"Come down, I say, or I'll--I'll--I'll--" and Billy paused, unable to think of anything terrible enough. "I--I can't, Billy," Teddy managed to get out. "Hung up, hey? Good enough for you. You ought to be hung up by the _heels a week_! I'll get you down, young man. Just you be calm till I fetch Whitney's ladder," and Billy started up the street on a trot, muttering to himself. The new danger sharpened Master Teddy's wits, and made him think faster than he had ever done before. "You fellows get down quick as you can," he cried to Tom and Phil. "Hurry!" The boys scrambled along the ledge and slid down the leader. "Get hold of that sign, the whole four of you, and stick one end of it up here like a ladder," went on Teddy, his voice all in a tremble, but the words coming with a rush. Up came the sign beside him. He got his legs over and around it, half wriggled his back onto it, reached his arms over his head, and by exerting every muscle in his body to the utmost, managed to pull and kick himself up enough to release his coat. Then he shot down the steep sign like a toboggan, and struck the ground all in a heap. Billy was coming down the street with his ladder and lantern. "Down with it!" said Tom, and he put his shoulder against the sign. "No you don't," cried Teddy; "I've had enough of signs and Halloweens. Let's git;" and he did with all his might, a sadder but a wiser boy. There has not been a case of sign lost on Halloween or any other day or night since in Scottsville. THANKSGIVING. BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER. When the Indians used to prowl Round the house at dead of night, And the north wind's angry howl Sounded fierce by candle-light; When the very babies learned How to whisper when they cried, And the young boys early earned Right to carry arms with pride-- In those wild exciting days, Often hungry, often cold, Men uplifted songs of praise, Women's hearts were strong and bold. And amid their penury, In their want and peril, they Set apart, with courage free, Their first brave Thanksgiving day. Over harvests gathered in With a stealthy foe anear, Over scanty byre and bin, Over joys which cost them dear, Gallant souls that would not bend Met their trustful grace to say, Heart to heart and friend to friend; So they kept Thanksgiving day. Ours to-day a happier fate: Royal wealth on us outpoured, Wide our pleasant land, and great Is the throng about our board. Run the dear old flag aloft; Let it float from ship and spire! Wake Thanksgiving, field and croft, House and home, and child and sire. MARTY'S PUMPKINS. BY RAY STANNARD BAKER. "M-a-rty! Mart--e--e!" called a shrill voice from the woodshed door. The speckled rooster stopped scratching in the chip-pile, raised his head, blinked his eyes, and chuckled protestingly.