“Dig three feet under the Beacon Tree and you will be an April fool.”

Once again the truth flashed across me.  The whole thing was a practical joke.

“Boys,” said I, “what day of the month is this?”

They reflected a moment and answered: 

“Why, it’s the first of April.”

“Let’s go home,” I added, stepping out of the excavation, “and here’s a half a dollar apiece if you don’t tell anybody about it.”

As we moved mournfully away I was sure I heard a chuckling laugh somewhere near in the darkness, but the author of it was prudent enough to keep beyond reach.

It was not until three months afterward that I learned all the facts connected with the writing found in a bottle.  My neighbor, the father of Arthur Newman, on whom I had played several jokes, adopted this means of retaliating on me.  He took my son and his own into his confidence, and I am grieved to say that the young rascals were just as eager as he.  When I proposed to make the search on the last day of March, my friend resorted to the subterfuge I have mentioned, so as to insure that it should not take place until the following evening, which was unquestionably appropriate for my first and last essay in digging for buried treasure.

THAT HORNET’S NEST.

There was an indignation meeting of the boys at Bushville school, one sultry day in August.  From stress of circumstances it was held at the noon recess, in the piece of woods back of the old stone building, and on the banks of the crystal stream in which the youngsters swam and revelled at morning, noon and night, during the long, delicious days of summer.

All the lads, not quite a score, belonging to the Bushville school, were present at the impromptu convention, but the proceedings were chiefly in charge of the lads, Tom Britt, Dick Culver and Fred Armstrong.  There were but a few months’ difference in their ages, none of which was more than fourteen years, but all were so much larger and older than the rest that they were looked up to as leaders in everything except study.

It cannot be denied that the three were indolent by nature, inclined to rebel at authority, and their enforced attendance at school was the affliction of their lives.  They had given their teachers no end of trouble, and more than once had combined in open rebellion against their instructors.  Tom’s father was a trustee, and like the parents of many ill-trained youths, including those of Dick and Fred, he could see nothing wrong in the conduct of his son.  As a consequence, discipline at times was set at naught in the Bushville institutions, and one of the best teachers ever employed by the district threw up his situation in disgust, and went off without waiting to collect his month’s salary.

The successor of this gentleman was Mr. Lathrop, a young man barely turned twenty, with a beardless face, a mild blue eye, a gentle voice, and such a soft winning manner that the three leaders gave an involuntary sniff of contempt when they first saw him and agreed that he would not last more than a week at the most.