time did I steal up to this nest of a room, and, taking the dog's-eared volume from its shelf, glide off into an enchanted realm, where there were no lessons to get and no boys to smash my kite." This early contact with books turned Aldrich toward literary rather than commercial aspirations. In reading his biography it is not surprising to find he remained in his uncle's bank but three years, forsaking business for writing and editing. Early volumes of ST. NICHOLAS contain verse and stories from his pen, and later numbers record biographical sketches which show that he was a healthy, happy, unspoiled lad.

sketch is reproduced the room of Betsy Peirce in the famous mansion of her family in old Salem (one of Samuel McIntire's works of art). The first glance into this charming room reveals the hanging book-shelves and their full cargo of well-thumbed volumes.

Girls of New England had their private book-cases as well as the boys, and with this

As boys and girls in each generation play the same games their fathers and mothers did, it is not surprising that the sense of ownership and the treasuring of one's own things come as naturally. That books often head the list of our best-loved possessions is not strange. Our librarians, especially children's librarians, are often called upon to be book counselors as well as book distributors, and through their guidance many a book-shelf such as Thomas Bailey Aldrich had finds its way to the walls of the rooms of American boys and girls. May good books to fill these shelves and enrich their young owners' minds increase from year to year!

AND as a postscript to Children's Book Week in America, it will be of interest also to know that in England in this very month of November important notice of children and their books will be taken. A five-act comedy by Lord Lytton, "Not So Bad As We Seem," first given, with a cast which included Charles Dickens, in 1851 before Queen Victoria, will be revived for a special performance. The proceeds (which are likely to be large, for the least expensive seat is $26) will go toward rescuing Dickens' boy