[Pg 1109]

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XIV.

The next few weeks worked a great and serious change in George. It was the first time he had seen death since he was ten years old, when his father died. That had made a great impression on him at the time, but the feelings of a child of ten and a youth of sixteen are very different. He had loved little Mildred dearly, and the child's death was a deep sorrow to him. The grief of his brother and sister was piteous. As the case often is, the father was the more overwhelmed, and the poor mother had to stifle her own grief to help her husband. George could not but love and admire his sister the more when he saw her calm fortitude, and how, inspired by love for her husband, she bore bravely the loss of her only child. Both Madam Washington and Betty had come to Mount Vernon the day of little Mildred's death. Madam Washington was obliged to return after a few days to her younger children, but George and Betty remained.

"For George is the heir now," said Laurence, with a sad smile, "and he must learn to manage what will one day be his own."

"Oh, brother," burst out George, with strange violence, "do you believe I wanted this place at the price of your child's life? I would give it all, twenty times over, to have her back!"

"If I had thought you coveted it, I should never have made you my heir," was Laurence's reply to this.

Never was there a kinder or more helpful soul than Betty,[Pg 1110] now a tall and beautiful girl of fourteen. Mrs. Washington's health was much shattered by this last and greatest sorrow, and Laurence, who had always been of a delicate constitution, became every day more feeble. George attended him assiduously, rarely leaving him. He persuaded his brother to ride out and take some interest in the place. He read to Laurence of evenings in the library, and tried to interest him with accounts of the new regions in which the younger brother had spent so many months. Nothing could ever make Laurence Washington a happy man again.

Mrs. Washington's sorrow, though as great, was better controlled. She always managed to wear a cheerful look before her husband, and although she was not able to accompany him in his out-door life, she was with him every moment he spent in-doors. Betty was to her as great a comfort as George was to Laurence Washington. Betty had so tender a heart and so excellent an understanding that she was as helpful as a woman twice her age, and these two young creatures were mainstays and comforts at an age when most young creatures rely wholly on other people.

All day they were engaged, each in gentle and untiring efforts to make life a little brighter to their brother and sister. But after the older persons had retired, every night, George and Betty would sit up over the fire in the library and talk for hours. Their conversations were not always sad—it is not natural for the young to dwell in sadness—but they were generally serious. One night Betty said:

"Don't you think, George, we ought to write to our mother and ask her to let us stay over Christmas with brother Laurence and sister Anne? You remember how gay it was last Christmas, and how glad we were to be here? Now I think when they are in great trouble we ought to be as willing to stay with them as when they were happy and bright and could make us enjoy ourselves."

"Betty," answered George, in admiration, "why did I not think of this? I see it is just what we ought to do."

"Because," said Betty, promptly, "women are much more thoughtful than men, and girls are much more thoughtful than boys."

George did not dispute this, as he had been taught never to call in question any woman's goodness, and in his heart he believed them to be all as good as his mother and Betty and his sister Anne. The lesson of chivalry towards all women had been early and deeply taught him, and it was a part of the fibre of his being. "And shall I write and ask our mother to let us stay?" asked George, humbly.

"No," replied Betty, with a slight accent of scorn; "you might not ask it in the right way. I shall write myself."

Now, although Betty always assumed, when alone with George, this superior tone, yet when they were in company nothing could exceed her submissiveness towards this darling brother, and it was then George's turn to treat her with condescending kindness. But each thought this arrangement perfectly natural and mutually satisfactory. Whenever they had a discussion, though, Betty always carried the day, for she was really a girl of remarkably fine sense, and much more glib and persuasive than George, who could always be silenced, if not convinced, by Betty's ready tongue and quick wit. The next day the letter was written, and within a week a reply was received giving permission for them to remain over Christmas.

Mrs. Washington, ever thoughtful of others, made the same preparation for the holiday on the estate as usual, so that, however sad the house might be, the servants should have their share of jollity. But the tie between a kind master and mistress and their slaves was one of great affection, and especially were the white children objects of affection to the black people. Therefore, although the usual Christmas holiday was given, with all the extra allowances and indulgences, it was a quiet season at Mount Vernon. On Christmas day, instead of the merry party in carriages going to Pohick Church, and an equally merry one going on board the Bellona to service, the coach only took Mr. and Mrs. Washington and Betty to church, George riding with them, for he hated a coach, and never drove when he could ride.

Meanwhile William Fairfax had returned to Belvoir, where there were Christmas festivities. George and Betty were asked, and although their brother and sister urged them to go, neither felt really inclined for gayety. They were not of those natures forever in pursuit of pleasure, although none could enjoy it more when it came rightly; and a native good sense and tender sympathy with others, which found no expression in words, made them both feel that they should omit no mark of respect in a case where they were so directly benefited as by the little girl's death. Laurence Washington and his wife could not admire too much George's delicacy about Mount Vernon. While he made use of the servants and the horses and carriages and boats, and everything else on the place, with the freedom of a son rather than of a younger brother, no word or look escaped him that indicated he was the heir.

William Fairfax was a great resource to both George and Betty. Living a whole summer together as he and George had done, it was inevitable that they should become either very much attached or very antagonistic—and luckily they had become devotedly fond of one another. William was preparing to enter William and Mary College the following year, and George bitterly regretted that he would not have so pleasant a companion for his next summer's work. Very different were his circumstances now, the acknowledged heir of a rich brother. But George determined to act as if no such thing existed, and to carry out his plan of finishing the surveys on Lord Fairfax's lands. The universal expectation of war with France, whenever the French and English outposts should get sufficiently near, made him sure that he would one day bear arms; but he prepared for whatever the future might hold for him by doing his best in the present.

In February he returned to Ferry Farm for a while, but he had been there only a month when Laurence Washington wrote, begging that he would return, and saying that he himself felt utterly unequal to carrying on the affairs of a great estate in his present wretched state of health and spirits. Madam Washington made no objection to George's return to Mount Vernon. She realized the full extent of Laurence's kind intentions towards George, and that his presence was absolutely necessary to keep the machinery of a large plantation going.

In March, therefore, George was again at Mount Vernon, practically in charge of the place. There were ploughing and ditching and draining and clearing and planting to be done, and, with a force of a hundred and fifty field hands and eighteen hundred acres of arable land, it was no small undertaking. By daylight George was in the saddle, going first to the stables to see the stock fed, then to the kennels, and, after breakfast, riding over the whole estate. It kept him in the open air all day, and he began to like not only the life, but the responsibility. He had all the privileges of the master, Laurence leaving everything to his judgment, and his sister was glad to have it so. This continued until June, when, the crops being well advanced and Lord Fairfax having written urgently for him, he turned affairs over to the overseer until the autumn, and prepared to resume his work as a surveyor.

He paid a hurried visit to Ferry Farm, where, although he was painfully missed, things went on perfectly well, for no better farmer than Madam Washington could be found in the colony of Virginia. Indeed, George's success at Mount Vernon was due in great measure to applying the sound system in vogue at Ferry Farm to the larger interests at Mount Vernon. Madam Washington's pride in his responsible position at Mount Vernon, and his still greater responsibility as a State surveyor for Lord Fairfax, did much to reconcile her to George's long absences. Deep in her heart she cherished a pride in her eldest son that was one of the master-passions of her life. The extreme respect that George paid her filled her with more satisfaction than the attentions of all the rest of the world. Once only had they clashed—in the matter of the midshipman's warrant. She had won a nominal victory by an appeal to his feelings, but she had no mind after that for any more battles of the sort. So, with tears, but with encouraging smiles, she saw him set forth, in the summer of 1749, upon his second year's work in the wilderness.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 1111]

HOW TO MANAGE AN AQUARIUM.

BY JAMES STEELE.

It is generally supposed that it is necessary to change the water in an aquarium at least once a day; but that is not the case. The true principle on which an aquarium should be conducted is not to change the water at all, but so to aerate and refresh the original supply as to maintain it always in a pure and perfect state. There are several means by which this may be done. The healthy growth of plants is very important, and active and brisk contact with the air of the atmosphere will greatly freshen the water. Motion in the water is absolutely necessary. In large aquaria this is obtained by an arrangement of tanks into which the water is pumped, and from which it flows rapidly, circulating through the tanks where the fish live. In its passage through the air it absorbs considerable oxygen, without which no fish can live. Fish placed in water that has been boiled die in a very few minutes.

In a small aquarium the water can be refreshed by frequently drawing it up through a glass or rubber syringe, and squirting it back into the vessel from some height above it.

The first thing to be done in the formation of a fresh-water aquarium is to start your plants in proper soil at the bottom of your tank, fill the tank with water, and leave it undisturbed until the plants begin to grow and the little bubbles of oxygen are to be seen rising to the surface of the water.

Choose your plants from such as you may collect from rivers or brooks or ponds anywhere in the country. Plant them, and then cover the surface of the soil with pebbles and small bits of rock, or anything that is suitable and in keeping with the rest of your arrangements. Never put sea-shells into a fresh-water aquarium, and never put in any artificial objects. Everything should be as simple and natural as you can make it.

Now fill your tank with water poured through a siphon or funnel, being very careful not to disturb the soil or the roots of the plants. You should have some clean river sand in the bottom of your tank, and your pieces of rock should be so arranged as to form little caves and hiding-places for your fish. It will take perhaps two weeks to get your tank into a proper condition for fish to live in. Every bit of dead or decaying vegetation should be carefully removed. Keep your tank shaded from the heat of the sun, and expose it to the bright light only once in awhile.

In order to manage your aquarium properly you will require a few simple tools. A little hand-net that can be bought for a few cents, or made for even less out of a bit of wire and a small piece of mosquito-netting, is useful for catching the fish or shells without putting your hands into the water. A pair of wooden forceps, like a glove-stretcher, will be found most convenient for nipping off bits of decaying plants or for catching objects that may have accidentally fallen into the water. Glass tubes of various sizes are also useful. If you want to catch any small object in the water with the tube, place the tube in the water with your finger over the hole in the top. Until your finger is removed the tube will remain full of air. Place it over the bit of refuse or whatever it is you want to catch, remove your finger, and the water will rush in, carrying the object with it into the tube, which should then be closed at the upper end by placing your finger over it as before. A glass or hard-rubber syringe is necessary with which to aerate the water thoroughly at least once a day, and oftener if possible. Fill the syringe, hold it high above the tank, and then squirt the water back again. A long piece of India-rubber tubing which may be used as a siphon is necessary for the purpose of changing the water in the tank, when it is evident that something has gone wrong.

If a green film begins to gather on the side of the tank that is most exposed to the light, it should be cleaned away every day, and the sides of the glass polished carefully. A small piece of clean sponge tied on the end of a stick will answer the purpose very well, and, if used daily, you can keep the glass clear with very little trouble; but if the scum is neglected and left to accumulate, you will find it almost impossible to remove it from the glass even by hard scouring.

It is best to have only small fish in your aquarium, and for this reason trout are not desirable. Although very beautiful and intelligent, they grow so rapidly that they are likely to become in a short time too unwieldy for your tank. Goldfish and minnows are very good, and the common little sunfish or "pumpkin-seed" is excellent.

You must keep careful watch over the fish in your aquarium, and if any one of them appears to be sick he should be removed at once, very gently, with the hand-net, and placed in fresh water, where he will often recover. If, however, the little sufferer is doomed to die, it is better not to run the risk of his doing so among his healthy companions. It is best always to have a hospital for your sickly pets, and as soon as one of them, whether a fish or a bird or any animal, shows signs of ill health, he should be taken away from the others and placed by himself.

Certain varieties of snails live well in fresh water, and will be found useful in clearing away the green film that is almost certain to collect on the side of the glass; but you must be careful or they will devour your plants as well; and if your tank is very small it is hardly worth while to try to keep them.

Water-beetles and water-spiders also thrive well, and their habits are most interesting to watch; but water-beetles fly by night, and unless you are careful to cover your tank you are likely to discover some morning that a number of your tenants have taken French leave.

You must be careful not to overstock your aquarium, for your fish will not thrive if they are overcrowded. Remember, also, that heat and dust are fatal to your pets. The water must be kept clean and cool at all times, and all foreign matter and every particle of decaying vegetation should be removed immediately.

To manage an aquarium successfully, no matter on how small a scale, requires a good deal of care and time, but you will find it time well spent, and the pleasure and knowledge the study of your pets will give you will be an ample return for the time you spend on them.

WHO CAN ANSWER?

BY GRACE A. CANNON.

The question's not a new one, dear,
But one that ev'ry day
Comes to some girls and boys I know
While at their work or play.

My Nanny comes to me at morn,
And with beseeching look,
Asks me if I can tell her where
She'll find her slate or book.

And Teddy comes to me and says,
Sometimes with downcast eye,
"Mamma dear, won't you please to come
And help me find my tie?"

And Alice, too, comes with a frown
When going out for play;
"Oh dear, mamma, what did I do
With my hat yesterday?"

No hat is found out in the hall;
The book's not in its case;
No tie is found upstairs to be
In its accustomed place.

Now me the reason tell, my dear,
And quickly, if you can,
Why all these things may not be found
By Alice, Ted, or Nan?

The question's not a new one, dear,
But one that ev'ry day
Comes to some girls and boys I know
While at their work or play.

[Pg 1112]

BY PAUL DU CHAILLU.

Part I.

Dear young folks of Harper's Round Table, I have been invited by my friend, the Editor, to write for you a series of stories in which I shall tell you of some of the adventures that have happened to me in the great equatorial forest which begins on the west coast at the sea-shore and stretches far to the east on both sides of the equator, adventures which I have not told in Stories of the Gorilla Country, Lost in the Jungle, Wild Life Under the Equator, My Apingi Kingdom, and The Country of the Dwarfs, five books which I wrote especially for you.

During my travels I have had so many strange adventures, I have endured so many days of hunger and starvation, I have had so many hair-breadth escapes, I have seen so many strange sights, I have met face to face so many savage and fierce men and still more savage and dangerous beasts, that I could spend days in recounting to you the adventures of my life.

Africa is a wonderful country. There are great sandy deserts, extensive ranges of mountains, immense prairies, vast tracts of brushwood, swampy lands, great rivers and lakes; but the wonder of that large continent is the great equatorial forest I discovered, and which contains so many wild animals and interesting tribes of people.

What an immense forest it is—a sea of trees, if I may use the expression! No one knows how wide it is, neither do we know its exact length.

What gigantic trees are seen in that forest! Some rival in size the great California trees. These are the giants of the forest, and they rise two or three hundred feet above the other trees, upon which they look down. They are like sentinels watching over the country. Some of these big trees are worshipped by the natives. Under the roof of the mighty branches is the thick jungle, where no man can penetrate easily. The jungle is the undergrowth of the forest. It is made up of younger trees: lianas, thorny creepers, kinds of bamboo and rattan, thorny trees, sword-grass that cuts like a razor, and aloes plant in the swampy parts. In many places the explorer cannot see a yard off from where he stands.

What beautiful butterflies and queer insects, rare birds—some with brilliant plumage—lovely and strange flowers and orchids the traveller will meet as he explores this unknown land! Though all alone in that great solitude, he will seldom feel lonely, for his mind will be occupied all the time.

HIDDEN SNAKES THE CHIEF DANGER OF THE FOREST.

There are also many disagreeable things in the forest. The most dangerous, for they are often enemies unseen, are the snakes. There are snakes that live chiefly in the water. I used to keep a sharp lookout for them when I bathed in the clear little streams which run through the woods. There are tree snakes, those who pass a great part of their time on trees and feed on squirrels, birds, and monkeys; and also land snakes—that is, snakes that never climb trees and seldom go into the water. The biggest of them is the python. Often they are coiled along the trunk of a tree waiting to spring upon a passing gazelle. But there are so many venomous snakes, it makes me shudder as I think of them with their triangular heads. What fangs they have, especially the Clotho nasicornis, a thick short snake! Its fangs for all the world look like fish bones. In color that snake can hardly be distinguished from the ground and dead leaves on which it crawls. It is of great thickness round the middle; its head is very huge and hideous, being triangular in shape, and having an erect proboscis or born rising from the tip of its nose. Besides snakes, there are centipedes, so-called because, I suppose, they have about a hundred legs. Their sting is poisonous, and in some cases fatal; those that are very dark in color are much dreaded.

Then the scorpions! you find them everywhere, even between the leaves of your books!

What narrow escapes I have had with snakes, scorpions, centipedes! I wonder sometimes that I am alive to tell of the things I have seen. I never used to lie down without looking for these creeping things. You think, naturally, that a man's life must be miserable on that account. Not at all; one gets accustomed to everything in the world. At last I did not mind it at all, I got so used to doing this every day.

There were also many kinds of flies—called by the natives the mboco, ntchoona, the eloway. The mosquitoes will often plague us. We shall meet the terrible bashikonay ants. When they spread in the forest, they attack every living animal. All flee before them—gorilla, leopard, and elephant.

In that great forest are many tribes of men; some of them wear no clothing whatever. These people worship idols, good and evil spirits; dread witchcraft, and put to death all those who they think are wizards or witches. They are constantly engaged in warfare against each other. The most fierce looking of all are the cannibal tribes. How horrid they look with their sharp-pointed teeth, which have been made so by being filed! What magnificent-looking warriors they are! What brave hunters! It was in their country that I shot my first gorilla.

The strangest people I discovered were the dwarfs or pygmies, a race of people very diminutive in size. They looked so queer, especially the white-headed old folks. None of their houses is more than three feet in height. These pygmies, like the monkeys, lived chiefly on the fruits, berries, and nuts of the forest; they never cultivated the soil. But they knew the use of fire, knew how to trap game and cook their meat.

All these tribes thought Friend Paul was a Moguizic, a supernatural being who had come from some part of the sky. Many believed that I had descended from the moon, and that I came to see the world and its inhabitants. They believed that I could do all kinds of supernatural things, and in many tribes where guns were unknown they thought I held thunder and lightning in my hands, and when I fired a gun they all fell low on the ground.

Highways of communication and roads are unknown in this great dark Africa. But there are numerous paths going in every direction, so the traveller, if the natives are willing to guide him, can go from the west coast to the east coast, and from the Cape of Good Hope to Egypt, Morocco, and Algeria, or vice versa, for every village and tribe has paths leading towards the other. Often the paths leading from one village to another are very difficult to follow, for the jungle is so rank; and often they are closed for months on account of wars among different tribes.

Such paths you have never seen—narrow, just wide enough for a man to go through the thick jungle. The branches of trees often join together. Here a big tree has fallen across the path, and you must either bend yourself to pass under it, or climb over it. If you cannot do either, then you must go around it. You have to walk over the roots of trees until your feet are sore. Sometimes then you fall in the midst of sword-grass, or under the canelike bamboos or palms, or have to walk in swamps filled with aloes. I still walk in a stooping manner, the result of my being obliged to bend constantly under branches of trees, or under fallen ones. Often a stream is your only path.

Day after day, my dear young folks, Friend Paul spent travelling in that forest without hearing the chatter of a monkey or the shrill cry of a parrot. The only noise he could hear was now and then the falling of a leaf or the gentle murmur of a little stream wending its way towards some big unknown river which he hoped some day to find.

I walked thousands and thousands of miles on foot under its shady trees. The foliage was so thick that sometimes[Pg 1113] I was several weeks without being able to see the sun, the moon, or the stars, for my eyes could not penetrate the dense and thick leaves. How glad I was when I came to a river or an open space, and could see once more the sun, the moon, and the stars! I loved the stars, for without them and the moon I could not have known where I was; they showed me the way all through my travels.

Not only had I to travel on foot, but everything I had to take with me had to be carried on the backs of men, for no beasts of burden are to be found in the big forest. There are no camels, no donkeys, no horses, no oxen; and had I taken some with me they would have died of starvation, for there were no pastures, and they could not have lived on the different leaves of the trees or of the jungle. Besides, they could not have gone through the narrow crooked path of the great forest.

Rain falls almost every night for hours, accompanied by such thunder and lightning as you have never heard or seen in our country. The claps of thunder are so terrific that often they made me jump from my bed of leaves. The lightning at times is so vivid that it pierces the foliage of the trees; and as to the heavy rain, it often falls like a solid sheet of water for hours, and this happens almost every night for nine months of the year. After the rainy season comes the dry season—cold, for sometimes the thermometer falls to 66° Fahrenheit. I felt then this low temperature very much. Not a drop of rain falls during the dry season; but far in the interior, in the mountain regions, it rains twelve months of the year, but during three months of that time no thunder is heard.

If the men are strange, the beasts roaming in that great forest are still more wonderful to behold. The huge elephant roams everywhere on its rivers and lakes, the hippopotami are numerous in the sluggish streams, and the lakes are filled with crocodiles of huge size. The great gorilla, which I discovered, is the terror of the natives, and is called by them the Giant of the Forest. The strong man of the woods wanders continually in search of fruits, berries, and nuts. When night comes he sleeps at the foot of a tree, while his wife, the female gorilla, is sleeping on its branches. The gorilla never makes a shelter or a house for himself. Those who describe them as making houses mislead you. Friend Paul killed many of these gorillas, and was the first white man who ever hunted them and saw them in their wild state.

Besides the gorilla, Friend Paul saw several other wonderful kinds of man-like apes, also the common chimpanzee, called by the natives nshiego. Then he discovered three new species or varieties of the chimpanzee family, known to the natives under the names of Nshiego-mbouve, apes with bald heads and black faces; the Nshiego-nkengo, whose faces always remain yellow; and the Kooloo-kamba. All these apes are very shy, and the hunter to approach them has to be very wary.

Dear friends, we are to travel together in that great African forest. We will carry no tents with us; we will build a new camp every day when we are on the march, and we will protect ourselves from the rain by building slanting roofs, covered with large leaves put on the top of each other as we do with shingles, slates, or tiles at home. We will protect ourselves from the wild beasts by burning all night large fires—the wild beasts are afraid of fire. These fires will protect us also from snakes and voracious ants.

When we cannot find game we will be hungry together, and, like the monkeys, we will have to eat the wild berries, nuts, and fruits of the forest. When we cannot find these we will starve together until Providence comes to our rescue. At other times, when food is very scarce and it becomes a matter of life and death, we will be obliged to eat[Pg 1114] snakes, or sometimes leopards. When we have plenty, we will eat elephants, hippopotami, crocodiles, buffalo, wild boar, antelope, gazelles, and other animals. Often we will feast on monkeys—these at certain times of the year are delicious. Then, when we get into regions where no animals are to be seen, and fruits, nuts, and berries cannot be found—then we will drink water, which will help us to keep body and soul together. At times we will lie down under some big tree, ill with fever or weak from starvation. Then we shall think of the sweet home that is so far away, and wonder if we will ever return there again.

CAPTAIN HANK'S SUBSTITUTE.

Captain Hank of the Life-boat Patrol Service and Jack Hawley were old friends. The Captain had been at the station near Jack's house for a number of seasons, and when Jack first met him he was such a little chap that the Captain called him "Shorty." Jack had grown, however, into a strong hearty lad, and his one ambition was to get into the life-boat service.

While they were talking one night in the station the sharp ring of the telephone bell made all hands glance up anxiously. Captain Hank strode over to the receiver.

"Hullo!—Yes, Captain Hank.—What is it? Tramp steamer ashore? Yes. How many men do you want? Hullo! Yes. Full relief? All right—send them immediately. Good-by.

"Boys, there's a tramp ashore at the lower station; want the full relief. Trot along, and get back as soon as you can. There's a nasty sea on to-night, and, with the wind right on shore, we might want you."

The men donned their oil-skins and boots, and trotted off down the beach to the lower station, some five miles below. The Captain glanced at the remaining men, enough to man the life-boat, with the man out on patrol.

"It's a fearful night out, boys," he said.

The words had hardly left his mouth when the door opened and the patrol rushed in.

"Three-master ashore on the outer bar, Captain."

Like a flash every man was on his feet and into his oil-skins. Seizing the gun-carriage, they rushed it out and down the plank runway to the beach. Jack ran along with them, and strained his eyes as the Coston signal-light lit up the raging sea and disclosed to view a large three-master lying almost on her beam ends. There was a slight phosphorescent glow where the mad seas, lashed into foam, broke about her, sweeping the decks. Even as he looked two of her masts toppled and fell with a crash. On the shrouds of the remaining one a dark group was huddled.

Jack's heart thrilled with excitement and pity. Poor fellows! their lives must be saved!

The life-saving crew were busy with the gun, and in a few minutes away went the shot carrying a delicate line out to the wreck. It fell short or the wind drove it back. Again and again they tried it, but without success. The wind seemed to carry it to one side.

"It's no use, boys, trying to rig the breeches buoy," roared the Captain; "we've got to man the life-boat, so get on your corks. I'll telephone to the lower station to see if I can get any of the boys back."

Jack longed to go in the boat, but he knew it was impossible, and, sheltered behind it, he watched the black shadow on the bar, and hoped they would be in time to save the lives out there. The wind was sweeping and screaming with violent force, and the cold spray lashed the beach with foam. Jack heard one of the men yell to his neighbor that the Captain was a long while, and, thinking he could be of help, he ran back to hurry him up.

As he entered the station a low groan greeted him. The Captain lay in the middle of the floor, motionless. He had stumbled over some rope in his hurry, and broken his arm.

"It's no use, Jack," he moaned; "I can't go out with this arm. We will need the six oars in such a sea."

Jack paused. "Captain," he said, "they will launch the boat." And catching a heavy oil-skin coat off a peg he rushed down to the beach. The men stood waiting, looking out to sea. Without saying a word he gripped the boat, and when the right breaker came he gruffly shouted, "Now, men," as he had often heard the Captain, and with a strong heave and all together they rushed the boat out into the surf and leaped aboard.

Jack seized the steering-oar, and before the next wave could swamp them they got a grip on the water and successfully mounted it. It was a remarkable launch in such a sea, and promised success for their other efforts.

They were going right into the teeth of the gale, and the crew rose to the work. It was hard work, though. The wind beat them back, tearing at their frail craft with fierce tugs, dashing the frozen spray over them in sheets. To reach the wreck Jack had to keep off the wind a little, and time and time again the boat's head would swing around, and his heart would jump as the monstrous waves threatened to swamp her.

His hands were numb with cold and his face frozen with spray. The crew bent over their oars. They knew nothing of the change of Captains, and when they heard the gruff commands, they may have wondered at the boyishness of the tones, but never dreamed who was steering the boat.

They were nearing the ship, and with admirable skill, in keeping with his efforts from the start, Jack got up in the lee of the wreck, directly under the shrouds to which the group was clinging. Slowly but surely, one by one, the men scrambled down the rigging and, when a favorable opportunity presented itself, leaped aboard.

There were five men, and as the last came aboard Jack did a neat bit of steering that even the brave crew of the life-boat noticed and cheered. They left the wreck, and with their backs to the mad wind, they bounded over the roaring waves towards the shore.

Jack kept the boat directly in front of the storm, and as they neared the surf his command rang out, "Steady!" And then a gigantic wave raised them on its crest and, with a swirl and a roar, ran them upon the beach. In a trice they ran the boat out of reach of the surf.

In the snug warmth of the station the crew started to cheer the dripping Captain in his oil-skins; but when he took off the broad-brimmed hat that hid his face and they saw Jack, they were mute. One of them rushed to their Captain's bunk, and when he saw the helpless figure of the real Captain lying there, he pointed to it and then to Jack.

Hubert Earl.

UP IN A WATER-SPOUT.

ONE OF THE OLD SAILOR'S YARNS.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

The Old Sailor sat on the end of the pier, but he was restless and ill at ease. He looked often at the southwestern sky, where heavy blue-black clouds were massing themselves in low and writhing shapes. He shook his head solemnly, rose to his feet, and walked nervously up and down.

"This are the werry identical kind o' day it were," he muttered, "an' ef we don't see some on 'em to-day, w'y, I'm a bloomin' marine, that's wot."

"See some of what?" inquired a voice behind him; and turning, he saw the two boys.

"Waal, waal, waal!" he exclaimed; "you two infants is a-gettin' 'most as weatherwise as tree-frogs."

This exclamation was not unnatural, for the two boys were clad in long sea-boots, oil-skins, and sou'westers.

"Ye look like a pair o' sunflowers," said the Old Sailor, with admiration in his tone, "an' I reckon ye don't worry much about the rain wot are a-comin'."

"No; I guess we will not get wet," said Henry, laughing.

"But s'posin'—now mind I don't go fur to say it'll happen—but s'posin' ye was to go fur to come fur to git carried up aloft."

"What ever do you mean?" asked George.

"Look down yonder—quick!" exclaimed the Old Sailor, pointing to the southern horizon.

The boys saw an immense blue-black cloud, from which hung down a great dark cone. A similar cone, point upward,[Pg 1115] rose from the sea, and the two were joined by a slender wavering black column.

"Oh, what is it?" cried George.

"I know," exclaimed Henry. "It's a water-spout."

"It's going out to sea," ejaculated George.

"Werry good; werry good indeed," said the Old Sailor, sagely; "it sartainly are a-goin' out to sea. 'Cos w'y, it can't go on land, 'cos it are a water-spout an' not a landspout, w'ich the same there ain't none, 'ceptin' them on the sides o' houses fur rain to go down, an' them mostly leaks."

The three stood and watched the dreaded monster of the sea—a rare sight indeed near shore—until it passed out of sight.

"It are gone," said the Old Sailor, "an' it 'ain't took nothin' with 't 'ceptin' wind an' water."

"Do they ever take anything else with them?" asked George.

"W'ich the same they do," answered the Old Sailor; "an' wot they takes ain't never come back but oncet, as I knows on. I knowed we'd see some on 'em to-day; 'cos w'y, this are the kind o' day wot breeds 'em, an' it are the werry identical kind o' day wot it all happened on."

So saying, the Old Sailor sat down on the end of the pier, and the boys seated themselves beside him.

"This 'ere yarn wot I'm a goin' fur to tell ye," began the Old Sailor, "are a most ser'ous tale, an' I hopes as how 't won't go fur to give ye no nightmare. I were fust mate o' the barkentine Herrin' Bones, bound from Rio Janeiro to New York. She were a wall-sided hooker, with double to'-gallants, an' a werry disrepitable habit o' goin' to leeward."

"What was her cargo?" asked George.

"I allers tells ye wot the cargo were, my son, but this 'ere wessel didn't have no cargo; she were flyin' light, an' preehaps 'twould 'a' bin better ef she'd had more ballast aboard. Her Cap'n were Gawge W. Smoke, an' her second mate were a long-legged feller from New Orleans, named Pierre Crust, an' a werry crusty Pierre he were too. Waal, to git right down to the business part o' this 'ere yarn wot I'm a-tellin' ye, I'll say that we didn't have nothin' but fair weather an' good to'-gallant breezes till we got right up atwixt St. Thomas an' Bermooda, an' then it rained an' blowed squalls an' thunder-storms fur two days an' nights all round the compass. Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke, sez he to me, sez he, 'It ain't no fittin' weather fur to be buggaluggin' round here.' An' sez I to he, sez I, 'It ain't, but here we be, an' we can't fly away,' sez I, jess like that, him bein' Cap'n an' me fust mate, an' the barkentine bein' the Herrin' Bones. But ef I'd knowed wot were a-comin', I'd never said nothin'.

"Waal, them squalls an' thunder-storms kep' a-gettin' thicker an' blacker, till byme-by the hull sky all round were jess like it were down yonder a leetle while ago. An' Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke he allowed that we'd best stand by fur water-spouts. Sure 'nuff, 'twere jess about six bells in the forenoon watch o' the second day o' this 'ere cantankerous weather, w'en the lookout sung out, 'Water-spout on the weather bow!' 'Fore we had time to look at it another hand sighted one on the lee bow, an' some one else seed one on the weather-quarter. In less 'n five minutes we sighted seven on 'em to wind'ard an' six to leeward, makin' thirteen, w'ich the same that are a werry unlucky number.

"Waal, we clapped on a leetle more sail, hopin' fur to run out o' this 'ere convention o' water-spouts. But, bless ye! ye might as well 'a' tried to git away from a express train by runnin' down the track ahead o't. They was comin' down on us at a powerful gait. W'en the biggest one were about half a mile away, we could see it whirlin' round an' round like a big wheel, an' it roared like Niagarer Falls, w'ich the same ye 'ain't never seed, but ye see pictures of 'em in your geoggerfy. Pierre Crust, our second mate, he got so skeered he jess went an' hid his head under a deck bucket. Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke he give orders to clew up the to'-gallants, so's to stop the vessel, hopin' that the spout'd pass ahead on us. But, bless ye! the bloomin', bleedin', blasted thing turned out of its course, an' kep' a-comin' right fur us.

"'We're bound for Davy Jones's locker,' sez Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke, sez he. 'It are a-goin' to break right on top o' us.'

"'Werry good, sir,' sez I. 'Axin' your parmission, I'll put on a life-persarver.'

"''Twon't do ye no good,' sez he. 'W'en she breaks on us she'll drive us twenty fathom down. Here it comes! Stan' by, all hands, to go under hatches.'

"Roarin' like a thunder-storm, an' loomin' over us like a iceberg turned black, the water-spout come to the barkentine. We all shut our eyes, an' held our breath, an' waited to be buried under a million tons o' water. But may I never live to see lobscouse agin ef the bloomin' thing busted at all! We felt the ship give a lurch an' a jump, an' then she started off at the rate o' thirty knots an hour.

"'Wot are it?' yelled the Cap'n.

"'The water-spout!' I yells back. 'She's picked us up!'"

The Old Sailor paused to gaze around the horizon, and the two boys gazed at one another in breathless amazement. In a moment their remarkable friend resumed his narrative.

"It weren't no sort o' pickle fur a decent old barkentine to be in, an' the Herrin' Bones knowed it, but there she were. She were a-sailin' round and round like a chicken with its head off. Her keel were in the water o' the spout, an' her masts was a-stickin' out sideways like toothpicks out o' old Bill Smorkey's mouth arter dinner. W'y, blow me fur a farmer ef I don't b'lieve she'd 'a' fell off the bloomin' thing sideways ef it hadn't bin that the wind wot the spout made a-goin' round filled the sail she had spread, an' so kep' her up.

"'Clew up the foretops'l!' hollered Pierre Crust.

"'Let it alone,' sez Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke, sez he. 'D'ye want to fall off this 'ere marine buzz-saw an' git drownded?'

"'Stop the ship; we're out o' our course,' sez Tobias Kitten, the carpenter, w'ich the same he ort to bin a tailor, 'cos w'y, he didn't know no more about a ship nor a feller wot sits cross-legged onto a table an' mends pants fur a livin'.

"'Out o' our course!' sez the Cap'n, sez he. 'I wish the bloomin' water-spout were out o't.'

"All hands was a-layin' flat on deck, with our feet agin' the lee rail—leastways it ort to bin the lee rail, 'cos it were the one wot were down, but it weren't, 'cos the wind were blowin' up, an' things was ginerally goin' back end fust, like a Chinese junk in a head-sea.

"'D'ye think she'd right herself ef we cut away the masts?' Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke sez he to me.

"'Mebbe she would,' sez I to he; 'but ef she did we'd have water on top o' us, an' then good-by.'

"'Then I'm blowed ef I know wot to do with her,' sez he to me, sez he. An' me not knowin' wot to say back, I didn't say nothin', but hung on with both hands.

"'Oh my! oh my!' sez Pierre Crust; 'we're a-goin' up this 'ere dreadful thing. Look down!'

"An', sure 'nuff, w'en I looked over the side I seed a ship away down below us on the sea, an' her Cap'n were a-lookin' at us through a telescup, he were.

"'Salt me down fur a mackerel,' sez Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke, 'ef ever I thought that any ship o' mine would go fur to turn herself into a bloomin' balloon!'

"All the time we was a-sailin' round an' round the spout like it was a corkscrew worked by steam, an' we was a-goin' up an' up.

"'I wonder ef there's water 'nuff up there to float the old hooker?' sez Pierre Crust.

"'Waal,' sez Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke, 'she can't go aground in the clouds, anyhow, an' there ain't no rocks either.'

"'Waal,' sez I to he, sez I, 'w'ere d'ye think she will go?'

"An' he jess looks at me fur a minute, an' then sez he, 'Preehaps you'd like to get out a chart an' figger out yer position,' sez he to me, him bein' Cap'n an' me fust mate.

"All this time the Herrin' Bones were a-sailin' around an' around the bloomin' water-spout an' goin' up an' up. Now you know, 'cos you jess seed a werry short time ago, that them water-spouts widens out at the top till they just spreads right out into the flat clouds. Waal, we all commenced[Pg 1116] fur to wonder wot'd happen to us ef the Herrin' Bones kep' on a-goin' up. Putty soon she beginned fur to lean over so that her deck weren't no safe place to stay on, an' then Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke he orders all han's fur to go b'low.

THE PRECARIOUS POSITION OF THE "HERRIN' BONES."

"'Might as well go to the clouds comf'table,' sez he. We all went b'low an' shut all the hatches. Then there weren't nothin' to do 'ceptin' fur to wait developments, as the old hen said w'en she sot down on the duck's egg. Byme-by the bark were hove over so fur that we was all a-settin' on her side, with the decks risin' up like walls on both sides of us. We could hear the ballast tumblin' over itself down in the hold, an' our stores was mixed up into the werry wust sea-salad wot any one ever seed.

"'Oh my! oh my!' sez Pierre Crust, sez he, hidin' his head in a cracker-box, 'we're a-goin' to fall out o' the clouds upside down an' be all smashed up.'

"He were a werry ostridge sort o' man, he were, 'cos he allers thort as how he were out o' danger ef he had his measly old head hid. Howsumever, we all thort putty much the same as he did, an' we weren't in no partikler humor fur to dance hornpipes about it.

"'She's a gittin' furder over!' yelled Tobias Kitten.

"An' so she were. We couldn't stay on the sides o' her any more, but had to sit down on the under sides o' the decks—wot shore-folks would call the ceilin'. An' the furniture in the cabin, bein' screwed fast, were all a-hangin' down from overhead.

"'Waal, may I be squilgeed inside an' out with a paint brush,' sez Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke, sez he, 'ef ever I expected fur to be master o' any wessel wot were so undecent as to sail on her head.'

"'Tobias Kitten,' sez I, 'slide back the hatch an inch an' tell us what ye can see.'

"An' Tobias he laid down flat on his face, slid the hatch back, and peaked out. Then he shut it with a bang, an' turned paler'n he were afore.

"'S'help me gracious goodness!' sez he; 'yo can't see nothin' 'cept white steam.'

"Then we knowed we was up in the clouds fur sure, an' we all felt putty ser'ous; 'cos w'y, w'd never bin there afore, an' we didn't know nothin about the rules an' regulations o' livin' up there. All on a suddent there were a most fearful crash o' thunder.

"'By the great hook block!' sez Cap'n Gawge W. Smoke, sez he, 'we're in a thunder-cloud.'

"'An' mebbe w'en it begins for to rain,' sez I, 'we'll git rained down to 'arth agin.'

"'Oh my! Oh my!' hollered Pierre Crust, out o' the cracker-box. 'On our heads! Oh dear! We're all dead men, sure.'

"Waal, arter that fur half an hour it were not possible fur to carry on any werry improvin' conwersation, 'cos w'y, it were a-thunderin' an' a-lightnin' an' a-roarin' all around us, sech as no one never heerd afore. Then all on a suddent the bloomin' deck dropped right from under us, an' we was kinder floatin' around, a-grabbin' right an' left at things, all 'ceptin' Pierre Crust, an' he jess kep' his head in the cracker-box an' kicked out with his feet.

"'We're a-fallin'! We're a-fallin'!' he yelled.

"An' so we wuz. An' w'ile we wuz a-fallin' I seed the side o' the wessel come under me, an' then slide around till the floor o' the cabin were under me, an' then—boom! There were a most awful thump, an' a squash like wot ye hear w'en yo throw a stone into a mud-puddle, an' there we was."

"Where?" cried both boys.

"In the blessed Atlantic Ocean," said the Old Sailor, solemnly, "about a hundred miles this side o' Bermooda. An' Pierre Crust he pulled his head out o' the cracker-box an' bounced on deck, an' sez he:

"'Wot was all you men so scared about? Turn to, now, an' get the cloth on her, an' we'll make Sandy Hook Light-ship in two days.'

"An' so we did, too. An' w'en we got to New York we read in the papers as how the Cap'n o' the ship Beeswax had seen a cur'ous mirage of a ship sailin' round an' round a water-spout. But we never could get nobody to b'lieve as how 'twere us."

[Pg 1117]

IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER III.

he first week of Valentine's stay passed rapidly. So much of his time was occupied in visits to the oculist and in seeing the sights of the city that he was not in the house during the greater part of the day.

The Misses Herrick began to fuel some degree of liking for the boy, who, though occasionally noisy, was always polite, and he and Elizabeth were soon firm friends.

She had carried out her intention of consulting him about the affairs which most interested her. She had told him of her longing for their father's return and of the letter she had written to him; she had even conducted him to the mysterious room.

Her aunts had gone out of town for the afternoon, and Miss Rice was also absent. The coast was exceptionally clear, for Marie, who had charge of the little girl, was only too ready to neglect her duties.

Elizabeth was somewhat disappointed, however, by the effect produced upon Valentine by the disclosure of the room, or rather, the lack effect. He was apparently not in the least impressed.

He looked about him, inspected the letters, took down a little clock from the mantelpiece and examined it, and then walked to the window.

"Well," said Elizabeth, who was impatiently waiting for some expression of wonder, "what do you think of it?"

"I don't see anything to make such a fuss over. Just a room, like anybody's else."

"But whose was it?"

"Don't know and don't care."

"You don't? Why, I think it is the most exciting thing I ever heard of!"

"If that isn't just like a girl! I suppose Marjorie would go wild over it too. But come along down to the garden. I haven't seen the Brady family yet, and I believe that is one of the girls down in the alley now."

"It is," said Elizabeth, joining him at the window. "It is Eva Louise. Very well, we will go down. But I do wish you would be more excited over the room."

"It takes a good deal to excite me," replied her guest. "If it were a game of football, now, or a bicycle-race, I might get excited; but just a room!"

It would be impossible to convey an idea of the lofty scorn expressed by Valentine's voice; and much disappointed and feeling somewhat crushed, Elizabeth put away the keys. Then getting her hat and warm jacket, for the fall days were growing colder, she followed Valentine to the garden, and together they went out through the back gate.

It is one of the peculiarities of Philadelphia that small streets known as "alleys" intersect the larger thoroughfares, and in many cases behind the handsomest houses are small dwellings in which live very poor families.

The Herricks' garden occupied a large amount of space, and the alley and its inhabitants were almost too far away to be noticeable; but they were there, all the same, and here Elizabeth's friends, the Brady family, lived in a manner which formed a startling contrast to her own home.

"I have thought of something," exclaimed Elizabeth, stopping short in the alley. Eva Louise, seeing them coming, had disappeared behind her own back gate. Even in so humble an abode as that of the Bradys it was only the back which opened upon the alley.

"What is it?" asked Valentine.

"It is about the Bradys," said Elizabeth, standing close to him and speaking in a low, mysterious voice that she might not be overheard from the other side of the fence. "Don't you think, Val, that it must be very hard for those girls to live in such a tiny little house and never to have a bit good time? Why, Eva Louise thinks the very nicest thing she can do is to play jack-stones on people's door-steps. Just think of it, Val, jack-stones! And she told me once that she had never been inside of any house, except those in their street that are like their own!"

[Pg 1118]

"Well, what of it? We can't help it; and what is your idea?"

"But we can help it! That is just what I am going to tell you. We can invite the Bradys in to see us."

"Oh, my eye! What would Aunt Caroline say?"

Elizabeth was silent for a minute. She had not thought of that. "I don't know," she said, slowly. "I don't suppose Aunt Caroline would like it. We will have to give it up."

"No, we won't," returned Val, who was becoming bored with city life and longed for excitement of some kind. "Let's have a party to-day while the aunts are away. They would never know."

"We might; but I should tell them afterwards, of course. I really should, Val."

"Seems to me you are getting pretty particular all of a sudden. How about that room that you go to all the time on the sly?"

"That is true. I don't believe that is right. Why didn't you say so before, Val? I will tell Aunt Caroline to-night."

"I say," interrupted Valentine, "I've got a dandy idea! Let's ask the Brady family over, and take them up to that room! No one will ever know, and it would be a jolly lark. I'll open the front door, and the servants won't know, either. It will be no end of fun. You go after them now and bring them over. You see, if we had them in the other part of the house we couldn't keep them out of sight, and the servants would make a fuss."

Elizabeth looked doubtful. "I should like to," she said, "but we shall have to keep very quiet there, and not disturb the things in the room much. It really seems as if we ought to give them a good time, though, and when I explain it all to Aunt Caroline I don't believe she will mind; do you? At least, not so very much."

"Of course she won't," said Valentine, hopefully, upon whom the scheme had taken a strong hold. "Go and get them and bring them around to the front door, and I will let you in."

And without giving her time to remonstrate, Val left her and ran up the garden walk to the house.

"After all," said Elizabeth to herself, "it can't be a wrong thing to do, for it says in the Bible that when people give parties they ought to invite all kinds of queer people. I remember perfectly it says to call in the lame, the halt, and the blind. I always thought 'call in' was such a funny expression, but I am sure it says it somewhere in the Bible, and I think it was about that party. Now the Brady family are not lame or blind, but perhaps they are halt. I never knew what halt meant, and very likely they are halt. Anyhow, I mean to call them in." And suiting the action to the word, she raised her voice and called loudly: "Eva Louise! Eva Louise!"

Eva Louise had been surveying her neighbors through a hole in the fence for some time. She had even caught a word or two of the conversation, and had heard her own name mentioned, but she had not understood what it was all about. Now, seeing that Elizabeth was alone, she opened the gate.

"What do yer want?" she asked.

"Is Bella at home?"

"Guess so."

"And Tom?"

"Nope."

"Is Dick?"

"Nope."

"Isn't George?"

"Nope."

"Nor Billy?"

"Nope."

"Oh, dear me, I am so sorry! Then who is at home?"

"Me an' Bella an' the baby an' ma an', I guess, pop. He's mostly home. Pop ain't workin' now, but the boys is. What do yer want?"

"Well, I want to invite you all over to our house. I am sorry the boys are not at home." Here Elizabeth paused, somewhat embarrassed. She did not care particularly about having "ma" and "pop" Brady. The former was inclined to be cross, and there was a disagreeable odor about Mr. Brady which it was well to avoid. Elizabeth did not know just what it was, but it reminded her of that which was sometimes wafted to her from a corner saloon. Clearly it would not do to "call in" Mr. and Mrs. Brady. "Well," she said, with a sudden inspiration, "this is to be a young people's party. My brother and I are going to give it. I want to invite you and Bella to my house right away."

"To your house?" repeated the wondering Eva Louise.

"Yes. And we will go around outside to Fourth Street. Go get Bella."

So Eva Louise went into the house and informed her astonished family that she and Bella were "axed to a party over to Herrickses." Whereupon Mrs. Brady promptly seized first one and then the other of her daughters, vigorously applied a scrubbing-brush to hands and faces, set upon the tangled heads two gaudy hats with lace and flowers, pinned together the gaping rent in Bella's frock, and pronounced them ready.

"And mind yer manners," she cautioned. "Act pretty, an' mebbe the ladies'll give yer each a present. There's no knowin'."

And then they rejoined Elizabeth in the alley, where she had waited, their hearts beating high with hope.

The little group passed out of the alley and around through Spruce Street to Fourth Street. A number of people turned and looked at the oddly assorted trio walking so soberly along, Elizabeth, in her large felt hat and pretty jacket, between Eva Louise and Bella, in their tawdry finery and ragged frocks; but Elizabeth was quite unconscious of attracting attention.

Her mind was absorbed with a new question which had presented itself. She had never heard of a party where the guests were not given some kind of refreshment, and she knew of no way in which she could provide it for the present occasion.

It would not do to ask the servants for something to eat, neither would it be proper to stop and buy what was necessary at the cake-shop while her guests were with her. She must consult with Valentine.

THE ARRIVAL OF EVA LOUISE AND BELLA.

Her fellow-conspirator was watching for them, and opened the door at once.

"Everything is all right," he whispered to Elizabeth. "The cook is busy making cake, and the other girls are all chattering, and James has gone round to the stable to see the men there. There won't be anybody around to see us. We'll take them right up."

"But wait a minute, Val," returned Elizabeth; "I want to ask you something. And first I must introduce you. That is the way I have heard Aunt Caroline do sometimes. This is my brother, Mr. Valentine Herrick, Miss Eva Louise and Miss Bella Brady. Now you know each other and can talk. If I had not introduced you, you know, you would not have been able to talk at all."

Apparently the introduction did not have the desired effect of promoting conversation, for Bella put her finger in her mouth, and Eva Louise turned her back upon the company, while Val himself with difficulty repressed a laugh.

"Will you please walk into the drawing-room and sit down a minute?" said their hostess. "I must speak to my brother, if you will please excuse me."

The guests obeyed, and were presently seated upon two of great-grandfather Herrick's chairs with the high carved backs, while Julius Cæsar from the window-seat stared in astonishment.

"We must give them something to eat, Val," whispered Elizabeth, in the hall. "How shall we get it?"

"I will go buy it," returned Val, promptly. "Let's see; have you got any money?"

"Yes; I have seventy-five cents, and if that isn't enough, I have some more in my little bank."

"Oh, that is enough, with what I've got. You will have to stay in the parlor till I get back, so as to let me in," and seizing his cap, he was off.

Elizabeth rejoined her visitors in the drawing-room and tried to make a conversation. Somehow, to talk to the Brady girls had never before been so difficult. In the alley there was always so much to say. Now they sat stiffly and straight upon their chairs, and their faces looked preternaturally[Pg 1119] solemn. There was silence in the room for a few minutes, and Julius came and rubbed himself against Elizabeth's feet. This suggested a topic.

"Do you like cats?" she asked.

"Yes," said Bella.

"Nope," said Eva Louise, simultaneously.

There was another pause.

"It is a very nice day to-day."

"Yes," they both replied.

Elizabeth thought deeply for several minutes. What could she say next?

"Are you at all halt?" she asked, presently.

The Misses Brady merely stared.

"Are you at all halt?" she repeated.

"Yes, I guess so," answered Bella, who, though doubtful, thought it polite to agree.

"Oh, that is a good thing," said Elizabeth, in a relieved tone. "I did not exactly know, you know, so I thought I had better ask. I am very glad you are halt. That makes it all right. And there is my brother come back. I will go and let him in, and then we will go up to the party."

Valentine returned laden with oddly shaped packages, and the four ascended the stairs together.

"It's a dandy old feast I've got," whispered the boy; "all the things that look so good, but you never have at home. We shall need some plates, though. I'll put these bundles down at the door, and while you are getting the keys I'll run down to the dining-room for the plates."

He came back in a short time with a pile of Miss Herrick's best china, the plates which were used for the salad course when she gave a dinner; and Elizabeth having procured the keys, they entered the room. The guests were still under the spell of silence. Being invited to remove their hats, they did so and laid them on the bed. Then they gazed at the floor.

"What shall we do?" said Elizabeth to Val, in an under-tone. She had never before realized what hard work it was to give a party.

"Let's begin on the grub," suggested her brother, whose appetite was sharpened by the thought of the cake-shop dainties which could never be enjoyed at home.

This seemed to be the best thing to do under existing circumstances, and Elizabeth removed the few articles which were on the table, and Val lifted it over to the centre of the room. A towel was spread over it for a table-cloth, the plates were set thereon, and then Val opened his packages and proudly placed the contents upon the plates.

There was a half pie, presumably custard, four large cocoanut balls, four sour-balls, four huge doughnuts, four buns (generously speckled with currants), and, crowning delicacy, a paper box of vanilla ice-cream.

Valentine made another raid upon the dining-room, and returned with forks, knives, and spoons, announcing that he had barely escaped meeting James, who was on his way up the back stairs just as Val left the pantry.

The guests were then invited to draw up their chairs, which they did with an alacrity that was most encouraging.

"I wonder if 'halt' means hungry?" thought Elizabeth. "I shouldn't wonder if it did."

She politely ignored the fact that both visitors scorned the assistance of forks in eating the pie, and devoted herself to removing currants from a bun. Somehow it did not seem an appetizing feast to her, but Valentine and the Brady girls were enjoying it, and that was all that was necessary.

At last the repast was over, the final course, consisting of a sour-ball, which so protruded the cheek of each member of the party that speech was for a time impossible, and then Elizabeth wondered what they should do next.

"Suppose we play a game," suggested Val, as soon as he could speak.

"So we will," agreed Elizabeth. "What shall it be? Eva Louise, do you know any nice games?"

"Nope."

"Do you, Bella?"

"Jack-stones."

"Oh yes, jack-stones. Well, we haven't got any."

"Yes, we have, too. I brung 'em."

"Oh, did you?"

Apparently there was no help for it. Elizabeth despised jack-stones, which hurt her knuckles, and which she never could catch; but one must be polite in one's own house.

"I say, you are funny ones!" said Val, who had thoroughly enjoyed his luncheon, and had now time to grasp the situation. Elizabeth's company manners amused him extremely, and the whole thing was "no end of a lark," as he expressed it.

"Why don't you play something you don't play at home?" he asked. "Let's try 'Fish, flesh, or fowl,' or 'When I was in Spain,' or some other nice game?"

Bella said nothing, but Eva Louise at last found her voice.

"Ef we don't play jack-stones, we ain't agoin' to play nuthin'. We're agoin' home."

Bella here nudged her sister's elbow.

"We ain't agoin' home till we get our presents. Yer know what ma said."

This aside was so plainly audible to the host and hostess, that Elizabeth looked shocked, but Val roared with laughter.

"Very well," said Elizabeth; "we will play jack-stones."

But at the first throw Val, in the exuberance of his feelings, tossed them so high that one landed on the table, right in the centre of one of Miss Herrick's delicate china plates, breaking it squarely in two.

"My eye!" exclaimed the boy. "What have I done?"

"Jack-stones are a hateful game, anyhow," cried Elizabeth, whose dismay caused her to forget her manners. "I don't know what Aunt Caroline will say. It is all your fault, Eva Louise, that Val broke the plate, for you made us play jack-stones."

"'Tain't, neither," returned Eva Louise, with asperity. "No one didn't tell him to throw the jack up there. An' ef this is what yer call a party, I don't think much of it. We hev as good pie as that at home, an' we can get ice-cream o' the ice-cream man any day he comes round. I say, Bella, let us go home."

But Bella still held back. Elizabeth looked at them for a moment in silent wrath, and then her feelings found words.

"Well, I should be very glad indeed if you did go home. I think you are very rude girls. And I never knew you had ice-cream whenever you wanted it, and all those nice things."

"No more we do," interposed Bella; "leastways, I never seen it. Eva Louise was makin' that up, I guess."

"Oh, was she? Then she tells stories, does she? I don't want to have anything more to do with you. You are very, very rude girls, and I am sorry I invited you to the party. I only asked you because you were halt."

"I dun'no' what yer talkin' about," replied Eva Louise, as she put on her hat; "only I guess yer'd better not name me no names, or I'll hev yer 'rested. Halt! I ain't no halt;" and with her head held high as she proudly sniffed the air, she walked from the room. Bella still lingered.

"Don't yer give no presents at yer party?" she asked.

Elizabeth had already begun to repent of her hasty speech. She feared that she had been rude, and she felt that she must make amends.

"Wait a minute," she said, flying up the short flight of stairs which led to her own room.

Eva Louise delayed her departure, and Bella looked more hopeful. Valentine hovered in the background, wondering what was going to happen next.

Presently Elizabeth returned. In one hand she held a silver calendar which had ornamented her desk, in the other a handsomely bound book.

"These are all I can find," she said, bestowing one upon either guest. "You see, I have to give you things that are really my own, and not Aunt Caroline's or Aunt Rebecca's. Val, we will go down with them to the front door."

The little procession in silence descended the two long double flights of stairs. The front door was opened for[Pg 1120] them, and the two visitors were about to depart, one carrying the silver calendar, which flashed gayly in a ray of sunlight, the other holding the large red-covered book.

"Good-by!" they said, cheerfully, feeling mollified by the presents.

"Good-by," returned Val and Elizabeth.

And even as they spoke a carriage drew up at the door, and from it stepped Miss Herrick. She paused in astonishment, and looked at the two strange figures emerging from her own front door, and at the two frightened faces in the hall beyond.

"What does this mean?" she asked, as she swept by them into the house and the door was closed.

[to be continued.]

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

THE AMUSEMENT CLUB.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

The sun was setting one afternoon in late September. The deep blue sky was dappled with rosy golden and white clouds, but a glance at the brown-stone houses opposite revealed the unhappy thought that we were once again in our old town-house. I tried to imagine I was mistaken; that the lapse of summer-time had never been; that, indeed, all the happy vacation had not drifted by; that the moss-grown bridges, low-hanging branches, and piny woods were yet to come; that I must be asleep and having a horrible nightmare.

But, "Amy! Amy! Where are you?" woke up my foolish reverie, and "Will and I have been hunting all over for you!" were the half-annoyed words which followed, as my friend Irene Sloane and her brother stood before me in our second-floor front room.

Irene was my most intimate friend; it was rare when a day passed without her being in my house or I in hers. Therefore the absence of ceremony in the hunt she had just made. Her brother, too, I had known always, and now that they had rushed in—for rushed is the only way to describe their entrance, so excited and all of a flutter they seemed—I forgot all about my foolish dreaming, and exclaimed, "Do sit down both of you, and tell what's up!"

But Irene was too excited to sit down; she had come to tell a "splendid plan. And don't you think so, Will?" and it was "Mamma's idea," and much more of a similar purport, until Will, who had taken a chair, hastily rose, and with a most sober face and energetic manner, exclaimed:

"Irene, what's the use of beating about the bush any longer? Tell Amy all about it, and then she'll have a chance to have her say too."

"Well, the plan is to form an Amusement Club. It will seem awfully stupid to be at home after all our fun last summer. Don't you think so?"

"Certainly I do, for I was thinking just before you came that we'd gotten back to hardtack sure enough; there seems nothing to look forward to but books and study."

"Oh, hardtack fiddlestick! I'm ashamed of you both," interjected Will; "though I'm willing to admit," the boy continued, with a deep sigh, "it does come awfully hard to study after such a long loaf. But this Amusement Club will fix us up fine; it will give no end of jolly times, for, only think, we'll all meet once a week, or once a fortnight, and that will be amusement enough for one evening."

"Do explain it, Will. I can't make any sense out of what you are trying to tell me."

"Mamma will explain, for she said she would take charge of the first meeting."

"Yes," interrupted Irene, and then excitedly tossing her two long braids back, "the first meeting is to be at our house next Saturday afternoon at three o'clock. What do you think of that for a starter?"

"All right; only where do I come in? You haven't asked me yet?"

"Aren't you ashamed to talk so, Amy De Nyse, when you know that not only are you expected to come, but to help Will and me invite all the other girls and boys?"

"Which way could we invite them the easiest? And do you think you'd tell what they were invited for, or surprise them?"

"I say, surprise them. Don't you, Will?" And Irene looked questioningly toward her brother; and as he nodded his head she continued, "But I'd tell them it's important and a secret."

"Good! people are sure to be on hand if there's a secret around."

"And as to the way of inviting them," Will said, "the best way would be to make a list of names, and then cut them apart, each take an equal number—or I don't care if I take one or two extra."

"And you know what mamma said," his sister replied; "not to invite too many for the first meeting."

"Now what do you think of the prospect, Amy?"

"Capital! I've heard so much about clubs, that I've been wanting to join one for a long time."

"And I too," exclaimed Irene.

"An athletic club, you refer to, I suppose, running-matches, etc.," said mischievous Will as he pulled his sister's long braid, for he was a great tease, and knew that both Amy and Irene had lost at a running-match during the summer, and indeed they were anything else but athletes, taking far too kindly to hammocks, and lounging around generally.

And after a little more merry conversation, in which "vacation" and "club" were prominent words, the brother and sister took their departure.

Thus it was that the following Saturday afternoon found twenty jolly girls and boys seated in Irene Sloane's library. And what a chattering! Magpies were silent by contrast. Indeed, it was more like a riot than a meeting until Mrs. Sloane entered, when, presto! what a change! Not that she was feared, however, for, on the contrary, she was greatly beloved by all of her children's friends. It was only that[Pg 1121] the children were half awed, being so full of expectation, anticipating they knew not what, and also because the sudden presence of an older person always does result in changing the atmosphere of a room.

A few moments after the cordial greetings were extended Mrs. Sloane explained the purpose of their meeting.

For example, several of them had returned from vacation with scores of new ideas on the subject of entertaining; many new games and amusements had been learned. Now why not help others by teaching these. That each member, in fact, must pledge himself or herself to advance the cause of amusement by teaching a new game, charade, or something pertaining to entertainment once a month. And with that point in view, everybody must keep wide awake, and on the constant lookout. Also establish a habit of getting up novel entertainment and inventing games. Remember, somebody originated every game known.

By being members of this club, each person would also receive help as to the management of business meetings, for, in the main, every business meeting was conducted in a similar manner, and as many middle-aged people did not understand even the ordinary duties of chairman, they could not do better than learn when young.

One of the boys interrupted by inquiring if they might come to her for advice if they were in a quandary.

"Certainly; any time," was the assured answer; "but I know I can trust everybody here to help one another;" and Mrs. Sloane looked thoughtfully around. "Indeed, I am confident you will all take so much pleasure out of this organization that you will wonder you had not started an amusement club before. You will be too proud to have failure;" and then, with a cordial smile, added, "you have too good comradeship to have discord."

"Before we proceed to the election of officers, I wish to say I will stay in the chair this afternoon until about the time to adjourn, when your president will assume his position, and hereafter he will always be in charge of each meeting, unless necessarily absent, in which event the vice-president will act in his stead." Then, with a pleasant look around on all the upturned faces, Mrs. Sloane said, "We are now ready for the nominations for president."

Several names were promptly mentioned, and as none of the nominees declined, they were voted upon by ballot. Mrs. Sloane named three boys to distribute and afterwards count the ballots.

The ballot papers were very small, about three inches one way and two the other, and as they had been prepared beforehand, there was no hinderance. Therefore it was but the work of a few minutes to distribute a paper to each person, on which every one immediately wrote the name preferred. The ballots were then collected and counted; each nominee received some votes, but the largest number being for Will Sloane, he was announced as president. Whereupon one of the club immediately rose and said, "I move the vote to be made unanimous." This being seconded, Will Sloane's name was called amidst cheers, claps, and huzzahs, for the excitement was now too great for the children to keep altogether quiet.

After this there followed the elections of vice-president, secretary, and treasurer, all being elected in a similar manner.

There was also a board of directors added, consisting of eight people and the president. This board Mrs. Sloane selected, and of the eight named five were girls; the duty of the board being to talk over various questions affecting club work; for example, how money could be expended, whether entertainment would be given for charity—indeed, all matters of import. After such discussions by the board, the matter would be presented by one of its members at the first regular club meeting, and there acted upon.

It was decided to hold the meetings every second Saturday evening at seven o'clock, and that no meeting could extend beyond one hour and a half; that the chairman would open the meetings promptly, and that twelve people would constitute a quorum. And any matter by them decided must be acceded to by the entire club.

That the fee would be ten cents a week, paid regularly. That they should have more members; but Mrs. Sloane advised the number should be limited to thirty, as too great a number would be difficult to control.

The duty of the treasurer would be to receive and keep a correct account of the reception and disbursement of money, and that he should give a report of the same at the first meeting of each month.

The secretary should enroll the names and residences of the officers and members; he should write the minutes of each meeting, and read them at the following one.

The order of conducting the meeting would be:

Calling to Order; Secretary's Report; Treasurer's Report; Unfinished Business; New Business; Adjournment.

As Mrs. Sloane now thought that the children were taxed enough for one day, and that they would enjoy an after-talk by themselves, she thanked the club for their courtesy, and with a most gracious smile towards her son, added, "I now have the pleasure of conducting you to the chair."

This said, she stepped one side. He pleasantly bowed, and took the place made vacant by his mother.

No sooner had she retired than Mrs. Sloane laughingly said, "I move we adjourn."

When at once Amy De Nyse, who had been unusually quiet, jumped to her feet. "Before that motion is seconded, I move a vote of thanks to Mrs. Sloane," and she was about to add, "for her patience and goodness to us this[Pg 1122] afternoon," but her voice was drowned in the hearty ringing voices of the happy children who had now informally gathered about their leader, and each one thanked her warmly and heartily over and yet over again. And then were heard such expressions as, "You'll have to come to all of our entertainments," "Won't we have jolly fun practising the different charades, tableaux, and games?" and "When we get money enough, perhaps we can have a regular club-room, with a platform, curtain, and scenery."

And that thought proved the inspiration for another and yet another, until one of the boys reached a grand climax by waving a handkerchief over his head and shouting: "I have a scheme. Let us get up specialties, and make a charge to show them. Why, this club may make us all rich yet!"

Out on Long Island there is to-day an exceedingly angry farmer. He can usually be found nursing his wrath on the top of a rail-fence near his barn an hour before sunset. His big jack-knife digs deeply into the piece of wood it is whittling as the farmer emphasizes his wrath.

"Talk about the benefit newspapers are to the country—bah!" he exclaims. "The other night I had all my chickens stole 'cept two, and that old town paper recorded it in big type, and let the whole country know about it in less than no time. What do you suppose the result was, eh? Why, the thieves that took them chicks thought they got them all, and when they read in the paper that two was left behind, what did they do but come around the very next night when I never expected them, and they took the other two. I don't see much use for newspapers that tells everything a thief wants to know."

THE GREAT SEAL OF ENGLAND.

Many people doubtless know that upon the accession of a new monarch to the throne of England a new Seal is struck, and the old one is cut into four pieces and deposited in the Tower of London. In former times the fragments of these great Seals were distributed among certain poor people of religious houses. When her Majesty Queen Victoria ascended the throne of England, the late Benjamin Wyon, R.A., the chief engraver of her Majesty's Mint, designed the beautiful work of the present Great Seal of England. The details of the design are: obverse, an equestrian figure of the Queen attended by a page, her Majesty wearing over a habit a flowing and sumptuous robe, and a collar of the Order of the Garter. In her right hand she bears the sceptre, and on her head is placed a regal tiara. The attendant page, with his bonnet in his hand, looks up to the Queen, who is gracefully restraining the impatient charger, which is richly decorated with plumes and trappings. The legend "Victoria Dei Gratia Britainniarum Regina, Fidei Defensor," is engraved in Gothic letters, the spaces between the words being filled with heraldic roses. The reverse side of the Seal shows the Queen, royally robed and crowned, holding in her right hand the sceptre, and in her left the orb, seated upon a throne beneath a niched Gothic canopy; on each side is a figure of Justice and Religion; and in the exergue the royal arms and crown, the whole encircled by a wreath or border of oak and roses.

The Seal itself is a silver mould in two parts, technically called a pair of dies. When an impression is to be taken or cast, the parts are closed to receive the melted wax, which is poured through an opening at the top of the Seal. As each impression is attached to a document by a ribbon or slip of parchment, its ends are put into the Seal before the wax is poured in, so that when the hard impression is taken from the dies the ribbon or parchment is neatly affixed to it. The impression of the Seal is six inches in diameter and three-fourths of an inch in thickness. The Great Seals of England are interesting from their bearing portraits of the sovereigns, as in the Seals of Offa and Ethelwolf, and that of Edgar with a bust in profile. After William I. all the Kings are on one side on horseback, the face turned to the right, except that of Charles I., which is turned to the left. Edward IV. first carries the close crown; Edward the Confessor and Henry I. and Henry II. are seated with the sword and dove. Wax was not uniformly used for Seals, as impressions occur in gold, silver, and lead, also in various other substances. The colors have varied, but red appears to have been the most ancient.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

VI.

Besides the cactus, another form of vegetation which began to attract more and more of Ollie's attention was the red tumbleweed. Indeed, Jack and I found ourselves interested in it also. The ordinary tumbleweed, green when growing, and gray when tumbling, had long been familiar to us, but the red variety was new. The old kind which we knew seldom grew more than two feet in diameter; it was usually almost exactly round, and with its finely branched limbs, was almost as solid as a big sponge, and when its short stem broke off at the top of the ground in the fall it would go bounding away across the prairie for miles. The red sort seemed to be much the same, except for its color and size. We saw many six or seven feet, perhaps more, in diameter, though they were rather flat, and not probably over three or four feet high.

The first one we saw was on edge, and going at a great rate across the prairie, bounding high into the air, and acting as if it had quite gone crazy, as there was a strong wind blowing.

"Look at that overgrown red tumbleweed!" exclaimed Jack. "I never saw anything like that before. Jump on the pony, Ollie, and catch the varmint and bring it back here!"

OLLIE AND THE TUMBLEWEED.

Ollie was willing enough to do this, and the pony was willing enough to go, so off they went. I think if the weed had had a fair field that Ollie would never have overtaken it, but it got caught in the long grass occasionally, and he soon came up to it. But the pony was not used to tumbleweed-coursing, and shied off with a startled snort. Ollie brought her about and made another attempt. But again the frightened pony ran around it. Half a dozen times this was repeated. At last she happened to dash around it on the wrong side just as it bounded into the air before the wind. It struck both horse and rider like a big dry-land wave, and Ollie seized it. If the poor pony had been frightened before, she was now terror-stricken, and gave a jump like a tiger, and shot away faster than we had ever seen her run before. Ollie had lost control of her, and could only cling to the saddle with one hand and hold to the big blundering weed with the other. Fortunately the pony ran toward the wagon. As they came up we could see little but tumbleweed and pony legs, and it looked like nothing so much as a hay-stack running away on its own legs. When the pony came up to the wagon, she stopped so suddenly that Ollie went over her head. But he still clung to the weed, and struck the ground inside of it. He jumped up, still in the weed, so that it now looked like a hay-stack on two legs. We pulled him out of it, and found him none the worse for his adventure. But he was a little frightened, and said:

"I don't think I'll chase those things again, Uncle Jack—not with that pony."

"Oh, that's all right, Ollie," said Jack. "I'm going to organize the Nebraska Cross-Country Tumbleweed Club, and you'll want to come to the meets. We'll give the weed one minute start, and the first man that catches it will get a prize of—of a watermelon, for instance."

"Well, I think I'll take another horse before I try it," returned Ollie.

"Might try Old Browny," I said. "If he ever came up to a tumbleweed he would lie right down on it and go to sleep."

"Yes, and Blacky would hold it with one foot and eat it[Pg 1123] up," said Jack. "Unless he took a notion to turn around and kick it out of existence."

We looked the queer plant over carefully, and found it so closely branched that it was impossible to see into it more than a few inches. The branches were tough and elastic, and when it was tossed up it would rebound from the ground several inches. But it was as light as a thistle ball, and when we turned it loose it rolled away across the prairie again as if nothing had happened.

"They're bad things sometimes when there is a prairie fire," said Jack. "No matter how wide the fire-break may be, a blazing tumbleweed will often roll across it, and set fire to the grass beyond. They've been known to leap over streams of considerable width, too, or fall in the water and float across, still blazing. Two years ago the town of Frontenac was burned up by a tumbleweed, though the citizens had made an approved fire-break by ploughing two circles of furrows around their village and burning off the grass between them. These big red ones must be worse than the others. I believe," he went on, "that tumbleweeds might be used to carry messages, like carrier-pigeons. The next one we come across we'll try it."

That afternoon we caught a fine specimen, and Jack securely fastened this message to it and turned it adrift:

"Schooner Rattletrap, September —, 188-: Latitude, 42.50; Longitude, 99.35. To Whom it may Concern: From Prairie Flower, bound for Deadwood. All well except Old Blacky, who has an appetite."

The night after our stop by the unfinished house we again camped on the open prairie, a quarter of a mile from a settler's house, where we got water for the horses. This house was really a "dugout," being more of a cellar than a house. It was built in the side of a little bank, the back of the sod roof level with the ground, and the front but two or three feet above it.

"I'd be afraid, if I were living in it, that a heavy rain in the night might fill it up, and float the bed-stead, and bump my nose on the ceiling," said Jack.

"CARRYING EVERYTHING THAT WAS LOOSE BEFORE IT."

It had been a warm afternoon, but when we went to bed it was cooler, though there was no wind stirring. The smoke of our camp-fire went straight up. There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and we remarked that we had not seen the stars look so bright any night before. The front of our wagon stood toward the northwest. We went to bed, but at two o'clock we were awakened by a most violent shaking of the cover. The wind was blowing a gale, and the whole top seemed about to be going by the board. We scrambled up, and I heard Jack's voice calling for me to come out. The cover bows were bent far over, and the canvas pressed in on the side to the southwest till it seemed as if it must burst. The front end of the top had gone out and was cracking in the wind. I crept forward, and as I did so I felt the wagon rise up on the windward side and bump back on the ground. I concluded we were doomed to a wreck, and called to Ollie to get out as fast as he could. I supposed a hard storm had struck us, but as I went over the dashboard I was astonished to see the stars shining as brightly as ever in the deep, dark sky. Jack was clinging to the rear wagon wheel on the windward side, which was all that had saved it from capsizing. He called to me to take hold of the tongue and steer the craft around with the stern to the gale. I did so, while he turned on the wheel. As it came around, the loose sides of the cover began to flutter and crack, while the puckering-string gave way, and the wind swept through the wagon, carrying everything that was loose before it, including Ollie, who was just getting over the dashboard. He was not hurt, but just then we heard a most pitiful yelping, as Jack's blankets and pillow went rolling away from where the wagon had stood. It was Snoozer going with them. The yelping disappeared in the darkness, and we heard frying-pans, tin plates, and other camp articles clattering away with the rest. The Rattletrap itself had tried to run before the gale, but I had put on the brake and stopped it. The three of us then crouched in front of it, and waited for the wind to blow itself out. We could see or hear nothing of the horses. There was not a cloud in sight, and the stars still shone down calmly and unruffled, while the wind cut and hissed through the long prairie grass all about us. It kept up for about ten minutes, when it began to stop as suddenly as it had begun. In twenty minutes there was nothing but a cool, gentle breeze coming out of the southwest. We lit the lantern and tried to gather up our things, but soon realized that we could not do much that night. We found the unfortunate Snoozer crouched in a little depression which was perhaps an old buffalo wallow, but could see nothing of the horses. We concluded to go to bed and wait for morning.

When it came we found our things scattered for over a quarter of a mile. We recovered everything, though the wagon-seat was broken. The horses had come back, so we could not tell how far they had gone before the wind.

"I've read about those night winds on the plains," said Jack, "and we'll look out for 'em in the future. We'll put an anchor on Snoozer at least."

This intelligent animal had not forgotten his night's experience, and stuck closely in the wagon, where he even insisted on taking his breakfast.

The road we were following was gradually drawing closer to the Niobrara, and we began to see scattering pine-trees, stunted and broken, along the heads of the cañons or ravines leading down to the river. There was less sand, and we made better progress. The country was but little settled, and game was more plentiful. We got two or three grouse. We went into camp at night at the head of what appeared to be a large cañon, under a tempest-tossed old pine-tree, through which the wind constantly sighed. There was no water, but we counted on getting it down the cañon. A man went by on horseback, driving some cattle, who told us that we would find a spring down about half a mile.

"Can we get any hay down there?" I asked him. "We're out of feed for the horses, and the grass seems pretty poor here."

"Down a mile beyond the spring I have a dozen stacks," answered the man, "and you're welcome to all you can bring up on your pony. Just go down and help yourselves."

We thanked him and he went on. As soon as we could we started down. It was beginning to get dark, and grew darker rapidly as we went down the ravine, as its sides were high and the trees soon became numerous. There was no road, nothing but a mere cattle-path, steep and stony in many places. We found the spring and watered all the horses, left Blacky and Browny, and went on after the hay with the pony, Jack leading her, and Ollie and I walking ahead with the lantern. It seemed a long way as we stumbled along in the darkness, all the time down hill.

"I guess that man wasn't so liberal as he seemed," said[Pg 1124] Jack. "The pony will be able to carry just about enough hay up here to make Snoozer a bed."

We plunged on, till at last the path became a little nearer level. It crossed a small open tract and then wound among bushes and low trees. Suddenly we saw something gleam in the light of the lantern, and stopped right on the river's bank. The water looked deep and dark, though not very wide. The current was swift and eddying.

"We've passed the hay," I said. "It must be on that open flat we crossed."

We went back, and turning to the right, soon found it. I set the lantern down and began to pull hay from one of the stacks, when the pony made a sudden movement, struck the lantern with her foot, and smashed the globe to bits.

"There," exclaimed Jack, "we'll have a fine time going up that badger-hole of a cañon in the dark!"

But there was nothing else to do, and we made up two big bundles of hay, and tied them to the pony's back.

"She'll think it's tumbleweeds," said Ollie.

"If she'd headed in the right direction I hope she will," answered Jack.

We started up, but it was a long and toilsome climb. In many places Jack and I had to get down on our hands and knees and feel out the path. The worst place was a scramble up a bank twenty feet high, and covered with loose stones. I was ahead. The heroic little pony with her unwieldy load sniffed at the prospect a little, and then started bravely up, "hanging on by her toe-nails," as Ollie said. When she was almost to the top she stepped on a loose stone, lost her footing, went over, and rolled away into the darkness and underbrush. Jack stumbled over a little of the hay which had come off in the path, hastily rolled up a torch, and lit it with a match. By this light we found the pony on her back, like a tumble-bug, with her load for a cushion and her feet in the air, and kicking wildly in every direction. While Ollie held the torch, Jack and I went to her rescue, and after a vast deal of pulling and lifting, got her to her feet just as the hay torch died out. Again she scrambled up the bank, and this time with success. We went on, found the other horses, and were soon at the wagon. We voted the pony all the hay she wanted, and went to bed tired.

The next day, the ninth out from Yankton, though it was a long run, brought us to Valentine, the first town on the railroad which we had seen since leaving the former place. Before we reached it we went several miles along the upper ends of the cañons, down a long hill so steep that we had to chain both hind wheels, forded the Niobrara twice, followed the river several miles, went out across the military reservation, which was like a desert, saw six or eight hundred negro soldiers at Fort Niobrara, and finally drove through Valentine, and went into camp a mile west of town. On the way we saw thousands of the biggest and reddest tumbleweeds, and two or three new sorts of cactus. The colored troops surprised Ollie, as he had never seen any before.

"It's the western winds and the hot sun that's tanned those soldiers," said Jack. "We'll look just that way, too, before we get back."

Ollie was half inclined to believe this astonishing statement at first, but concluded that his uncle was joking.

We went into camp on the banks of the Minichaduza River, a little brook which flows into the Niobrara from the northwest. It gurgled and bubbled all night almost under our wheels. A man stopped to chat with us as we sat around our camp-fire after supper. We told him of our experience in getting the hay the night before. He laughed and said:

"Ever steal any of your horse feed?"

"We haven't yet," answered Jack. "We try to be reasonably honest."

THE YOUNG FELLOW WILTED RIGHT DOWN ON THE GROUND.

"Some don't, though," replied the man. "Most of 'em that are going West in a covered wagon seem to think corn in the field is public property. A fellow camped right here one afternoon last fall. He was out of feed, and took a grain sack on one arm and a big Winchester rifle on the other, and went over to old Brown's corn-field. He took the gun along not to shoot anybody, but to sort of intimidate Brown if he should catch him. Suddenly he saw an old fellow coming toward him carrying a gun about a foot longer than his own. The young fellow wilted right down on the ground and never moved. He happened to go down on a big prickly cactus, but he never stirred, cactus or no cactus. He thought Brown had caught him, and that he was done for. The old man kept coming nearer and nearer. He was almost to him. The young fellow concluded to make a brave fight. So he jumped up and yelled. The old man dropped his gun and ran like a scared wolf. Then the young fellow noticed that the other also had a sack in which he had been gathering corn. He called him back, they saw that they were both thieves, shook hands, and went ahead and robbed old Brown together."

The man got up to go. "Well, good-night, boys," he said. "Rest as hard as you can to-morrow. You'll strike into the sand hills at about nine o'clock Monday morning. Take three days' feed, and every drop of water you can carry; and if you waste any of it washing your hands you're bigger fools than I think you are."

[to be continued.]

[Pg 1125]

[The series of four papers on the Science of Football, by Mr. W. H. Lewis of the Harvard Football Team of 1893, begun in this Department last week, is continued in the present issue.]

The subject of position-play in football may best be covered by taking up and discussing each individual of the team in turn. The end rusher, therefore, should be chosen for agility, speed, endurance, and good judgment. The first three qualifications are necessary to enable him to avoid, break up, and worm his way into, through, or around the interference, tackle into its very midst, or take advantage of occasional fumbles. His duty on the offensive, or when his own side has the ball, will depend upon his assignment in the particular play. Generally the end should stand much nearer his tackle when on the offensive, so as to be able to get into every play. In plays through tackle and end, or around the end on his own side of the line, he may help the tackle to block or pocket the opposing tackle. If a half-back comes into the line between tackle and end, the end should remember to take the inside man, as he is the more dangerous, because uncovered and nearest to the play.

FIG. 1.

The great bulk of the end's work comes in the defensive game. He is to prevent the long runs or open plays. He should never run behind his own line, because of the danger of leaving his side of the line open to criss-cross or some trick play. The end's primary duty is to turn the runner in. He therefore should go in as quickly and on as sharp an angle as possible, so that he can meet the interference before it gets well formed and started. He should take the direction of A D (shown in Fig. 1), A B C if he must, but never A E. If the opposing end plays up in the line opposite him, the only direction possible will be A B C.

He should meet the interference with body well forward, the arms extended straight and stiff, so as not to be hit by the interference, being careful to keep a little to the outside of it. In plays through the middle of the line, or pile up, the ends should keep out of the scrimmage, so as to be sure that the runner does not come out of the pile.

Tackle.—If there is any one position in the line harder to play than another, that position is tackle. The tackle must look out for territory on both sides of him, and be ready to help either guard or end, as the emergency requires. The great majority of the plays are aimed at him. His constant study must be how to meet each particular play in every style of offence. He should stand about four feet from his guard, and should not allow himself to be drawn out further than six feet; the wider his line is drawn out, the weaker it will be and the more territory he will have to cover. The offensive work of the tackle depends largely upon the play and his assignment in it. In blocking he should always take the man nearest the centre, as he is the nearest to the starting-point of the play, and therefore the most dangerous. In that case he should call in his guard to take his man. On plays through and around the other side of the line, the tackle should momentarily block his man, and then get into the push or interference.

When the tackle himself takes the ball, he should be careful not to give his intention away. He should, without notice, shift his position and bring his feet pretty close together, to enable him to start quickly. He should take off by giving his tackle a push in his chest with the open hand. The end should go into the opposing tackle the moment his tackle takes off, so as to prevent his opponent from following. When his own side is going to kick, the tackle should block his man long enough to prevent his stopping the kick, and then get down the field so as to help the ends prevent a return. The tackle should go nearly straight, so as to protect the centre of the field, the ends taking care of the sides.

The great bulk of the tackle's work is on the defensive. His duty is to tackle everything in sight. Clean, sharp breaking through is imperative in a tackle. The first thing a tackle should do when he steps into the line on the defence, is to notice his opponent's style of blocking, and adapt his method of breaking through accordingly.

Plays directed on the tackle call for great judgment and great strength. The tackle should, if possible, shove his man back and into the play. His next best plan to meet it is to go down in front of it good and stiff and pile it up. He should go into the mass head and shoulders or sideways, but never upon any pretext turn his back to it. In defending his territory against trick plays, the best and only advice that can be given to a tackle is to keep the eyes open, notice the alignments of the opposing back's, the way they stand, their facial expression, and movement, and try to divine which way the ball is going. When the opposing side is going to kick, the tackle should spread a little so as to give himself a better chance of getting through.

FIG. 2.

Guard.—The two guards and the centre make up the proverbial stone wall into which the opposing backs are supposed to ram their heads to no effect.

A guard should stand with the foot next to centre forward if possible, but if a man starts quicker with that foot back, why, stand that way. He should be careful not to allow himself to be drawn out too far from the centre. If his man goes out far he should tell the quarter-back, and have him send a play through guard and centre, and his opponent will probably move in again. As long as the inner foot of the opposite guard is inside of the outer foot of the guard blocking, the latter ought to be able to take him the moment the ball starts, and run him out to the side lines. The guard should also keep a sharp lookout for the opposing quarter, and if he comes up into the line between him and centre, push him out with open hand.

After having made a hole if called for, or blocked his man, the next duty of the guard is to get into the push or interference himself. Get hold of the runner; if possible, pull him along. Give him a chance to use you in warding off would-be tacklers. One of the first duties of a guard is to line up quickly. He should be right beside his centre the moment the ball is down. The play cannot start without some one to guard it. When his side is going to kick, the guard should move in close to the centre so that no little quarter or stray back can come through and stop the kick. He must block well, and almost until he hears the ball booted, because the path[Pg 1126] through the centre is the straightest line, and hence the shortest distance to the kicker, as will be seen in Fig. 3, line A B. The exact moment when he can let his man through must be determined by the quickness of the man in front of him and the kicker, as will be seen in Fig. 3. After having blocked long enough to insure the kicks getting away, he should get down the field with the other forwards to help prevent return of the ball.

FIG. 3.

On the defense there is an immense amount of hard work for the guard. He is primarily responsible for the ground between him and tackle, and secondarily for that between him and centre. In going through, this fact should be kept in mind. The fact that a guard must stand lower than tackle, and has less and different kind of territory to cover, will prevent him ordinarily from using as many methods of breaking through as a tackle. He must take some method of getting through that will enable him to use the body of his opponent to cover the territory between him and centre, and to enable him to get out and back up tackle, and that will put him through back to back with his man before the runner reaches the line.

Centre Rush.—The position of centre rush is comparatively a new one. Until a few years ago the middle position in the line was occupied by a snap-back, whose only duty was to put the ball in play. After that he was merely a passenger. From the snap-back the centre rush has been evolved by gradual enlargement of his duties. To-day he is chief of forwards, there being no duplicate to his position, as there is of tackle and guard. Every play starts from the centre rush, and depends upon him for a large share of its success or failure. The position is one requiring painstaking, conscientious hard work, admitting of very little glory, although the centre handles the ball more than any other player. On the offensive, the first duty of the centre rush is to put the ball in play. Much depends upon this. The team can play no faster than he does. If he is slow, the whole thing is slow. He must follow the ball closely, and the moment it is down, take it from his back and put it down for the next play. When the ball goes out of bounds, he must be the first man on the side lines, to take it in on the jump for the next play. The line forms on him, and to have his team line up quickly he must be doubly quick.

To snap the ball back, the body should be just low enough to reach the ball with the snapping arm, and no lower nor higher. The distance between the forward and rear foot must be obtained by practice. The rear one, in general, should be just far enough back to give him a good start. The centre should straddle only enough to keep from wobbling from side to side. The centre should never stand flat-footed. The feet should be at right angles to the gridiron lines. The position is much like that of a sprinter on his mark, as is shown in Fig. 2.

Different Methods of Snapping.—First, the flat, or side, snap, or snap on the longer axis of the ball. Place the ball upon the ground about two inches from the forward foot. Turn the lacing in. Have the seams of the ball parallel with the gridiron lines. Take a firm grip of the ball. Let the fingers be well over the front of it. The ball is sent back to the quarter with a downward motion of the wrist and arm. Place the ball as far under you as possible; it shortens the distance. The advantage of the side snap is that the snapper can balance himself partly on the ball, so that he can ofttimes put the ball into play under very trying circumstances.

Second, the end-over-end, or snap on the shorter axis. This snap is in most general use at present. It requires more skill in handling than the other. It has the advantage that it is quicker when well executed, and enables the quarter to be of considerably more aid in the interference. To use this style of snapping, place the ball on the end, the head out a little, although the exact angle must be acquired by practice. The ball is put into play by a delicate wrist motion back and downward.

The defensive-work of the centre is almost illimitable. He can be of as much or of as little use to his side as he has a mind to. He has more opportunity for brilliant tackles than any other man on his side, for the sole reason that he is not expected to do anything, and is the unaccounted-for man. His own man is handicapped by having to snap the ball, and he has no other assignment except that man. He should remain in his position long enough to see whether the play is coming at him or not. This will, of course, be determined by his shrewdness in guessing the play. If the play is at him, by keeping his man away from him, he can get under and into either hole. If his own position is not attacked, he should take the hole nearest the runner. He can often go through between guard and centre by having his guard break to the outside, and the opposing guard, following him, makes the hole for centre to go through.

The Half-Back.—The function of the half-back is to carry the ball. The advance into the enemy's territory must be made by him, except that a tackle may occasionally be called on for a run. The position is a difficult, trying, and exhausting one. The back must be sent time and again without let-up. With reference to his own proper function, a half-back should be chosen for speed, endurance, sand, and a cool, quick judgment. There are two distinct styles of backs—the "plunging back" and the "wrigglers," or "dodgers." It is desirable to have one of each upon a team. The former is better in line-breaking as a rule, and the latter excels in "broken fields" and end-running. The backs should be drilled carefully in the Fundamentals, especially those connected with their immediate duties, such as tossing, catching, kicking, and tackling. Standing starts and short dashes are also invaluable as preliminary practice.

As to the form of the half-back, it should be such as will not give away the direction in which he intends to run, yet such as will enable him to start at once upon the snap of the ball or signal. Many of the best backs give away the point of attack by unconscious glances and movements, things that should be studiously avoided. False starts are also to be guarded against, as they spoil the whole play and slow up the game. The backs should take, as far as possible, the same position in the given play every time. The body should be angular in form and carried well forward, much like the position of the standing start of a sprinter, with this difference, that the rear foot should not be quite so far back. The position must be one in which the backs can start quickly in either direction. Backs generally stand perfectly square, with toes of both feet on a line. Before they can get away from that position they must take either a short step back or forward. This step is unnecessary and shows a man up.

In going through the line, the general rule is to go low. In running low, the runner should bend his neck so that he can see and take his holes cleanly. When going through the middle of the line, it is best to carry the ball in both hands.[Pg 1127] Take the ball in the pit of the stomach, the legs and trunk forming a basket or angle, and then grapple it to you with both hands. Do not carry the ball too far under the arm. The ball should be carried so that it may be shifted in order to use the nearest arm to ward off would-be tacklers. It is surprising how many tacklers can be warded off by using that arm like a piston-rod against every man that comes up. In line-breaking, the back should remember to keep his feet and fight for the last inch of ground. If he can only keep his feet and give his own side a chance to push, he is bound to gain ground.

Full-Back.—No player has cut so much ice in the winning or losing of big matches in the last two seasons as the full-back. The holding of big teams to small scores by inferior ones has been largely owing to good men in this position. Hence the growing appreciation of the demands of this position and its vital importance to the success of the eleven. Kicking to-day has come to be a part of the offensive game, and the full-back, consequently, the biggest ground-gainer of all the backs. The full-back should be chosen almost solely for his ability to kick. Other qualifications are desirable, to be sure, but the ability to kick is the prime requisite. The preliminary training of the full-back should be one continuous kick.

FIG. 4.

The position of the full-back on the offence will be generally midway between the two backs, or a little in advance of them, near enough to touch either with the out-stretched arm. In runs around the end the full-back will generally be called on either to lead the interference or to block some particular player on the other side—a half-back or an end, most likely. In bucking the centre, the full-back should put his head down and go low and hard. He should make up his mind where he is going, and then go there without halting and hesitating. While as a general rule it is hard to gain through a good centre, a short gain through that territory is all the more valuable. The line through the centre is a straight line, and therefore the shortest distance to the required five yards, as will be seen in Fig. 4, the base of a right-angled triangle being always shorter than the hypothenuse.

The Quarter-Back.—The first essential qualification of a quarter-back is brains. He should be able to take in a situation at a glance, to think quickly, and to put that thought into execution at once. He should be cool without being deliberate, enthusiastic without being excitable. He should be brimful of nervous force and energy and of tireless activity. He should be absolutely fearless, and of positive force of character. The quarter-back should have constant, painstaking practice in handling and passing the ball. All spare moments on and off the field can most profitably be put in by him in receiving the snap from his centre and passing to some back. By that practice he gets used to his centre and learns intuitively when and where the ball will come every time.

The two ways commonly used in putting the ball into play are the "end" and "flap" snap. Take the position of quarter in receiving the "flap" snap first: The quarter stands, or rather kneels without touching his knees, close up behind the centre, about a foot from him.

The position is such that he can start quickly in the opposite direction from the one he is facing to receive the ball. Turning to the rear is easily and quickly done by using the balls of the feet as a pivot and swinging the body around on them. The ball should be picked up cleanly. It ought to require no more changing to throw than a baseball. The ball is picked up with the fingers over one end of it, the other end is bound to point along the arm, and thus it is ready for throwing. When the ball is snapped end over end, the quarter-back takes an entirely different position. He should stand squarely behind the centre, both feet being nearly on a line. He should stand near enough to take the ball on the first bound just the moment before the ball reaches the point where it begins to fall. His distance is about from two to three feet.

Upon the defence, the quarter with the other two backs form a kind of second rush-line. The play of the quarter-back on the defence, unless some special assignment is made him, is that of a free lance, a pirate to mix up things generally and break through where he is least expected. He generally stands behind the centre, and the moment the play starts, takes the nearest hole. Oft-times the guard and centre can make a hole to let the quarter through.

When an individual enters a competition which is held by any association for the purpose of determining which player has the strongest claim, by reason of his skill, to represent that association at a competition to be held by some other (and, usually, greater) organization at some future date, he takes upon himself, as a man of honor, the obligation, in case he wins, of representing the first body in the contest to be held by the second body. This more or less ethical and undoubtedly wordy definition I hope is clear; but in case it is not, let me put it in another and possibly more colloquial way: If the Scholastic School holds a golf tournament for the purpose of selecting a man to represent the Scholastic School at the University College golf tournament, every man who enters the Scholastic School tournament pledges himself (in spirit, of course, he being an honorable amateur), in case he is a winner, to appear and compete, to the best of his ability, at the University College golf tournament as the representative of his school.

In other words, any person who wins at a preliminary event, and fails to fulfil at the final contest the obligations he has thus assumed, is guilty of a breach of faith. He is guilty of a breach of faith unless he is physically unable to stand the bodily strain of the contest he has entered for, and in such a case he should at once notify both the body he represents (that it may send a substitute if it chooses) and the officers of the organization for whose competition he is entered, that the latter may not be placed in a false position toward the public and the other competitors.

Mr. C. W. Beggs, of the Lawrenceville School, entered the Princeton Interscholastic Tennis Tournament as a representative of Lawrenceville—and won. By this victory Mr. Beggs became Princeton's representative at the National Interscholastic Tennis Tournament to be held at Newport, and accepted the obligation and responsibility of representing Princeton on that occasion, just as fully and as unequivocally as a football-player or a baseball-player accepts the responsibility of playing his position in the final match game of the season when he earns a place on his school's eleven or nine. Mr. Beggs did not fulfil his obligations toward Princeton. He did not appear at Newport on the day of the tournament, and, so far as I am able to learn, he did not notify the officers of the national event of his intended and perhaps entirely unavoidable absence.

By acting in this manner he disarranged the programme of the national event, he lessened the interest in the play of the tournament, and he deprived Princeton of a possible victory. It is possible that Mr. Beggs was prevented by illness from appearing on the courts at Newport, but illness alone can be accepted as a valid excuse for his absence. Having undertaken to be present, not travels nor "occasions of a life-time" should have kept him away—should have allowed him to break his faith.

These few words are not aimed in censure at Mr. Beggs. He is not alone in such conduct. But he is a vivid example of an unsportsmanlike act (unsportsmanlike unless he had the excuse of illness, and, even so, inconsiderate if he did not notify the National L.T.A., and it does not appear that he did), and the ethics of sport can only be taught to most of us by the display of a striking example. The interests of interscholastic sport may best be maintained by a strict adherence to obligations assumed.

"TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL."—Illustrated.—8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

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[Pg 1128]

This Department is conducted in the interest of Bicyclers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject. Our maps and tours contain many valuable data kindly supplied from the official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen. Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L.A.W., the Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership blanks and information so far as possible.

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.

The route given in the next three weeks will be one of the best trips in the vicinity of Chicago, extending from Chicago itself to Joliet, thence to Ottawa, and thence to La Salle, and return. Like the great majority of trips taken from Chicago, this one depends largely upon the time at the rider's disposal, for you may either start from Chicago itself, or if the time is too short you can take the train for Ottawa and ride from there, or it is possible to get off the train at Joliet and ride on. But if time is not so important a matter, it is by all means best to ride all the way from Chicago. A choice of roads leads out of the city. You can go by the Archer Road to Joliet viâ Summit, Mount Forest, Willow Springs, Sag, Lemont, Romeo, and Lockport. In going the other way, take the Washington Boulevard west to Des Plaines Avenue, and then south to Riverside. This route leads along the old Illinois-Michigan Canal, Des Plaines River, and the new drainage canal, and it gives an excellent opportunity for you to examine the work on this large engineering undertaking.

There is still one other route to Joliet, which is a good road if the weather is good, but which after rain it would be unwise to attempt. This route is as follows: Start south on Western Avenue, or go down through Pullman City, turning westward to arrive at Blue Island. Here it will be necessary to make inquiry for the Blue Island and Orland Road, which runs southwest through Orland Station on the Wabash railway to Joliet. Part of this secondary route is not on the map, but it can be traced from Orland through Alpine, Hadley, and on into Joliet. The most attractive route, however, is the second one—that is, through Riverside, Summit, Willow Springs, etc.

On this first stage to Joliet the road to Summit is easily found, except that on passing through Summit a sharp turn to the left should be made, instead of crossing the track and the canal, up a hill, the road then being perfectly clear through Mount Forest and Willow Springs to Sag Station, with one hill about midway between the two latter places. At Sag Station turn to the left and run down to Sag, less than a mile away; then, turning sharply to the right, run to Lemont. Thence, keeping always on the southern and eastern side of the tracks and the river, follow the road to Romeo, with a hill as you enter the town, and run thence through Lockport to Joliet. The distance is close upon forty miles. If the trip is made in a day, a good place to stop is at Sag. If, however, the wheelman decides to run to Ottawa in one day, Joliet would make a stop a little less than half the distance; though this run to Ottawa of about ninety miles is a little too much for the average rider, and Joliet being a good place to stop overnight, he is advised to make a two days' trip of the journey. In case Joliet is too far, there is a good hotel at Lockport, six or seven miles nearer Chicago than Joliet, and the stop might be made there, although that leaves a long ride for the next day.

Note.—Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford, Connecticut, in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814. Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816. Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No. 818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No. 820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822. Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City—First Stage in No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland—First Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to Boston—Second Stage in No. 829. Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833. Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839. Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843. Philadelphia to Washington—First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in No. 854; Albany to Fonda in No 855; Fonda to Utica in No. 856; Utica to Syracuse in No. 857; Syracuse to Lyons in No. 858; Lyons to Rochester in No. 859; Rochester to Batavia in No. 860; Batavia to Buffalo in No. 861; Poughkeepsie to Newtown in No. 864; Newtown to Hartford in No. 865; New Haven to Hartford in No. 866; Hartford to Springfield in No. 867; Hartford to Canaan in No 868; Canaan to Pittsfield in No. 869; Hudson to Pittsfield in No. 870. City of Chicago in No. 874. Waukesha to Oconomowoc in No. 875; Chicago to Wheeling in No. 876; Wheeling to Lippencott's in No 877; Lippencott's to Waukesha in No. 878; Waukesha to Milwaukee in No. 879.

[Pg 1129]

Any questions in regard to photograph matters will be willingly answered by the Editor of this column and we should be glad to hear from any of our club who can make helpful suggestions.

HOW TO SALT PAPER.

Salting paper is the process by which photographic paper is coated with chloride of sodium (common salt), chloride of ammonium, or chloride of barium, and salted paper is pure photographic paper which has been immersed or floated in a salting-bath and then dried. Paper prepared especially for photographic use is the best; but paper which is free from impurities may be used. Whatman's drawing-paper is a good paper. The paper is first salted, and when dry the sensitizing solution is applied.

To salt paper with chloride of sodium, take 20 oz. of water and 30 grs. of common salt; dissolve the salt in the water and filter; put this solution in a flat dish larger than the sheets of paper to be salted. Select the smoothest side of the paper, and turn back two corners diagonally opposite to each other. Take hold of the paper by these corners and lower the sheet of paper gently into the solution. See that every portion of the surface is thoroughly wet, but do not let the paper touch the bottom of the dish. Let it remain in the solution for one minute; then, if it appears to be thoroughly covered, pin it up to dry, with the side which was salted turned outward. To sensitize this paper, take nitrate of silver, ½-oz., and water, 10 oz. After it is dissolved take out 3 oz., and to the remaining 7 oz. add strong ammonia-water, drop by drop. A brownish precipitate will form, but keep adding the ammonia till the solution is nearly or quite clear, then turn in the other 3 oz. and filter. This solution may be put in a flat dish, and the paper be sensitized by floating it on the solution, or it may be spread on with a brush, according to directions given in No. 869.

To salt paper with chloride of ammonium make a solution as follows:

Put the gelatine in the water, and set the vessel containing it in a dish of hot water until the gelatine is dissolved. When it is cold add the chloride of ammonium, and either float according to directions just given, or apply the solution with a brush.

To sensitize, take 1 oz. of water and 60 grs. of nitrate of silver. Dissolve thoroughly and brush the paper with this solution. Brush evenly and lightly both ways of the paper, so as to avoid a streaked appearance. Print and tone the same as for aristo prints. The combined toning-bath gives good results. The tone of the prints closely resembles platinum prints.

Another process for salting paper is:

Apply this solution with a brush, or float the paper on the bath. To sensitize, take 60 grs. of nitrate of silver and 1 oz. of water. Add ammonia-water, drop by drop, till 25 drops have been used. The solution at first turns muddy, but continue dropping the ammonia till it clears. If it does not clear after the 25 drops have been added clear by filtering. Sensitize as per former directions.

This paper is very easily prepared, is inexpensive, and gives fine delicate prints. Do not print much deeper than is desired for the finished print. One may use a toning and fixing bath combined, or a separate toning and fixing bath may be used.

One can sensitize a strip at the head of a letter or a corner of a visiting-card; and print the same as any paper.

The paper can be bought ready salted, but it is not always fresh. It is very little trouble to salt paper and to sensitize it, and the cost is much less than when paper is bought ready prepared. The plain paper should be used within two or three days after sensitizing with the silver, but the salted paper keeps well, and may be sensitized as needed.

Mark the sensitized paper on the wrong side lightly, as it is hard to distinguish the sensitive side. When dry these prints are so flat and the paper is so thin that they make nice book illustrations.

Sir Knights Fred. W. Long and Fred. D. Rose wish to know in what numbers of the Round Table the "Papers for Beginners" may be found. In Nos. 812, 813, 814, 816, 817, 818, 821, 822, 823, 824, 825, 826, 832, 838, 840, and 842. See also the late numbers for "Chemistry for Amateur Photographers."

E. Lester Crocker, Tarrytown-on-Hudson, New York, wishes to be enrolled as a member of the Camera Club.

ILL-TEMPERED BABIES

are not desirable in any home. Insufficient nourishment produces ill temper. Guard against fretful children by feeding nutritious and digestible food. The Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk is the most successful of all infant foods.—[Adv.]

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Postage Stamps, &c.

100 all dif. Venezuela, Bolivia, etc., only 10c., 200 all dif. Hayti, Hawaii, etc., only 50c. Ag'ts w't'd at 50% com. Lint FREE! C. A. Stegmann, 5941 Cote Brilliante Ave., St. Louis, Mo

STAMPS

10 stamps and large list FREE!

L. Dover & Co., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.

STAMPS on Approval! 50% disct. List free.

W. C. Shields, 30 Sorauren Ave., Toronto, Canada.

110 Foreign Stamps, Liberia, Borneo, Mexico, etc., 5c. H. L. Ashfield, 767 Prospect Ave., N.Y.

Reader: Have you seen the

It is a Collection which no one who loves music should fail to own; it should find a place in every home. Never before, it may truthfully be said, has a song book been published at once so cheap, so good, and so complete.—Colorado Springs Gazette.

This Song Collection is one of the most notable enterprises of the kind attempted by any publisher. The brief sketches and histories of the leading productions in the work add greatly to the value of the series.—Troy Times.

Sold Everywhere. Eight Numbers. Price, 50 cents each; Cloth, $1.00. Full contents, with Specimen Pages, mailed, without cost, on application to Harper & Brothers, New York.

[Pg 1130]

From Calamus to Quill.

It is most interesting to trace the evolution of the pen, beginning with the calamus and stilus—the reed and erasing bodkin—and ending with a fountain-pen of the most improved make. In ancient days great care was taken in the selection of the choicest reeds, the best-cured parchment, and the daintiest waxen tablets. Egypt grew the best reeds, though they were also found in Armenia, Persia, and Italy. The modern Turks and Moors prize the Persian reeds above all others, splitting the points in the same manner as our grandfathers prepared their goose-quills. The oldest account known respecting quills is found in a work of St. Isidore's, who died in 636. Alcuinus, who lived in England, speaks of his pen, so the familiar article must have been in use almost as long as the art of writing was known in the country. Perhaps steel pens would have been more popular when first introduced if all had known that the quills were pulled from the living geese!

Dr. Warner told his stationer that with one quill pen, old when he took it up, he wrote an "ecclesiastical history," two volumes folio, and a "dissertation on the Book of Common Prayer," both first and final draughts. Byron wrote the "Bride of Abydos" in one night, without once mending his quill, while Andrew Borde, physician to Henry VIII., and the original "Merry Andrew," wrote a book of nearly three hundred pages, 12mo., in the same manner. Camden wrote of the quill with which he composed the Britannia,

"With one sole pen I wrote this book,
Made of a gray goose quill;
A pen it was when I it took,
And a pen I leave it still."

Launcelot Claymore.

What Shakespeare Studied when at School.

Mr. William J. Rolfe, the Shakespearian student, has written most entertainingly of the Avon bard's school days. "The training in an English free day school in the time of Elizabeth," he writes, "depended much on the attainments of the master, and these varied greatly, bad teachers being the rule and good ones the exception. In many towns the office of schoolmaster was conferred on 'an ancient citizen of no great learning.' Sometimes a quack conjuring doctor had the position, like Pinch in the Comedy of Errors." What did William study in the grammar-school? Not much except arithmetic and Latin, with perhaps a little Greek and a mere smattering of other branches.

The Latin grammar used was certainly Lily's, the standard manual of the time, as long before and after. In The Taming of the Shrew (I., 1, 167) a passage from Terence is quoted in the modified form in which it appears in this grammar.

This fact, slight as it is, seems to have its bearing on the Baconian controversy. "Can we imagine," asks Mr. Rolfe, "the sage of St. Albans, familiar as he was with classical literature, going to his old Latin grammar for a quotation from Terence, and not to the original works of that famous playwright?"

We often hear people speak of "good old times," as if present times were worse. But good old school times of the sort described here were certainly not better than present times.

Asked to Cease Soaring a Moment.

Mrs. Phelps-Ward has just related an amusing story of John Greenleaf Whittier and Lucy Larcom. They were driving together one day, and discussing the Bible, the future life, and kindred topics. The poet was a spare man, as of course you know, while the author, whose stories and poems you so well remember, was portly, and had withal an easy-going temperament, which led her to take things as they came, disturbed by nothing. She was, when interested in a subject, generally quite oblivious to all else around her. Driving along, they came to a rather steep hill that had a bad gully in it. The horse was none too easy to manage, and the carriage swayed uncomfortably toward the heavy side—that borne well down by the portly woman. Mr. Whittier was trying his best to control the horse and keep his seat, but his companion talked on.

"Lucy," said the poet, sternly, and with not too much composure, "if thee doesn't stop talking long enough for me to control this horse, thee'll find thyself in heaven before thee wants to."

Kinks.

No. 30.—An Oblong Star.

If the cross-words are rightly guessed the central letters of the right-hand hour-glass, reading downward, will spell the name of the Grecian painter from whose untiring industry is derived the proverb, Nulla dies sine linea ("No day without a line"). The central letters of the left-hand hour-glass will spell the name of a renowned Greek sculptor who was born about the time of the battle of Marathon.

1. Upper Diamond.—1. In drawling. 2. A Japanese coin worth about four-fifths of a cent. 3. A word occurring frequently in the Psalms. 4. A deceiver. 5. The inferior pole of the horizon. 6. A form of a personal pronoun. 7. In drawling.

2. Lower Diamond.—1. In drawling. 2. Mournful. 3. The pyramidal roof of a tower. 4. Insulting. 5. Scorched. 6. To finish. 7. In drawling.

3. Left-hand Hour-glass.—1. Spotted. 2. Fences sunk below the ground. 3. A mite. 4. In drawling. 5. The dado. 6. A map. 7. Calcined gypsum.

4. Right-Hand Hour-glass.—1. Revolves. 2. Writing material. 3. A couch. 4. In drawling. 5. A beverage. 6. To step. 7. To sparkle.

Vincent V. M. Beede, R.T.F.

No. 31.—A Heterogeneous Pie.

A maniac in a Canadian asylum once requested his keeper to bring him a pie composed of the following ingredients:

One object¹ which once bore the words, "For the fairest," won by Venus; one cup of one² who rides the main; three cups of an appropriate name³ for a hard-headed animal; a morsel of a rod⁴ little used in billiards; a nickname⁵ applied to a New England State; one pound of the fish⁶ that struggles; a goodly quantity of the fruit⁷ from which a mechanic in one of Shakespeare's comedies derives his name; a dash of the nom de plume⁸ of James W. Morris; forty incites⁹; a heaping measure of the substance¹⁰ indicated by the blank.

"Not a ——
But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil."—Cowper.

Xentrique.

No. 32—Beheading.

1. Behead a fruit, and leave a fruit; behead once more, and leave our ancestors; behead again, and leave a part of our ancestors.

2. Behead a tree, and leave past; behead again, and leave to depart.

3. Behead a fruit, and leave a vegetable; behead again, and leave to adorn.

4. Behead a plant, and leave slack; behead again, and leave that wherewith the plant might have been cut.

Answers to Kinks.

No. 28.—A Musical Mélange.

1. Beethoven. 2. Chopin. 3. Handel. 4. Bull (Taurus). 5. Rossini. 6. Thomas. 7. Albani. 8. Crotch. 9. Lasso. 10. Mason. 11. Potter. 12. Purcell. 13. Fiddle. 14. Spinet. 15. Flute. 16. Bugle. 17. Trumpet. 18. Bagpipes. 19. Kettle-drums. 20. Fife. 21. Horn. 22. Lyre. 23. Harpsichord.

No. 29.

1. Burns. 2. Scott. 3. Herbert. 4. Willis. 5. Spenser. 6. White. 7. Dryden. 8. Hemans. 9. Pope. 10. Goldsmith. 11. Cowper. 12. Southey.

Not Good Form.

Care for what one says ought always to be exercised, without regard to whether or not it may be heard by those for whom it is not intended. Here is a story that emphasizes this lesson:

An officer of the Law Division of the New York Custom-house walked into the Collector's office a few days ago, while the Collector was talking with a tall man, whose back was turned toward the door.

"What is it?" asked the Collector. "Anything important?"

"Oh no," returned the officer. "Only another blunder in the long list of blunders committed by that Secretary of the Treasury of ours." The tall man laughed.

"Mr. Blank," said the Collector, "let me introduce you to Mr. Carlisle, Secretary of the Treasury."

The Secretary turned, still laughing, and shook the hand of the law officer, who, red in the face, stammered a half-heard apology—and got out as quickly as possible.

A Good Amateur Newspaper.

The Scribbler has completed its first year, and it makes quite an unnecessary apology for its past shortcomings. This latter is really the poorest thing about its past—this apology. Many a public speaker, after giving a good address, mars it by apologizing for it. The Scribbler has done well, and of course will do better. Its address is: Easton, Pa., and its manager, Norman E. Hart. You should see a copy. It is neat and Interesting.

Questions and Answers.

John C. Cone, 519 South Seventh Street, Hamilton, O., wants to receive sample copies of amateur newspapers. The Table has not published a description of the badge, dear Sir Sidney Mulhall, and has now none in stock. Evelyn T. Jones: Yes, the Table is glad to receive descriptions of places, industries, outings, etc., and asks correspondents to try to see how excellent they can make such morsels—correct grammar and spelling, avoidance of unnecessary words, and careful selection of descriptive adjectives. Letters from foreign places, if filled with information of general interest, are published when space permits. Good "Kinks" will be published, but new ideas are wanted, not merely new material in old forms.

Arthur J. Johnston, Box 136, Dartmouth, N. S., says, "I am much interested in politics, and would like to correspond with members of the Table, especially those living in Canada, on that subject." Cyrus Williston, Vernon, N. Y., wants to hear from members of the Order, any subject, and Louis O. Brosie, 3405 Butler Street, Pittsburg. Pa., has some quite old numbers of Harper's Young People which he does not want. He mentions the fact upon seeing inquiries in this column for these old copies, no longer in the publishers' stock. Aaron Spong asks where he can find a collection of college songs. There are several to be had. Ask for Carmina Princetonia; Columbia College Song-Book; Harvard College Song-Book. Go to your bookseller or to a music-store. Any dealer can get collections for you upon order, but Chicago dealers will have them in stock without doubt.

Henry F. French asks for information concerning the earliest national books. The Pentateuch is the oldest of books. In Greece the most ancient writings are Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, date about 900 b.c. In Latin, Plautus wrote his comedies 200 b.c. The first British author was Gildas, 500 a.d., who wrote a Conquest of Britain. At the same date Venan Fortunatus, in France, wrote the first work of that country—a book of Latin poetry. The Koran is the earliest work of any Arabian, Persian, or Turk. It was written a.d. 600. The first of Germany's literature was Walafred Strabo's book of poems and theology, 841 a.d. In Russia, Yaroslaff in the year 1000 a.d., compiled a code of laws, while Monez (1100 a.d.) is the first Portuguese author. The other countries are represented as follows: Italy, Accursius, writer of jurisprudence, 1182-1260 a.d.; Sweden, Eric Olai, author of A History of the Goths and Swedes, 1400 a.d.; Poland, Vinc Kadlubek, writer of a history of Poland, 1226 a.d. Arvine names Benjamin Thompson our "pioneer in letters." He was called "ye renowned poet of New England, learned schoolmaster and physician."

[Pg 1131]

This department is conducted in the interest of stamp and coin collectors, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on these subjects so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Stamp Department.

Specialization has led to the cataloguing of innumerable minute varieties in perforations, water-marks, papers, shades, and impressions from more or less worn or retouched plates, to say nothing of "freaks." The result has been the immense catalogues with which we are all so familiar, and albums containing a multitude of spaces for stamps which not one collector in a thousand can ever expect to fill. This has led to a reaction, and the average collector will hereafter not be puzzled by minute varieties of no interest to any one except the small group of rich men in each country to whom they are due. These advanced collectors do not use printed albums, and special catalogues can easily be made for them. All the large dealers hereafter will make albums and catalogues which the average collector will have a chance of filling up at reasonable rates.

Unique or very rare stamps in such albums will probably be represented by photographs of the costly originals.

W. MacFarlane.—The 2c. U.S. Revenues are extremely common, hence have no value.

S. Manning.—The old U.S. Special Delivery stamps are worth 15c. each, used. The yellow one will probably prove to be the scarcest.

H. M. Crossman.—The 1892 Columbian half-dollar can be bought for 75c. The 1893 one is in common use. The Columbian quarter is worth $1.75.

H. H. C.—The ordinary U.S. quarter for 1853 with rays on the reverse can be bought for 35c. The rare variety of the same date for $3.50.

F. M., Jun.—The 50c. Mortgage U.S. Revenue is worth 5c.; the 50c. Entry of Goods and Conveyance, 1c. each: the $1 Inland Exchange, 1c. These prices are for perforated stamps; if unperforated they are worth $1 each upward.

Will Kelsey.—All sheets of the current issue have one outside row of stamps unperforated on one side, and all the 1c., 2c., etc., have two rows of stamps unperforated on one side. Such partly perforated stamps have no special value. The 1875 reprint of the 1869 3c. stamp is worth $15 unused. This reprint can be known by the snow-white paper on which it is printed. Many of the 1869 stamps show no signs of grilling, owing to a very light pressure of the grills. Such stamps have no greater value than the grilled ones.

Nyack.—I do not know what the stamped paper made for use in the American colonies is worth. I know of one copy which was bought by the holder for $50. There were no adhesive stamps made for the 1765 stamp act.

T. A. Wessman.—It is impossible to pass any opinion on rare Chinese coins without seeing a rubbing. They are considered as simple curios here, and can be bought very cheap if the dealer has any.

A. F. Berlin.—Apply to any of the larger dealers for price.

A. B. C.—My remarks applied to Spanish stamps only. The West Australian cancelled stamps with punched holes were those issued by the colonial authorities to the imperial (i.e., Great Britain) authorities for official use. Most of these imperial officials were in charge of the convict camps in West Australia, and doubtless some of the stamps were given by them to prisoners in their charge, as it seems fairly well established that some letters from prisoners were pre-paid by punched stamps.

C. S. Smith.—Dealers offer U.S. dollars of 1800 for $2; half-dollar 1811, 1812, 1818, seventy-five cents each.

C. Rawson, 3421 North Nineteenth Street, Philadelphia, Pa., wishes to exchange stamps.

H. D. Graham.—"Local" stamps are those used by postmasters and by private firms who carried letters in competition with the U.S. mails. They have all been suppressed by the U.S. government. The early Boyd's Express, Blood & Co.'s, Honour City Post, etc., are very scarce. Hussey's Post and the later Boyd's Express are very common. Many have been reprinted, and others have been counterfeited.

N. P. Coppedge.—The English penny is quite a common coin. It has no value in this country, and in England can be bought for threepence.

Philatus.

"Health is the vital principle of bliss, and exercise, of health."

No health—there is no hope of bliss,
No exercise—and health soon flies,
No bath with Ivory Soap—you miss
The best results of exercise.

Copyright, 1896, by The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.

GOLD RINGS FREE!

We will give one half-round Ring, 18k Rolled Gold plate & warranted to anyone who will sell 1 doz. Indestructible Lamp Wicks (need no trimming) among friends at 10cts. each. Write us and we will mail you the Wicks. You sell them and send us the money and we will mail you the Ring.

STAR CHEMICAL CO., Box 435, Centerbrook, Conn.

A TRIP ABROAD,

a Piano, Phonograph Bicycle, Solid Gold Watch, and many other unheard-of opportunities, free for the asking, to every young person. Get all information by sending your address (no stamp required) to

CHASE & CO., No. 1 Madison Ave., New York City.

EARN A GOLD WATCH!

We wish to introduce our Teas and Baking Powder. Sell 50 lbs. to earn a Waltham Gold Watch and Chain; 25 lbs. for a Silver Watch and Chain; 10 lbs. for a Gold Ring; 50 lbs. for a Decorated Dinner Set; 75 lbs. for a Bicycle. Write for a Catalog and Order Blank to Dept. I

W. G. BAKER,

Springfield, Mass.

HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE SERIES

Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth. $1.25 per volume.

The Mystery of Abel Forefinger. By William Drysdale.

Raftmates.—Canoemates.—Campmates.—Dorymates.—By Kirk Munroe.

Young Lucretia, and Other Stories. By Mary E. Wilkins.

The Mate of the "Mary Ann."—Flying Hill Farm. By Sophie Swett.

A Boy's Town. By W. D. Howells.

The Midnight Warning, etc. By Edward H. House.

The Moon Prince, and Other Nabobs. By Richard Kendall Munkittrick.

Diego Pinzon. By John Russell Coryell.

Phil and the Baby, and False Witness. Two Stories. By Lucy C. Lillie.

Illustrated. Square 16mo, Cloth, $1.00 per volume.

Lucy C. Lillie.—The Household of Glen Holly.—The Colonel's Money.—Mildred's Bargain, etc.—Nan.—Rolf House.—Jo's Opportunity.—The Story of Music and Musicians.

James Otis.—Silent Pete.—Toby Tyler.—Tim and Tip.—Mr. Stubbs's Brother.—Left Behind.—Raising the "Pearl."

David Ker.—The Lost City.—Into Unknown Seas.

William Black.—The Four Macnicols.

Kirk Munroe.—Chrystal, Jack & Co., and Delta Bixby.—Derrick Sterling.—Wakulla.—The Flamingo Feather.

John Habberton.—Who was Paul Grayson?

Ernest Ingersoll.—The Ice Queen.

W. O. Stoddard.—The Talking Leaves.—Two Arrows.—The Red Mustang.

Mrs. W. J. Hays.—Prince Lazybones, etc.

G. C. Eggleston.—Strange Stories from History.

George B. Perry.—Uncle Peter's Trust.

Sophie Swett.—Captain Polly.

W. L. Alden.—A New Robinson Crusoe.—The Adventures of Jimmy Brown.—The Cruise of the Canoe Club.—The Cruise of the "Ghost."—The Moral Pirates.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

[Pg 1132]

LOST HIS BEARINGS.

"Begins to work kind of hard. Guess I'll stop and look into her."

"I'll fix that in just a minute."

OSTRICH (sotto voce.). "So will I."

"Great scott! Where have those bearings gone to?"

A MATTER OF LETTERS.

"I'm afraid you're a tease," said the old farmer to Aleck.

"I may be a tease," said Aleck, "but I'm not one of the jays."

FULLY OCCUPIED.

"Well, Charlie," said his aunt, as she met him on his return from the summer hotel, "what did you do with yourself all summer?"

"Oh, I was losin' my hat about half the time," said Charlie.

"Indeed! And what did you do the other half?"

"Oh, I spent that lookin' for my hat."

It is a hard matter to get the better of, or at least to convince, an Irishman in an argument that you are right. Not long ago, in one of the cabins of a coast-line steamer, the conversation turned round to astronomy. A gentleman observed that the sun made a revolution around the earth, and what more wonderful thing than that could be found in astronomy? This somewhat amused the other passengers, but their laughter developed into great hilarity when an Irishman near by, exclaimed:

"That's not so! The sun, I am certain, does not revolute the earth!"

"But," said the gentleman, "where does it come from when it rises in the east, and where does it go when it sets in the west? It has no other thing to do but to pass under the earth and come up again."

"Arrah, now, that's plain enough. Shure yer shouldn't be puzzled at that. If the sun goes from the east to the west, it returns the same way, and the only reason yer don't see it is because it comes back at night-toime."

A SLIGHT DIFFERENCE.

"Jimmie, you wasted your breath talking to old Mr. Wilbur this morning. He's as deaf as a post."

"I know that," said Jimmie, with a smile, "but posts don't have ten-cent pieces in their pockets to give little boys, and Mr. Wilbur does."

"Is this a sleeping-car, papa?"

"Yes, Johnny."

"Does it travel all night?"

"Yes."

"Humph! Must do all its sleeping in the day-time."

GETTING A FEW POINTS IN NATURAL HISTORY.