Produced by Annie McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JUNE 25, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVI.--NO. 817. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

OAKLEIGH.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.


CHAPTER I.

It was a large house, standing well back from the broad highway that
leads from Brenton to Pelham, so far back, indeed, and at the end of
such a long shady drive, that it could not be seen for some few minutes
after turning in from the road.

The approach was pretty, the avenue winding through the trees, with an
occasional glimpse of the meadows beyond. The road forked where the
trees ended, and encircled the lawn, or the "heater-piece" as the family
called it, it being in the exact shape of a flatiron. The house stood on
high ground, and there were no trees very near.

It was a white house with green blinds, solid and substantial looking.
The roof of the piazza was upheld by tall white columns, and vines
growing at either end relieved the bareness. On the southern side of the
house a small conservatory had been added. On the other side the ground
sloped to the Charles River, though in summer one could see only the
water from the upper windows, because of the trees which grew so thick
upon the banks.

This was Oakleigh, the home of the Franklins, so named because of a
giant oak-tree which spread its huge branches not far from the back of
the house.

As to the Franklins, there were five of them, and they were all
assembled on the front porch.

Though it was the last day of April, spring was unusually early for
Massachusetts this year, and the day was warm and clear, suggesting
summer and delightful possibilities of out-door fun.

Edith, the eldest, sat with her work. It was unusual work for a girl of
barely sixteen. A large old-fashioned basket was on the floor by her
side, with piles of children's clothes in it, and she was slowly and
laboriously darning a stocking over a china egg.

The children had no mother, and a good deal devolved upon Edith.

Jack and Cynthia, the twins, came next in age, and they were just
fourteen. They looked alike though Jack was much the taller of the two,
and his hair did not curl so tightly as Cynthia's. She sat on the steps
of the piazza. Her sailor hat was cast on the ground at her feet, and
her pretty golden-brown hair was, as usual, somewhat awry.

It was one of the trials of Edith's life that Cynthia's hair would not
keep smooth.

Jack lay at full length on the grass, sometimes flat on his back,
staring at the sky, sometimes rolling over, the more easily to address
his sisters.

Jack had a project in his mind, and was very much in earnest. Cynthia,
of course, was already on his side--she had known of it from the first
moment the idea popped into his head, but Edith had just been told, and
she needed convincing.

Janet and Willy, "the children," were playing at the other end of the
porch. They were only six and five, and did not count in the family
discussions.

"There's money in it, I'm sure," said Jack; "and if I can only get
father to agree with me and advance some money, I can pay him back in
less than a year."

"Papa hasn't much money to spare just now," said Edith, "and I have
always heard that there was a good deal of risk about raising chickens
from an incubator."

"My dear girl," returned Jack, with an air of lofty authority, "allow me
to say that you don't know much about it. I've been reading upon hens
for two days, and I find that, allowing for all risks--bad eggs,
inexperience, weasels, and skunks, and diseases, you're sure to make
some profit at the end of a year. Now, I'm late in thinking of it, I
know. To-morrow is the 1st of May, and I couldn't get more than three
hatches this summer, but that would probably pay the cost of the
incubator. I can get a first-rate one for forty dollars, and I can buy
one 'brooder.' If I bought one I could make the others like it."

"But your eggs?" said Edith. "You would have to pay a great deal for
eggs."

"Eggs would be about five or six dollars a hundred, and it takes two
hundred to fill the machine. I should want to get a fine breed, of
course--Brahmas, or Cochins, or Leghorns, probably, and they cost more;
but, you see, when they begin to lay, there comes my money right back to
me."

"When they do," said Edith, sceptically.

"Edith, don't be so mean!" cried Cynthia. "Jack wants to begin to make
money, and I think he's right. I'm going to help him all I can, and we
want you to be on our side to help talk over papa. He is always telling
Jack that he'll soon have to begin to work, and now here's a chance."

"Papa wants Jack to make some money to help support us when he is old
enough, but he wants him to finish his education first, of course. And I
am sure he doesn't want him to lay out a lot of money, as he would have
to do in raising hens."

"That's just like a girl," said Jack, scornfully. "Don't you know that
there's always a lot of risk in anything you undertake, and you've got
to take the chances? There are very few things you don't have to put
money into."

"Of course, for a grown man. But a boy of your age ought to work for a
salary, or something of that sort--not go investing."

Cynthia stirred uneasily. She knew this was just the wrong thing to say
to Jack. Unfortunately, Edith was so apt to say the wrong thing.

Jack sprang to his feet. "There's no use arguing with girls. I may be a
'boy of my age,' but I've got some sense, and I know there's money in
this. I'm not going to say another word about it to anybody until father
comes home, and I can talk it over with him."

And Jack walked off around the corner of the house, whistling to Ben and
Chester, the two big setters, to follow him, which they did with joyful
alacrity.

"There!" exclaimed Cynthia, "now he's gone off mad. I don't see why you
said that, Edith."

"Said what? I'm sure it is true. The idea of a boy of his age--"

"There you go again. Jack may be young, but he is trying awfully hard to
help papa, and you needn't go twitting him about his age."

"I'm sure I never meant to twit him," said Edith; "and I think he's
awfully touchy. But it is half past four, Cynthia, and time to go meet
papa. Won't you be sure to brush your hair and put on a fresh neck-tie
or something? You do look so untidy. That skirt is all frayed out around
the bottom."

"Oh, bother my hair and my neck-tie, and everything else!" cried
Cynthia, though with perfect good-nature. "Edith, you make such a fuss!
Shall I go meet papa?"

"No, I'll go; but I wish you would order the horse. Now, Cynthia, don't
forget your hair, will you? Papa hates to see you untidy."

For answer Cynthia banged the screen-door as she disappeared into the
house and walked through the wide hall, humming as she went.

"What shall I do with these children?" sighed Edith to herself, as she
laid down the stocking, mended at last, and prepared to put up her work.
"I'm sure I do the best I can, and what I think our mother would have
liked, but it is very hard. If Cynthia only would be more neat!"

A loud crash interrupted her thoughts. At the end of the piazza, where
the children had been playing, was a mass of chairs and tables, while
from the midst of the confusion came roars of pain, anger, and fright.

"What _is_ the matter?" cried Edith, running to the scene, and
overturning her work-basket in her flight.

It took several minutes to extricate the screaming children, set them on
their feet, and ascertain that no bones were broken.

"Get the red oil!" shrieked Janet; "that naughty boy has killed me! I'm
dead! I'm dead! Get the red oil!"

"It's no such a thing!" shouted Willy. "I didn't do it, and I'm dead,
too. Ugh! I'm all bludge. Get the red oil!"

Cynthia had witnessed the scene from the window, and appeared just in
time with the bottle of red oil, the panacea for all the Franklin bumps
and bruises.

"What were you doing, you naughty children?" said Edith, as she wiped
the "bludge" from Willy's lips, and found that it came from a very small
scratch, while Janet was scarcely hurt at all.

"We were only playing cars, and Willy _would_ ride on the engine, and
made it topple over, and--"

"It's no such a thing!" interposed Willy. "Girls don't know nothin'
'bout steam-cars, and Janet went and put her feet on the back of my
chair, and--"

He was interrupted by a blow from Janet's small fat fist, which he
immediately returned in kind, and then both began to scream.

"Yon are both as bad as you can be, and I've a good mind to send you to
bed," said Edith, severely, shaking Janet as she spoke.

Janet cast herself upon Cynthia. "Edith's horrid to us! She is so cross.
Cynthia, don't let her send us to bed. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hit Willy;
I'm sorry we upset the chairs; I'm sorry for everything."

"Well, here comes the horse, and I must go," said Edith. "Oh, look at my
basket!"

And it was indeed a sight. Spools, scissors, china eggs, stockings,
everything lay in wild confusion on the floor.

"Never mind. I'll pick them up," said Cynthia. "Don't bother about them,
Edith. The children will help me. Come along, Willy and Janet. Let's see
which can find the most spools."

Edith looked back doubtfully as, having put on her hat, she got into the
carriage. What would her basket be like when she next saw it? But it was
kind of Cynthia, and how much better Cynthia managed the children than
she did. What was the reason? She was thinking it over, when she heard
her name called loudly from behind, and, pulling in the horse quickly,
she waited, wondering what had happened now.

Cynthia came flying down the avenue. "Edith! Edith! Wait a minute! I
forgot to tell you. Don't say anything to papa about Jack's scheme, will
you? Let him tell."

"Oh, Cynthia, how you frightened me! I thought something dreadful was
the matter."

"But don't, will you, Edith? Promise! You know--well, Edith, Jack can
explain it so much better himself."

Cynthia was too kind-hearted to tell Edith that she would spoil it all
if she said anything first, but Edith knew that was what she meant. A
sharp reply was on her lips, but she controlled herself in time.

"Very well," she said, quietly, "I won't."

And then she drove on, and Cynthia went back to the house satisfied.

Edith had a quick, impatient temper, and it was not an easy matter for
her to curb her tongue. Her mother had died five years ago, when she was
but eleven years old. Then an aunt had come to live with them, but she
had lately married and gone to South America, and now there was no one
else, and Edith was considered old enough to keep house and look after
the children.

The road wound through the woods, with here and there a view of the
river, leading finally into the old New England town and forming its
main street.

Tall elm-trees shaded the approach to the village, and fine old houses,
with well-kept lawns in front, were to be seen on either side.

The horse that Edith drove was by no means a fine one, and the old buggy
was somewhat unsteady and rattled alarmingly. In other words, the
Franklins were poor, but they had hosts of friends; and as Edith entered
the village she nodded right and left to the various people she met.
Every one liked the Franklins, and the family had lived at Oakleigh for
generations.

As she reached the station the train came in. A throng of carriages
filled the broad space in front, and Edith was obliged to draw up at
some little distance from the cars. Presently she saw her father coming
towards her, and with him was an odd little figure, the sight of which
made Edith's heart sink with apprehension.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" she exclaimed to herself, "if there isn't Aunt
Betsey!"

Then she shrank back into the corner of the buggy, and watched the
amused glances that were cast upon her relative by all who saw her.

Miss Betsey Trinkett, of Wayborough, was Edith's great-aunt, and
constituted one of the largest thorns in her side. She was old, she was
odd, she was distinctly conspicuous; and Edith disliked above all things
to be conspicuous.

Miss Betsey trotted along the platform by her nephew's side, quite
unconscious of the tumult she was raising in the breast of her
grandniece. She was dressed in a short, scant velveteen gown that might
have belonged to her grandmother, and a large bonnet of the same date,
from which hung a figured lace veil. A gay shawl was folded about her
slender shoulders, and Mr. Franklin carried her carpet-bag with the
silver lock and key.

She waved a welcome to Edith with a mitted hand, and Edith, recovering
herself, nodded in response.

"How do you do, Aunt Betsey? What a surprise!"

"Yes, my dear, I like to surprise you now and then. I came up to Boston
town on business, and your father insisted upon my coming out to see you
all. In fact, I knew he would, so I just popped my best cap and my
knitting into my bag, along with some little things for you children,
and here I am."

And she stepped nimbly into the buggy, followed by Mr. Franklin.

"We shall be a 'Marblehead couple,'" he said, as he balanced himself on
the seat and took the reins.

Edith detested "Marblehead couples," otherwise driving three on a seat,
and she hid herself as much as possible in her corner, and hoped that
people would not know she was there.

Miss Betsey chatted away with her nephew, and in time the three miles
were covered, and they turned into the Oakleigh drive. Edith had
recovered somewhat by this time, having been engaged in scolding herself
all the way from the village for her uncordial feelings.

The others welcomed Aunt Betsey most cordially. Her carpet-bag always
contained some rare treat for the little ones; and, besides, they were a
hospitable family.

"But come with me, girls," said Miss Betsey, mysteriously, when she had
bestowed her gifts. "There is something I want to consult you about."

She trotted up the long flight of stairs to her accustomed room with the
springiness of a young girl, Edith and Cynthia following her. She closed
the door behind them, and seating herself in the rocking-chair, looked
at them solemnly.

"Do you remark anything different about my appearance?"

"Why, of course, Aunt Betsey!" exclaimed Cynthia; "your hair!"

"Well, I want to know! Cynthy, you are very smart. You get it from your
great-grandmother Trinkett, for whom you were named. Well, what do you
think of it?"

Edith had hastened to the closet, and was opening drawers and removing
garments from the hooks in apparently a sudden desire for neatness. In
reality she was convulsed with laughter.

Cynthia controlled herself, and replied, with gravity, "Did it grow
there?"

Miss Betsey rocked with satisfaction, her hands folded in her velveteen
lap.

"I knew it was a success. No one would ever know it, would they? My
dears, I bought it to-day in Boston town. The woman told me it looked
real natural. I don't know as I like the idea exactly of wearing other
people's hair, but one has to keep up with the times, and mine was
getting very scant. Silas said to me the other night, said he, 'Betsey,
strikes me your hair isn't as thick as it used to be.' That set me
thinking, and I remember I'd heard tell of these frontispieces, and I
then and there made up some business I'd have to come to Boston town
about, and here I am. I bought two while I was about it. The woman said
it was a good plan, in case one got lost or rumpled, and here it is in
this box. Just lay it away carefully for me, Cynthy, my dear."

The old lady's thin and grayish locks had been replaced by a false front
of smooth brown, with puffs at the side, and a nice white part of most
unnatural straightness down the middle.

"You see, I like to please Silas," she continued. "I'll tell you again,
as I've told you before, girls, Silas Green and I we've been keeping
steady company now these forty years. But I can't give up the view from
my sitting-room windows to go and live at his house on the other hill,
and he can't give up the view from his best-room windows to come and
live at my house. We've tried and tried, and we can't either of us give
up. And so he just comes every Sunday night to see me, as he's done
these forty years, and I guess it'll go on a while longer."

They were interrupted by the sound of the tea bell.

Miss Betsey hastily settled her cap over the new front, and they all
went down stairs, Cynthia pinching Edith to express her feelings, and
longing to tell Jack about Aunt Betsey's latest.

But they found Jack having an animated discussion with his father, his
thoughts on business plans intent.

Cynthia anxiously surveyed the two, and she feared from appearances that
Mr. Franklin did not intend to yield.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




LIFE IN A LIGHT-HOUSE.

BY A. J. ENSIGN.


A cold biting west wind was blowing. The sea close under the beach was
smooth and steel blue, and the breakers reared their white crests
slowly, falling in dull booms of muttered thunder. Beyond the rollers a
wide expanse of ice-hard gray water swept away to the iron line of the
horizon, where strange shapes of writhing billows tossed against the
glow of the rising moon. Half a dozen stars of the first magnitude swam
in moisture in the zenith, and far away in the west a smudge of black
cloud, touched on its lower edge with blood red, kept the record of the
swift winter sunset.

"It will blow from the south'ard and east'ard afore mornin', an' it'll
snow," said the light-house keeper, as he peered out into the growing
gloom, pierced as it was by the rays of the lamp which he had set
burning half an hour before.

"Ay," said his assistant, "an' we'll have fog, too, I'm thinkin'."

"Well, get steam up for the siren, an' stan' by fur trouble afore dawn."

The predictions of both men came true. Before two o'clock in the morning
the wind had shifted to the southeast, and was blowing a gale. Great
tangled masses of brown cloud were flying across the sky at terrific
speed, and in and out of the rifts shot the red moon flaming like a
comet. The breakers no longer reared and fell slowly, but hurled
themselves in shrieking masses of foam upon the stricken beach. A
yelling as of ten thousand evil spirits surrounded the caged lantern;
but the great yellow light blazed out its warning upon the black waters.
But not for long; for out of the southeast swept the impenetrable gray
fog that no light could pierce. Then the hoarse moaning blast of the
steam-siren sent its cry of warning out over the raging waters. At four
o'clock the gale was terrific, and ever and anon the shriek of a
steam-whistle told that some vessel was groping her way toward the
entrance to the harbor. Suddenly the whistle burst into a series of
rapid screams.

"Wake up, Tom!" shouted the assistant keeper, who was on watch. "There's
a tug out yonder that's parted the hawser of her tow."

The keeper sprang to his feet and listened to the despairing screams of
the whistle out in the fog.

"You're right!" he exclaimed. "And whatever's gone adrift'll be ashore
in less than an hour. They'll never hear those whistles at the station
with the wind in this quarter."

He jumped to the telephone and called up the life-saving station a mile
above.

"There's a tug off here," he said, "and she's lost her tow."

"All right," came the answer; "we'll look out for 'em."

[Illustration: TAKEN ASHORE IN A BREECHES-BUOY.]

Half an hour later a big three-masted coal barge, which thirty years
earlier had been an English bark, was in the breakers half a mile above
the life-saving station; but owing to the sharp lookout for her, all her
people, three men, a boy, and a woman, were taken ashore safely in the
breeches buoy. At sunup the other barge, which had been in tow of the
tug, was seen three miles offshore hove to under her leg-of-mutton
canvas. She was picked up by an incoming steamer, and towed into the
harbor.

That is a sample of the experience of a light-house keeper whose light
is on the land. He has a comparatively comfortable berth; but all lights
are not so pleasantly situated. Some are situated at considerable
distances from the shore, on dangerous reefs. Most of the houses so
situated are built on iron-screw piles, like those at Thimble Shoals,
Virginia, Fowey Rocks, Alligator Reef, and Sombrero Key, Florida. These
houses stand on iron legs, which are screwed down into the rocks on the
bottom, and the keeper's only means of leaving his confined dwelling is
by the boat, which swings at davits, as it would aboard a ship. It has
been found that a light-house built in this manner will stand the shocks
of heavy weather much better than one made of solid masonry. The storm
wave of the Atlantic Ocean travels at the rate of about thirty miles an
hour, and when one of these waves, towering from fifteen to thirty-five
feet, strikes an obstacle, such as a light-house, it deals a blow whose
force can be measured only in hundreds of tons. The iron-screw
pile-house, however, is elevated far enough above the level of the sea
to escape the blows of the waves, which meet with no greater resistance
than that offered by the slender legs of the structure.

Let us imagine the experience of a keeper of one of these lights in a
great storm. It is September. All day the sea has been deathly calm, but
with a slow swell of ominous breadth and weight. The sky has been of a
dead gray color, and has seemed to hang so low that one might almost
reach it from the top of the lantern. Toward night the wind begins to
come in fitful gusts that moan around the light-house like the voices of
warning spirits. The keeper goes out on the balcony and looks anxiously
around the horizon. He knows that they are in for a bad night, and he
knows that even iron-screw light-houses have been carried away in great
gales. But he goes calmly and carefully about his work. He sees that the
boat and all other objects outside the house are well secured. He sees
the lamp well supplied with oil and trimmed wicks. He gives the lenses
and reflectors a few more affectionate rubs, and as the sun goes down
fire-red into a crimson sea he lights the wicks and goes down to his
supper.

The gusts of wind outside increase in number and in force. Strange
shriekings and moanings break from the crannies of the light-house. It
is blowing half a gale now, and the sea is beginning to rise. Fiercer
and fiercer become the blasts. The light-house begins to vibrate like a
fiddle. A strange humming, as of the giant strings of some enormous
Æolian harp, is added to the shriller screams of the wind. It is the
gale singing through the iron legs and braces of the structure. And now
a squall more violent than any that have preceded it comes yelling
across the sea. It tears the foaming crests off half a dozen waves, and
sends them swirling down to leeward in shivering sheets of snowy
spoondrift. With fearful force the blast strikes the light-house, at the
same time hurling some of the spoondrift against its weather side with
a crash. What was that? Did the whole building sway?

The keeper shuts his lips tightly and goes up to look at the lamp. It is
burning brightly. He descends again, and puts on his oil-skins and
sou'wester. Waiting for a lull in the gale, he bolts out upon the
balcony, hastily closing the door behind him. For a moment he stands,
clinging with all his might to the iron railing, while the mad wind
seems to try to strip his clothing from him. How the building trembles
under the furious assaults of the wind! What an awful roar the
conflicting elements make around its iron walls! The keeper's eyes are
half blinded by the driving rain and salt spray. But he can see by the
light of the faithful lamp above him towering walls of black and shining
water sweeping down out of the fathomless darkness beyond as if to
engulf his little refuge. They rush forward and disappear within the
circle of gloom below the light, and the next instant he hears them
hissing and shrieking around the sturdy iron leg.

There! There is the monster wave of all, heaving its mighty crest
twenty-five feet, so that the keeper sees it level with his eyes as he
gazes, fascinated. It is coming, it is coming. Ah, it is too big to pass
the reef without breaking. See! It has toppled over, and goes boiling
under the gallery in a wild mass of ghostly foam. The keeper shivers a
little, shakes his head, and goes back to his warm room, muttering a
prayer for the safety of the sailors on the sea. You and I would mutter
one for our own, perhaps, if we stood on a swaying balcony above a
storm-torn ocean.

Before morning the keeper hears the report of a gun. He knows too well
the meaning of that sound. It is a signal of distress. He rushes out on
the balcony again, and sees the dim form of a dismasted ship driving
upon the reef. What can he do? Not a thing. He calls up his assistants,
and they helplessly watch the vessel strike. They hear the cries of her
people. They see the waves burst over her in great clouds of seething
spray. Suddenly one of the men utters a shout.

"See! There's a spar driving down on us with some one on it."

[Illustration: A RESCUE FROM THE LIGHT.]

Now the keeper and his assistants can do something, and they move with
the rapidity of men whose wits are accustomed to the emergencies of the
deep. Projecting from one side of the house is an iron arm, at the end
of which hang a block and tackle. This is used for hoisting supplies
from the boat which brings them off. Quickly a line is fastened around
the hook at the bottom of the tackle. This is to give the shipwrecked
mariner something by which to hold. The broken and half-buried spar
sweeps down toward the light-house. Two men are clinging to it with the
strength of despair. The tackle is lowered, and as the spar drives
against one of the stout iron legs of the light-house one of the two men
catches the rope, and is quickly hauled up to the gallery. At once the
tackle is lowered again, and the other man is hauled up. Half blind,
half drowned, staggering with exhaustion, they are taken into the house
where warm drinks and dry clothing revive them. Then they sit beside the
stove and tell the dreadful story of the wreck, while the howling of the
wind, the thunder of the seas, and the swaying of the house remind them
all that the storm still rages without.

Finally the great gale ends, and gradually the sea goes down. The
shipwrecked seamen are anxious to reach land, and the light-house
keeper, upon whose stores two extra mouths make serious inroads, is
willing to have them go. Late in the afternoon of the third day they see
smoke on the horizon. By-and-by the smoke appears to rise from a little
black speck. Gradually the speck grows larger, and at length it assumes
the outlines of a small steam-vessel.

"That's her," says the keeper. "Now you'll be able to get ashore."

"Is it the tender?" asks one of the wrecked sailors.

"Yes," says the keeper. "She was due here just about the time the gale
set in."

[Illustration: RECEIVING SUPPLIES IN CALM WEATHER.]

It is the stanch little light-house tender, whose duty it is to visit
the various lights in her district, and replenish their supplies. Many a
rough time she has at sea, and many a narrow escape; but the pressing
necessities of the keepers of the isolated lights embolden the captains
of tenders to brave many dangers. The tender is alongside the
light-house in due time, and the tackle which so lately saved human
lives hoists up boxes of provisions, cans of oil, and other articles.
The two shipwrecked sailors are put aboard the tender to be landed at
the nearest port, and in a short time the little vessel is once more a
smudge of smoke upon the horizon.

And so let us bid good-by to the light-house and the keeper. We know now
that he is a brave and faithful fellow, who, if need be, will lower away
his little boat, and pull to the rescue of those in danger. We know that
in spring and in summer, in autumn and in winter, in calm or storm, in
clear weather or in fog, in health or in sickness, he will be found
always at his post, always at his duty. We know that when the skies are
clear, and the sea smooth, and the stars bright, the lamp will burn and
send its gentle yellow rays out upon the inky waters to guide the
mariner over the trackless sea. We know that when the gray curtain of
the fog hides the light, the hoarse scream of the steam-siren or brazen
clang of the fog-bell will echo over the water, and warn the sailor
against hidden dangers. For always and everywhere the light-house keeper
is a brave, honest, faithful man; humble, indeed, but the reliance and
the guide of "those who go down to the sea in ships."




[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

     This Department is conducted in the interest of Amateur
     Photographers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any
     question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should
     address Editor Camera Club Department.


PAPERS FOR BEGINNERS, No. 6.

SIMPLE DEVELOPMENT.

A girl who was taking her first lesson in developing said that
developing was dozens of "whens" and "ifs," and one must learn them all
at once or else spoil all one's plates.

Our first directions for development will not be with the kind of
pictures which the beginner usually takes, but the kind he ought to
take, and which are simplest and easiest to develop. These are time
landscape pictures.

By time pictures is meant those which are taken with a short-time
exposure instead of with a drop-shutter in bright sunlight. The day for
making a successful time picture is when the sky is slightly clouded and
the light soft, so that there are no deep shadows.

The picture being made, and everything ready for development, remove the
plate from the holder and lay it face up in the tray. Turn the
developer--which is ready in the glass graduate--quickly over the plate,
taking great care that the whole surface is flooded instantly. If the
developer is not applied uniformly patches will appear on the negative
which print darker, the dark spots being where the developer did not
reach the plate as quickly as it did the other parts.

As soon as the developer has covered the plate, move the tray gently to
and fro, tipping it this way and that, but not enough to expose the
plate. In about a half-minute the high lights will begin to appear. The
high lights are those parts of the plate which have been exposed to the
strongest light, and which will show white, or light, in the printed
picture. The sky, which has reflected the strongest light, will appear
first. It will show as black patches here and there at one edge of the
plate.

By the time the sky is well out other objects will begin to show, those
which were in the deepest shadow will be the longest coming out. After
the image is well defined on the plate, lift it carefully from the tray
and look through it toward the light, holding rather near the lantern so
as to see if the detail is out.

To explain what is meant by detail, we will suppose that there is a mass
of shrubbery in the picture. If this part of the picture is developed
far enough, the lights and shadows and the forms of the bushes will show
when the plate is looked at against the light, but if the glass is clear
there is no detail, and the development has not been carried far enough.
It must be put back in the developer and allowed to remain longer.

When the plate has been sufficiently developed, which will be in from
three to five minutes, the yellow color will begin to fade, and the
outlines, which have been quite sharp, will grow dim. At this point, if
one looks at the plate the picture can be quite distinctly seen on the
back.

Take the plate from the developer, rinse it thoroughly in clean water,
and place it, film side up, in the tray of hypo solution, which is made
by dissolving 1 oz. of hyposulphite of soda in 4 oz. of water.

This bath, which is usually called the fixing-bath, though the proper
term would be clearing-bath, removes from the negative the sensitive
silver salts which have not been affected by light or by development,
and makes the image permanent. After the plate has remained in the
clearing-bath for five minutes it will be found on looking at the back
of the plate that the yellow color has almost entirely disappeared,
leaving on the glass the clear image of the landscape. The plate should
remain in the hypo for ten minutes, so that the salts of silver may be
thoroughly dissolved, or the plates will look streaked, and will not
make satisfactory prints.

The plate must next be washed to remove all traces of hypo. Hypo stains
the negative, and if not thoroughly washed out is apt to form again in
crystals and ruin the negative.

An hour is long enough to wash the negative in running water, and two
hours, with four or five changes of water, where there is no running
water. When the negative has been washed long enough, take a small wad
of soft cotton, and holding both plate and cotton in the water wipe the
film gently with the cotton to remove any dirt which may have settled in
the film. If one has no drying-rack set the plate on a shelf, with the
film side toward the wall to avoid the settling of dust in the film.

When the negative is dry, place it in an envelope, number and mark it,
and place it in some place where it may be found without trouble.




BILL TYBEE AND THE BULL.

YARN OF A WHALEMAN ON SHORE.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.


"And didn't yeou never have nothin' more to do with whalin'?" asked
Farmer Joe.

"Oh, well," Handsome answered, "I never said that I gave up whaling for
good and all. You know, sailors never know when they're well off."

"Waal," said Farmer Joe, "it 'pears to me that this 'ere's abaout a good
time to tell us some more on 't."

"Did I ever tell you about going whaling on shore?"

"Git aout!" exclaimed Farmer Joe.

"You don't believe it, eh? Did you never hear of Amagansett, Long
Island? That's where all good whalemen go when they get to be too old to
go to sea. They have their boats there, and when a whale heaves in sight
off shore they put right out through the surf, and generally there's one
dead whale in those parts when they come back. But it isn't about that
I'm going to tell you, because chasing whales in boats is all the same
whether you start from shore or a ship. But down there's where I met old
Bill Tybee."

"Who were he?" asked Farmer Joe.

"He was a very old sailor, who'd quit the sea, and was running a sort of
express business. That is, he had a horse and wagon, and used to cart
things for people. He was a great old chap, I tell you, and the yarns he
used to tell would have scraped barnacles off the back door of the North
Pole. His horse was so old he couldn't move at any pace except a sort of
dog-trot, and the wagon rumbled and squeaked like a fife-and-drum corps.
One day I said to Bill that I'd like to know why he didn't get a new
horse and wagon, and then he told me a regular hair-twister. I'm going
to tell it to you, and I'm going to tell it just the way Bill told it to
me."

Handsome shifted his seat a foot or two, took a round turn around his
foot and tested the splice which he had been making, and then screwing
his face up in imitation of "old Bill Tybee," he began.

"Git a new hoss an' waggin, hey? I ain't no dude. Nex' thing I 'spect
you'll be wantin' me to run a tally-hoo coach to take beach-combers out
a clam-diggin'. New hoss an' waggin! Say, I had 'em oncet, an' I don't
want 'em no more. I got all the trouble I want now, without havin' a
cantankerous young colt a tryin' to jump fences with me an' the waggin.
Say, I'm goin' to tell you 'bout the new hoss an' waggin I had oncet,
an' then I leave it to you, if you was me an' I was you, would you try
it on some more. 'Bout two year ago come Thanksgivin' I got so sot up in
bizness that I bought Farmer Hiram Smoggs's brown colt, that were jes
seven year old that fall, an' his one-hoss farm waggin wot Fin Dooley
had jes painted redder'n a new can-buoy on the starboard side o' a ship
channel. I gave him this 'ere hoss an' waggin wot I'm a-drivin' now to
boot. Werry good. I got aboard my new waggin, and h'isted my whip, an'
whistled the 'Star-Spangled Banner,' and sez I, 'Thar, gol bust ye,
you're in commission, ye wall-sided hooker,' sez I. Then I got under way
fur my fust cruise. It were plain sailin' gittin' out o' the harbor,
an', as the weather were fair with a stiddy wind, I let the colt go
along under plain sail. Waal, I hadn't gone more'n a couple o' cable
lengths w'en ole Widdy Moriarty she comes down to the sea-wall on her
place, an' sings out to me. So I hove the colt to, an' I axes her,
'Wot's up, mate?' An' she says she wants me fur to take a box o' heggs
down to the Fraser Bellew's grocery store. So I filled away on the colt,
an' luffed up alongside o' the sea-wall, an' made him fast to a pile wot
were stickin' up. I got the heggs, an' stowed 'em right forrard in the
forepeak o' the waggin. I got aboard, an' filled away on my course
ag'in.

"Werry good. Nex' I war hove to by Pete Maguff, a cullud man, who put a
bar'l o' maple syrup aboard. Then Jim Penn he puts in a bar'l o' flour
fur me to take back to ole man Bellew 'cos 'twarn't the right kind. Them
two bar'ls pooty nigh filled up the whole waist o' the waggin.
Howsumever, w'en Hank Mosher axed me to take a bar'l o' apples aboard I
carkilated I could git her under the break o' the tailboard, an' I did.
Pussonally, I war now usin' the box o' heggs fur a bridge, an' were
a-steerin' the colt from there. Bein' loaded right down to the
Plimsoll's mark, I didn't go to crackin' on sail, but let the colt go
along under his lower tops'ls like. All right, sez you. But allus keep a
bright lookout fur squalls, sez I. Werry good. I hadn't logged off
more'n half a knot w'en Farmer Powley's ten-acre pasture were on my
starboard hand, an' his black-an'-white bull, Napoleon Bonyparty, were
standin' plum in the middle o' the same. Now w'en that 'ere bull seed
that 'ere red waggin he knowed it warn't the ole merchant hooker wot
he'd seed me a-steerin' up an' down that road so long. Nope; he med up
his mind it were a foreign cruiser, an' sez he to hisself, 'This are
where I shows 'em wot kind o' a coast-defense ram I are.' So he blowed
one whistle, hooked on, an' come down the field under forced draught,
turnin' up a mos' terrible starn wave o' dust on account o' the pasture
bein' werry shallow water. I hailed him, an' told him it war me, but he
couldn't hear nothin'. All he could do war to see a red waggin. So,
seein' that he war a-goin' to ram, I ups an' I lets fall to'gallants an'
royals onto the colt, an' away we went dead afore the wind at a
twelve-knot gait. The bull didn't stop fur to jump the fence. He jes
went through it. Now it were a starn chase right up the hill.

"Werry good. But afore I'd got fur I heard a thump, an' lookin' round I
seed Hank Mosher's bar'l o' apples'd bounced out over the starn, an'
were a-rollin' down the hill at a ginerally lively gait. Gosh! You'd ort
to see the bull clear that bar'l. Say, flyin'-fish would have to take
lessons from him. Waal, havin' lightened ship by losin' some o' my cargo
I reckoned I'd make better speed; but I didn't seem to gain werry much
onto the bull. He follered me right slap inter town, an' then there war
a sort o' grand general mixification, sich as never war seed afore or
sence.

"Fust place, everybody begin fur to yell. One sez murder, an' another
sez fire. Wimmen screeched an' boys hollered, an' the bull he bellered
louder'n any on 'em. Jehosaphat Book, the cullud dominie, he run out an'
tried to jump inter the waggin. Jes at that minute the bar'l o' flour
give a bounce up in the air. The head o' the bar'l fell out, an' the
bar'l, flour, an' all came down over Jehosaphat's head. Afore he could
git it off the bull war there, an' he jes picked up Jehos an' his bar'l
an' fired 'em right through the winder o' the school-haouse. Jehos
landed in the middle o' the floor, an' comin' out o' the bar'l he war
all white. The chillen set up a yell, 'Ghost! ghost!' an' afore the
teacher knowed wot'd happened school war out. Jehos picked hisself up,
an' saw hisself in the lookin'-glass. Then he let out a squeal an'
started fur the street. He thort he'd turned white.

"But that warn't the wust of 't. That there bar'l o' apples a-rollin'
down-hill had fetched up ag'in the feet o' Blind Billy Bunker's team o'
mules, an' they'd started off on a dead run with bar'l hoops a flappin'
round their legs. They came into town a quarter o' a mile astarn o' me,
and jes in time to meet Jehos w'en he come out in the street all white.
He scared them mules so bad that they stopped right in their tracks, an'
Billy Bunker war shot off the seat o' his waggin an' out into the road
on his head. He got up an' made a grab fur the fust thing that he could
feel, an' it were Jehos. Billy war so mad that he punched Jehos's head
an' Jehos punched back, an' there was the cullud minister, all white,
a-fightin' in the middle o' the street with a blind man. An' the sheriff
he came along an' arrested 'em both, an' Jedge Sooter fined Jehos five
dollars fur disturbin' o' the peace, w'en he'd ort to have fined the
bull.

"But that warn't the wust of 't. All this time me an' the bull was still
a-goin'. Somebody'd hollered fire, an' somebody else'd run off to the
fire-engine house, an' told 'em that they'd got to come quick or the
whole bloomin' town'd go. Jes then the red waggin hit a stone in the
middle o' the street, an' she pitched so hard she hove her tailboard
right up into the air an' overboard. That tailboard were jes as red as
anythin', an' w'en the bull seed it soarin' in the air like a ole-time
round shell with a navy time-fuse, he jes got clean crazy. He ketched it
onto his horns, an' lowerin' his head scraped up about two tons o' dust,
an' hove dust an' all right through the big front winder o' Jeremiah
Boggs's book an' newspaper store. The firemen seein' all the dust,
thought it war smoke, an' they comes up with their engine an' lets drive
a stream o' water a foot thick right through the hole in the winder, an'
completely sp'iled the whole shop.

"But that warn't the wust of 't. Jeremiah's brindle bull-dog were asleep
under the counter, an' that there stream o' water hit him ca-plum in the
middle o' the back. He let out one yell, an' out o' the shop he went an'
down the street all drippin' wet an' squealin' like a pig. Everybody wot
seed him hollered 'Mad dog! mad dog!' An' then ole Willum Henry Peet,
the constable, he got clean rattled, an' pulled out his rewolwer an'
beginned to shoot all over the country. As me an' the bull was still
a-goin' I didn't see that, but I could hear it. Waal, Willum Henry's
shootin' started up some other folks, an' putty soon there war a whole
rigimint o' people out in the street a-shootin', an' not hittin'
anythin' 'ceptin' winders, w'ich the same they busted forty-seven. The
firemen findin' they'd made a mistake, an' there warn't no fire, said as
how Jeremiah'd sent out a false alarm, an' they started to lick him.
Some o' his friends come to help him, an' in five minutes there war a
reg'lar riot right out in front o' his store.

"All this time me an' the bull war still a-goin'. I didn't seem to gain
much onto him, so I set the royals an' the stu'ns'ls onto the colt,
although it were werry stormy weather, an' I made up my mind that if
somethin' didn't carry away I'd be able to hold him right where he war.
I had to keep goin' right straight ahead. 'Cos w'y: if I'd 'a' put the
helm hard over fur to turn a corner, I'd 'a' rolled the deck-house
right off'n my red hooker. Waal, a leetle furder up the street we comes
to Peanut Brewer, with his black horse a-standin' dead still. He'd
balked, an' Peanut war sittin' on top o' a load o' hay a-sayin' bad
words at him. Mrs. Mehitabel Saggs's little boy come out with a big
fire-cracker to set off under the hoss an' make him start. At that werry
minute Pete Maguff's bar'l o' maple syrup on my waggin' give a jounce,
and went by the board over the port rail. That there bar'l rolled right
under Peanut's hoss jes as the fire-cracker busted. It sot fire to the
bar'l, an' she blazed right up. 'Now,' sez Peanut, 'my ole black hoss'll
start,' sez he. An' so he did. He started an' went jes fur enough to
pull the waggin' right over the fire, an' then he stopped. Waal, sir,
Peanut had to jump fur his life, fur that load o' hay blazed up in half
a second. The fire company war on the dead run fur home w'en they seed
the blaze, an' down they come at their finest gait, with Jeremiah Boggs
an' his gang astarn o' them, keepin' up a permiskious fire o' stones,
sticks, an' termatter cans an' sich things. Jes then Jeremiah's dog come
around the corner with forty boys a-chasin' him an' yellin' 'Mad dog.'
He run right under Peanut Brewer's black hoss, an' that started him.
Yaas, sir, he got right up onto his hind legs, an' away he went down the
street licketty-split, pullin' a load o' hay on fire. By that time
everybody in town were putty nigh crazy, an' the President o' the
village had telegraphed fur the militia to come."

[Illustration: "ALL THE TIME THE BULL WERE ATTENDIN' STRICTLY TO
BIZNESS."]

"All the time the bull were attendin' strickly to bizness. The colt war
all covered with foam, an' I made up my mind that afore long he war
a-goin' fur to give out, an' me an' the bull would have to settle the
question atween ourselves, in w'ich case the bettin' would all 'a' bin
in favor o' the bull. So I kinder considers a little, an' all on a
suddint I recommembered them heggs. I yanked the top off'n the box, an'
diskivered that most o' the heggs was scrambled--raw--but still
scrambled. Howsumever, there was a few that wasn't. So I took one o'
them an' hove it at the bull. It hit him smack on the middle o' the
forehead. Waal, if he'd been mad afore, he war crazy now. He let out a
roar that made my bones rattle, an' he opened out his last link o'
speed. Now he commenced fur to gain on me, hand over fist; so I made up
my mind to do somethin' desprit. I put the helm hard a-starboard, an'
steered the colt into a narrer channel wot led right down to the bay.
The bull he tried to cut short goin' round the corner, an' he run into
the lamp-post, w'ich the same he knocked clean down into Parker's
basement, where Johannes Pfeiffenschneider, the cobbler, works, an'
scared Johannes so that he sp'iled Miss Beasley's Sunday shoes, an' lost
putty nigh all his trade.

"Down at the foot o' the street war Mark Rogers's oyster sloop _Betsey
Jane_, lyin' alongside o' the wharf. On the wharf war about ten million
oyster shells, all piled up. 'Now,' sez I to myself, sez I, 'here's
where I've got to stop the bull.' I steered the colt right straight at
that reef o' shells, trustin' to our speed an' our shaller draft to
carry us right over. There war a smash, crash, biff! an' over we went.
Then I jumped up, grabbed the box o' scrambled heggs, an' hove 'em
straight in the bull's face. Waal, gol bust me if that there bull didn't
look like the gran'father o' all omlets. He was clean blinded fur a
minute, an' he kicked out with all four legs in the middle o' the reef,
till the air war white with flying oyster shells. He kicked so many of
'em into the bay that Mark had to dredge out a new channel. Then he got
his eyes clear a minute an' he seed me a-laffin'. He jes made one jump,
an' he got under the waggin' with his head. The next thing I knowed I
war in the bay. That there bull jes picked up waggin', colt, an' me, an'
he hove us straight off the dock an' into the bay."

"And what happened after that?" I asked.

"Waal, we had to swim out, o' course. It killed the colt, that cold bath
arter bein' so heated, an' the waggin' was busted into kindlin' wood.
An' the bull? Oh, yaas, the bull. Waal, he was puffickly satisfied, an'
he went up along the side o' the road an' eat grass jes as if he'd never
did nothin' else in all his life. Now, my son, you know w'y I don't git
a new hoss an' waggin. I bin there, an' w'en I bin to a place wot's not
to my likin' I knows enough not to go back. Git ep!"




SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.

BY KIRK MUNROE.


CHAPTER XXXIII.

LOST IN A MOUNTAIN BLIZZARD.

Tired as were the occupants of that lonely camp after a day of
exhausting climbing through the timber, their slumbers were broken and
restless. The uncertainties of the morrow, the peculiar nature of the
road they had yet to travel, and the excitement consequent upon nearing
the end of their journey, which none of them believed to be over fifty
miles away, all combined to render them wakeful and uneasy. So they were
up by the first sign of daylight, and off before sunrise.

As there were now but three dogs to a sledge, the load of the one driven
by Serge was divided between it and the one that brought up the rear in
charge of Jalap Coombs. A few sticks of dry wood were also placed on
each sledge, so that in crossing the upper ice-fields they might at
least be able to melt snow for drinking purposes.

"Now for it!" cried Phil, cheerfully, as they emerged from the scanty
timber, and shivered in the chill blast that swept down from the
towering peaks above them. Between two of these was a saddlelike
depression that they took to be the pass, and to it the young leader
determined to guide his little party.

"Up you go, Musky!" he shouted. "Pull, Luvtuk, my pigeon! Amook, you old
rascal, show what you are good for! A little more work, a little more
hunger, and then rest, with plenty to eat. So stir yourselves and
climb!"

With this the long whip-lash whistled through the frosty air, and
cracked with a resounding report that would have done credit to the most
expert of Eskimo drivers, for our Phil was no longer a novice in its
use, and with a yelp the dogs sprang forward.

Up, up, up they climbed, until, as Phil remarked, it didn't seem as
though the top of the world could be very far away. The sun rose, and
flooded the snow-fields with such dazzling radiance that but for their
protecting goggles our travellers must have been completely blinded by
the glare. The deep gulch whose windings they followed held in
summer-time a roaring torrent, but now it was filled with solidly packed
snow from twenty-five to one hundred feet deep.

As they advanced the gulch grew more and more shallow, until at length
it was merged in a broad uniform slope so steep and slippery that they
were obliged to cut footholds in the snow, and at frequent intervals
carve out little benches two feet wide. From one of these to another
they dragged the sledges, one at a time, with rawhide ropes. Even the
dogs had to be assisted up the glassy incline, on which they could gain
no hold. So arduous was this labor that three hours were spent in
overcoming the last five hundred feet of the ascent. Thus it was long
past noon when, breathless and exhausted, the party reached the summit,
or rather a slope so gentle that the dogs could once more drag the
sledges.

Here, at an elevation of nearly five thousand feet above the sea, they
paused for breath, for a bite of lunch, and for a last look over the way
they had come. From this elevation their view embraced a sweep of over
one hundred miles of mountain and plain, river and forest. It was so
far-reaching and boundless that it even seemed as if they could take in
the whole vast Yukon Valley, and locate points that common-sense told
them were a thousand miles beyond their range of vision. Grand as was
the prospect, they did not care to look at it long. Time was precious;
the air, in spite of its sunlight, was bitterly chill, and, after all,
the mighty wilderness now behind them held too many memories of
hardship, suffering, and danger to render it attractive.

So, "Hurrah for the coast!" cried Phil.

"Hurrah for Sitka!" echoed Serge.

"Hooray for salt water! Now, bullies, up and at 'em!" roared Jalap
Coombs, expressing a sentiment, and an order to his sailor-bred dogs, in
a breath.

In a few moments more the wonderful view had disappeared, and the
sledges were threading their way amid a chaos of gigantic bowlders and
snow-covered landslides from the peaks that rose on both sides. There
was no sharp descent from the summit, such as they had hoped to find,
but instead a lofty plateau piled thick with obstructions. About them no
green thing was to be seen, no sign of life; only snow, ice, and
precipitous cliffs of bare rock. The all-pervading and absolute silence
was awful. There was no trail that might be followed, for the hardiest
of natives dared not attempt that crossing in the winter. Even if they
had, their trail would have been obliterated almost as soon as made by
the fierce storms of these altitudes. So their only guide was that of
general direction, which they knew to be south, and to this course Phil
endeavored to hold.

That night they made a chill camp in the lee of a great bowlder; that
is, in as much of a lee as could be had where the icy blast swept in
circles and eddies from all directions at once. They started a fire, but
its feeble flame was so blown hither and thither that by the time a
kettle of snow was melted, and the ice was thawed from their stew, their
supply of wood was so depleted that they dared not use more. So they ate
their scanty supper without tea, fed the dogs on frozen porridge, and
huddling together for warmth during the long hours of bleak darkness
were thankful enough to welcome the gray dawn that brought them to an
end.

For three days more they toiled over the terrible plateau, driven to
long detours by insurmountable obstacles, buffeted and lashed by fierce
snow-squalls and ice-laden gales, but ever pushing onward with unabated
courage, expecting with each hour to find themselves descending into the
valley of the Chilcat River. Two of the dogs driven by Serge broke down
so completely that they were mercifully shot. The third dog was added to
Jalap Coombs's team, and the load was divided between the remaining
sledges, while the now useless one was used as firewood. After that Phil
plodded on in advance, and Serge drove the leading team.

The fourth day of this terrible work was one of leaden clouds and bitter
winds. The members of the little party were growing desperate with cold,
exhaustion, and hunger. Their wanderings had not brought them to a
timber-line, and as poor Phil faced the blast with bowed head and
chattering teeth it seemed to him that to be once more thoroughly warm
would be the perfection of human happiness.

It was already growing dusk, and he was anxiously casting about for the
sorry shelter of some bowlder behind which they might shiver away the
hours of darkness, when he came to the verge of a steep declivity. His
heart leaped as he glanced down its precipitous face; for, far below, he
saw a dark mass that he knew must be timber. They could not descend at
that point; but he thought he saw one that appeared more favorable a
little further on, and hastened in that direction. He was already some
distance ahead of the slow-moving sledges, and meant to wait for them as
soon as he discovered a place from which the descent could be made.

Suddenly a whirling, blinding cloud of snow swept down on him with such
fury that to face it and breathe was impossible. Thinking it but a
squall, he turned his back and stood motionless, waiting for it to pass
over. Instead of so doing, it momentarily increased in violence and
density. A sudden darkness came with the storm, and as he anxiously
started back to meet the sledges he could not see one rod before him. He
began to shout, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of hearing an
answering cry. Directly afterwards Serge loomed through the driving
cloud, urging on his reluctant dogs with voice and whip. The moment they
were allowed to stop, Husky, Luvtuk, and big Amook lay down as though
completely exhausted.

"We can't go a step further, Phil! We must make camp at once," panted
Serge. "This storm is a regular _poorga_, and will probably last all
night."

"But where can we camp?" asked Phil, in dismay. "There is timber down
below, but it looks miles away, and we can't get to it now."

"No," replied Serge; "we must stay where we are and burrow a hole in
this drift big enough to hold us. We've got to do it in a hurry too."

So saying, Serge drew his knife, for the outside of the drift close to
which they were halted was so hard packed as to render cutting
necessary, and outlined a low opening. From this he removed an unbroken
slab, and then began to dig furiously in the soft snow beyond.

In the meantime Phil was wondering why Jalap Coombs did not appear; for
he had supposed him to be close behind Serge; but now his repeated
shoutings gained no reply.

"He was not more than one hundred feet behind me when the storm began,"
said Serge, whose anxiety caused him to pause in his labor, though it
was for the preservation of their lives.

"He must be in some trouble," said Phil, "and I am going back to find
him."

"You can't go alone!" cried Serge. "If you are to get lost, I must go
with you."

"No. One of us must stay here with Nel-te, and it is my duty to go; but
do you shout every few seconds, and I promise not to go beyond sound of
your voice."

Thus saying, Phil started back, and was instantly swallowed in the
vortex of the blizzard. Faithfully did Serge shout, and faithfully did
Phil answer, for nearly fifteen minutes. Then the latter came staggering
back, with horror-stricken face and voice.

"I can't find him, Serge! Oh, I can't find him!" he cried. "I am afraid
he has gone over the precipice. If he has, it is my fault, and I shall
never forgive myself, for I had no business to go so far ahead and let
the party get scattered."

Serge answered not a word, but fell with desperate energy to the
excavating of his snow-house. His heart was nigh breaking with the
sorrow that had overtaken them, but he was determined that no other
lives should be lost if his efforts could save them. The excavation was
soon so large that Phil could work with him, but with all their furious
digging they secured a shelter from the pitiless _poorga_ none too soon.
The sledge was already buried from sight, and poor little Nel-te was
wellnigh smothered ere they lifted him from it and pulled him into the
burrow.


CHAPTER XXXIV.

COASTING FIVE MILES IN FIVE MINUTES.

In spite of their faintness and weakness from hunger and exhaustion,
Phil and Serge were so stimulated by the emergency that within half an
hour they had dug a cavity in the great drift sufficiently large to hold
the three dogs as well as themselves. The excavation was driven straight
for a few feet, and then turned to one side, where it was so enlarged
that they could either lie down or sit up. Into this diminutive chamber
they dragged their robes and sleeping-bags. The shivering dogs crept in
and curled up at their feet. The sledge was left outside, and the
opening was closed as well as might be by the slab of compacted snow
that had been cut from it. Poor little Nel-te, who was numbed and
whimpering with cold and hunger, was rubbed into a glow, comforted and
petted, until at length he fell asleep, nestled between the lads, and
then they found time to talk over their situation. For a while they had
no thought save for the dear friend and trusty comrade, who, alive or
dead, was still out in that terrible storm, and, as they believed, lost
to them forever.

"I don't suppose there is the faintest hope of ever seeing him again,"
said Phil. "If he went over the precipice he must have been killed, and
is buried deep in the snow by this time. Even if he did not, and is
still wandering somewhere in this vicinity, he must perish before
morning. Oh, Serge, can't we do anything for him? It makes me feel like
a cowardly traitor to be sitting here in comfort while the dear old chap
may be close at hand, and perishing for want of our help. And it is my
fault, too! The fault of my inexcusable carelessness. It seems, old man,
as if I should go crazy with thinking of it."

"But you mustn't think of it in that way, Phil," answered Serge,
soothingly. "As leader of the party it was your duty to go ahead and
pick out the road, while it was ours to keep you in sight. If either of
us is to blame for what has happened, I am the one. I should have looked
back oftener and made sure that he was still close behind me. Now there
is nothing we can do except wait for daylight and the end of the storm.
We have our parents, this child, and ourselves to think of first. Nor
could we accomplish anything even if we tried. The storm has doubled in
fury since we halted. A foot of snow must already have fallen, and to
venture a single rod outside of this place would serve to lose us as
certainly as though we went a mile. We mustn't give up all hope, though.
Mr. Coombs is very strong, and well used to exposure. Of course, if he
has gone over the precipice there is little chance that we shall ever
see him again; but if he escaped it, and has made a burrow for himself
like this one, he will pull through all right, and I feel sure we shall
find him in the morning."

"Why haven't we dug places like this before?" asked Phil. "It is
actually getting warm and comfortable in here. We might have had just
such a warm cave every night that we have been in the mountains and
spent so miserably."

"Of course we might," agreed Serge, "and we would have had, but for my
stupidity in not thinking of it sooner. While I never took refuge in one
before, I have often heard of them, and ought to have remembered. I
didn't, though, until this storm struck us, and I knew that without
shelter we must certainly perish."

"If you hadn't thought of a snow-burrow," said Phil, "it is certain I
never should. It is snug, though, and if only poor Jalap were with us,
and we had food and a light of some kind, I wouldn't ask for a better
shelter. I can understand now how an Eskimo stone lamp, with seal oil
for fuel, and a wick of moss, can give out all the heat that is needed
in one of their snow huts, and I only wish we had brought one with us."

After this the boys grew drowsy, their conversation slackened, and soon
all their troubles were forgotten in sleep. Outside through the long
hours the gale roared and shrieked with impotent rage at their escape
from its clutches. It hurled its snow legions against their place of
refuge until it was deep buried, and then in a frenzy tore away and
scattered the drifted accumulation, until it could once more beat
directly upon their slender wall of defence. But its wiles and its
furious attacks were alike in vain, and at length its fierce ravings
sank into whispers. The _poorga_ spent its force with the darkness, and
at daylight had swept on to inland fields, leaving only an added burden
of millions of tons of snow to mark its passage across the mountains.

When the boys awoke a soft white light was filtering through one side of
their spotless chamber, and they knew that day had come. They expected
to dig their way to the outer air through a great mass of snow, and were
agreeably surprised to find only a small drift against the doorway. As
they emerged from it they were for a few minutes blinded by the
marvellous brilliancy of their sunlit surroundings. Gradually becoming
accustomed to the intense light, they gazed eagerly about for some sign
of their missing comrade, but there was none. They followed back for a
mile over the way they had come the evening before, shouting and firing
their guns, but without avail.

No answering shout came back to their straining ears, and there was
nothing to indicate the tale of the lost man. Sadly and soberly the lads
retraced their steps, and prepared to resume their journey. To remain
longer in that place meant starvation and death. To save themselves they
must push on.

They shuddered at the precipice they had escaped, and over which they
feared their comrade had plunged. At its foot lay a valley, which,
though it trended westward, and so away from their course, Phil
determined to follow; for, far below their lofty perch, and still miles
away from where they stood, it held the dark mass he had seen the night
before, and knew to be timber. Besides, his sole desire at that moment
was to escape from those awful heights and reach the coast at some
point; he hardly cared whether it were inhabited or not.

So the sledge was dug from its bed of snow and reloaded: the dogs were
harnessed. Poor little Nel-te, crying with hunger, was slipped into his
fur travelling-bag, and a start was made to search for some point of
descent. At length they found a place where the slope reached to the
very top of the cliff, but so sharply that it was like the roof of a
house several miles in length.

"I hate the looks of it," said Phil, "but as there doesn't seem to be
any other way, I suppose we've got to try it. I should say that for at
least three miles it was as steep as the steepest part of a toboggan
slide, though, and I'm pretty certain we sha'n't care to try it more
than once."

"I guess we can do it all right," replied Serge, "but there's only one
way, and that is to sit on a snow-shoe and slide. We couldn't keep on
our feet a single second."

They lifted Nel-te, fur bag and all, from the sledge, tightened the
lashings of its load, which included the guns and extra snow-shoes, and
started it over the verge. It flashed down the declivity like a rocket,
and the last they saw of it it was rolling over and over.

"Looks cheerful, doesn't it?" said Phil, firmly. "Now I'll go; then do
you start the dogs down, and come yourself as quick as you please."

[Illustration: FOR A MOMENT THE SENSATION WAS SICKENING.]

Thus saying, the plucky lad seated himself on a snow-shoe, took Nel-te,
still in the fur bag, in his lap, and launched himself over the edge of
the cliff. For a moment the sensation, which was that of falling from a
great height, was sickening, and a thick mist seemed to obscure his
vision.

Then it cleared away, and was followed by a feeling of the wildest
exhilaration as he heard the whistling backward rush of air, and
realized the tremendous speed at which he was whizzing through space.
Ere it seemed possible that he could have gone half-way to the
timber-line trees began to fly past him, and he knew that the worst was
over. In another minute he was floundering in a drift of soft snow, into
which he had plunged up to his neck, and the perilous feat was
successfully accomplished.

Poor Serge arrived at the same point shortly afterwards, head first, and
dove out of sight in the drift; but fortunately Phil was in a position
to extricate him before he smothered. The dogs appeared a moment later,
with somewhat less velocity, but badly demoralized, and evidently
feeling that they had been sadly ill-treated by their driver. So the
sledge party had safely descended in five minutes a distance equal to
that which they had spent half a day and infinite toil in ascending on
the other side of the mountains.

When Nel-te was released from the fur bag and set on his feet he was as
calm and self-possessed as though nothing out of the usual had happened,
and immediately demanded something to eat.

After a long search they discovered the sledge, with only one rail
broken and its load intact.

"Now for a fire and breakfast!" cried Phil, heading towards the timber,
as soon as the original order of things was restored. "After that we
will make one more effort to find some trace of poor Jalap, though I
don't believe there is the slightest chance of success."

They entered the forest of wide-spreading but stunted evergreens, and
Phil, axe in hand, was vigorously attacking a dead spruce, when an
exclamation from his companion caused him to pause in his labor and look
around. "What can that be?" asked Serge, pointing to a thick hemlock
that stood but a few yards from them. The lower end of its drooping
branches were deep buried in snow, but such part as was still visible
was in a strange state of agitation.

"It must be a bear," replied Phil, dropping his axe and springing to the
sledge for his rifle. "His winter den is there, and we have disturbed
him. Get out your gun--quick! We can't afford to lose him. Meat's too
scarce in camp just now." Even as he spoke, and before the guns could be
taken from their moose-skin cases, the motion of the branches increased,
then came a violent upheaval of the snow that weighted them down, and
the boys caught a glimpse of some huge shaggy animal issuing from the
powdered whiteness.

"Hurry!" cried Phil. "No, look out! We're too late! What? Great Scott!
It can't be. Yes, it is! Hurrah! Glory, hallelujah! I knew he'd pull
through all right, and I believe I'm the very happiest fellow in all the
world at this minute."

"Mebbe you be, son," remarked Jalap Coombs, "and then again mebbe
there's others as is equally joyful. As my old friend Kite Roberson
useter say, 'A receiver's as good as a thief,' and I sartainly received
a heap of pleasure through hearing you holler jest now."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




STORIES OF AMERICAN LITERATURE.

BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.


[Illustration: HE DISTINGUISHED THE CALL OF ANIMALS.]

Late in the eighteenth century the village of Cooperstown lay almost in
the midst of the primeval forest, which extended for miles around. Here
the future novelist James Fenimore Cooper had been brought while yet an
infant by his father, who had built the family mansion, Otsego Hall, in
this secluded spot, far from the highways of travel, designing to make
it the centre of a settlement of some note, if possible. Here, as the
boy grew older, he learned wood-lore as the young Indians learned it,
face to face with the divinity of the forest. He knew the language of
the wild animals, and could distinguish their calls far across the
gloomy spaces of the wood; he could follow the deer and bear to their
retreats in dim secluded recesses; he could trace the path of the
retreating wolf by the broken cobwebs glistening in the early sunlight;
and the cry of the panther to its mate high overhead in the interlacing
boughs of the pines and hemlocks was of a speech as familiar as his own
tongue. When he was thirsty he made a hunter's cup of glossy leaves and
drank in true Indian fashion; when fatigued, he could lie down and rest
with that feeling of security that only comes to the forest-bred; when
thoughtful, he could learn from the lap of the waves against the shore,
the murmur of leaves, and the rustle of wings those lessons which Nature
teaches in her quiet moods.

These experiences and impressions sank into Cooper's heart, and were
relived again long after in the pages of his romances with such
vividness that they are plainly seen to be real memories.

Leaving his home while still a young boy, Cooper went to Albany to study
under a private tutor, and in 1803 entered Yale College, which, owing to
some trouble with the authorities, he left in the third year of his
course. It was now decided that he should enter the navy, and he left
New York in the autumn of 1806, being then in his fifteenth year, on a
vessel of the merchant marine. There was then no Naval Academy in
America, and a boy could only fit himself for entering the navy before
the mast; his ship, the _Sterling_, visiting Portugal and Spain,
carrying cargoes from port to port, and taking life in a leisurely
manner that belonged to the merchant sailing-vessels of that day. It was
a time of interest to all seamen, and Cooper's mind was keenly alive to
the new life around him. The English were expecting a French invasion,
and the channel was full of ships of war, while every port on the
southern coast was arming for defence. The Mediterranean was yet subject
to incursions of the Barbary pirates, who would descend under cover of
night upon any unprotected merchant-vessel, steal the cargo, scuttle the
ship, and carry away the crew to be sold as slaves to the Tripolitan and
Algerian husbandmen, whose orchards of dates were cultivated by many a
white person from across the Atlantic, held there in cruel slavery.

The waters of the Mediterranean were full of merchant-men of all
nations. Here, side by side, could be seen the Italian, French, and
English sailor, while the flags of Russia, Turkey, Egypt, and Greece
dotted the farther horizon.

[Illustration: HIS PLACE WAS ON THE DECK AMONG THE SAILORS.]

Cooper passed through all these stirring scenes, known to those around
him only as a boy before the mast, but in reality the clever student and
observer of men and events. His work was hard and dangerous; he was
never admitted to the cabin, though an equal, socially, to the officers
of the ship; in storm or wind or other danger his place was on the deck
among the rough sailors, who were his only companions during the voyage.
But this training developed the good material that was in him, and when,
in 1808, he received his commission as midshipman, he entered the
service better equipped for his duties perhaps than many a graduate of
Annapolis to-day.

Cooper remained in the navy three years and a half, seeing no active
service. He finally resigned his commission, and passed several
succeeding years of his life partly in Westchester County, New York, and
partly in Cooperstown, and having no ambition beyond living the quiet
life of a country gentleman.

It was not until 1820, when he was in his thirty-first year, that he
produced his first book or novel of English life, which showed no
talent, and which even his most ardent admirers in after-years could not
read through. It was not until the next year, 1821, that a novel
appeared from the hand of Cooper which foreshadowed the greatness of his
fame, and struck a new note in American literature. American society was
at that time alive with the stirring memories of the Revolution. Men and
women were still active who could recall the victories of Bunker Hill
and Trenton, and who had shared in the disasters of Monmouth and Long
Island. It is natural that in choosing a subject for fiction he should
turn to the recent struggle for his inspiration, and American literature
owes a large debt to him who thus threw into literary form the spirit of
those thrilling times.

His first important novel, _The Spy_, was founded upon a story which
Cooper had heard many years before, and which had made a profound
impression upon him. It was the story of a veritable spy, who had been
in the service of one of the Revolutionary leaders, and whose daring and
heroic adventures were related to Cooper by the man who had employed
him.

Cooper took this old spy for his hero, kept the scene in Westchester,
where the man had really performed his wonderful feats, and from these
facts wove the most thrilling and vital piece of fiction that had
appeared in America.

The novel appeared in December, 1821, and in a few months it was
apparent that a new star had risen in the literary skies. The book made
Cooper famous both in America and Europe. It was published in England by
the same publisher who had brought out Irving's _Sketch-Book_, and it
met with a success that spoke highly for its merit, since the story was
one telling of English defeat and American triumph. It was put into
French by the translator of the Waverley novels, and before long
versions appeared in every tongue in Europe. It was regarded not merely
as a tale of adventure in a new department of story-telling, but it was
generally conceded to be a fine piece of fiction in itself, and its
hero, Harvey Birch, won, and has kept for himself, a place hardly second
to any creation of literature.

Cooper had now found his sphere, and his best work henceforth was that
in which he delineated the features of American history during the
struggle for independence. His greatest contributions to literature are
found in the short series of novels called "The Leatherstocking Tales,"
and in his novels of the sea. "The Leatherstocking Tales" consist of
five stories, in which the same hero figures from first to last. The
series began with the publication of Cooper's second novel, _The
Pioneers_, but the story of the hero really begins in the fascinating
pages of _The Deerslayer_, where he is represented in the first stage of
his career.

The series grew much as Tennyson's _Idylls of the King_ grew, the same
man being introduced in different parts of his career, though each
separate book did not follow in exact order from the author's hand. The
success of _The Pioneers_ was remarkable. Thirty-five hundred copies
were sold before noon on the day of publication, and although, perhaps,
the least powerful of the "Tales," it was read with the same interest
that had been given to _The Spy_.

In the new novel Leatherstocking was first introduced as the philosopher
of nature, ignorant of books, but wise in the lore that is taught by the
voices of Nature. It is a story of the primitive life of the
frontiersmen of that day, and their occupations, interests, and
ambitions form the background to the picture of the hero,
Leatherstocking, who embodies the author's idea of chivalrous manhood,
and whose creation is one of the noblest achievements of fiction.

The scene of _The Pioneers_ was laid in the vicinity of Cooper's boyhood
home, and all the exquisite pictures wrought into the setting are vivid
and lifelike illustrations of the little frontier village, where man
received his sustenance first hand from Nature, and where all his
surroundings partook almost of the simplicity of the first ages of the
world. It was an appropriate theatre for the actions of that rustic
philosopher Leatherstocking, and there is a vein of tender reminiscence
through the book that must always give it a charm apart from the rest,
though in itself it is the least perfect story of the series.

The story of Leatherstocking begins in _The Deerslayer_, though it was
not written until twenty years after the publication of _The Pioneers_.
The scene was laid on Otsego Lake, and the character of Leatherstocking
was drawn as that of a young scout just entering upon manhood. The next
year, 1841, came _The Pathfinder_, having for its background the shores
of Lake Ontario, with which Cooper had become familiar during the winter
there in the service of the navy.

In these two books Cooper reached the highest point of his art.
Leatherstocking appears in _The Deerslayer_ as a young man full of the
promise of a noble manhood. And this ideal character is developed
through a succession of stirring adventures, the like of which are to be
found only in the pages of Scott. Side by side with Leatherstocking
stand those pictures of Indian character, which became so famous that
the Indian of that day has passed into history as represented by Cooper.

_The Pathfinder_ carries Leatherstocking through some of the most
exciting episodes of his adventurous career, and belongs to the same
part of his life as _The Last of the Mohicans_, published sixteen years
before, the scene of which is laid near Lake Champlain. _The Last of the
Mohicans_ takes rank with _The Deerslayer_ and _The Pathfinder_ in
representing Cooper at his best. In these three novels we see
Leatherstocking as a man in the prime of life battling with the stirring
events that were making the history of the country. All the story of the
war of the white man with nature, with circumstances, and with his red
brother in civilizing the frontier, is told in these books. It is the
romance of real history, and Leatherstocking had his prototype in many a
brave frontiersman whose deeds were unrecorded, and whose name was never
known beyond his own little circle of friends.

In _The Pioneers_ Leatherstocking has become an old man who has sought a
home in the forest to avoid the noise and strife of civilized life, and
he closes his career in _The Prairie_, a novel of the plains of the
great West, whither the old man has gone to spend his last days. It is
the story of a lonely life of the prairie-hunter of those days, whose
love for solitude has led him far from even the borders of the frontier,
and whose dignified death is a fitting ending to his noble and
courageous life. It is supposed that this end to Leatherstocking's
career was suggested to Cooper by the ever-famous Daniel Boone, and some
of the incidents of the story read like real life. One of Cooper's most
famous descriptions--that of the prairie on fire--occurs in this book--a
scene excelled only by the description of the panther-fight in _The
Pioneers_, or the combat between Deerslayer and his foe.

Cooper began his series of sea novels by the publication of _The Pilot_
in 1824, and stands as the creator of this department of fiction. He was
the first novelist to bring into fiction the ordinary, every-day life of
the sailor afloat, whether employed on a merchant vessel or fighting
hand to hand in a naval encounter. Scott's novel, _The Pirate_, had been
criticised by Cooper as the evident work of a man who had never been at
sea, and to prove how much better an effect could be produced by one
familiar with ocean life he began his story, _The Pilot_.

[Illustration: COOPER READING TO AN OLD SHIPMATE.]

The period of the story is the American Revolution, and the hero was
that famous adventurer John Paul Jones, introduced under another name.
It was such a new thing to put into fiction the technicalities of ship
life, to describe the details of an evolution in a naval battle, and to
throw in as background the vast and varying panorama of sea and sky,
that Cooper, familiar as he was with ocean life, felt some doubt of his
success. In order to test his powers, he read one day to an old shipmate
that famous account of the passage of the ship through the narrow
channel in one of the thrilling chapters of the yet unfinished work. The
effect was all that Cooper could desire. The old sailor got into such a
fury of excitement that he could not keep his seat, but paced up and
down the room while Cooper was reading; in his excitement he was for a
moment living over again a stormy scene from his own life; and the
novelist laid down the manuscript, well pleased with the result of his
experiment. _The Pilot_ met with an instant success both in America and
Europe. As it was his first, so it is perhaps his best sea story. In it
he put all the freshness of reminiscence, all the haunting memories of
ocean life that had followed him since his boyhood days. It was
biographical in the same sense as _The Pioneers_, a part of the romance
of childhood drafted into the reality of after-life.

_Red Rover_, the next sea story, came out in 1828. Other novelists had
begun to write tales of the sea, but they were mere imitations of _The
Pilot_. In the _Red Rover_ the genuine adventures of the sailor class
were again embodied in the thrilling narrative that Cooper alone knew
how to write, and from its first appearance it has always been one of
the most popular of the author's works. In these pages occurs that
dramatic description of the last sea fight of Red Rover, one of Cooper's
finest achievements.

Cooper's popularity abroad was equalled only by that of Scott. His works
as soon as published were translated into almost every tongue of Europe,
and were sold in Turkey, Prussia, Egypt, and Jerusalem in the language
of those countries. It was said by a traveller that the middle classes
of Europe had gathered all their knowledge of American history from
Cooper's works, and that they had never understood the character of
American independence until revealed by this novelist.




PRIZE-STORY COMPETITION.

FIRST-PRIZE STORY.

Betty's Ride: A Tale of the Revolution.--By Henry S. Canby.


The sun was just rising and showering his first rays on the gambrel-roof
and solid stone walls of a house surrounded by a magnificent grove of
walnuts, and overlooking one of the beautiful valleys so common in
southeastern Pennsylvania. Close by the house, and shaded by the same
great trees, stood a low building of the most severe type, whose
time-stained bricks and timbers green with moss told its age without the
aid of the half-obliterated inscription over the door, which read,
"Built A. D. 1720." One familiar with the country would have pronounced
it without hesitation a Quaker meeting-house, dating back almost to the
time of William Penn.

When Ezra Dale had become the leader of the little band of Quakers which
gathered here every First Day, he had built the house under the
walnut-trees, and had taken his wife Ann and his little daughter Betty
to live there. That was in 1770, seven years earlier, and before war had
wrought sorrow and desolation throughout the country.

The sun rose higher, and just as his beams touched the broad stone step
in front of the house the door opened, and Ann Dale, a sweet-faced woman
in the plain Quaker garb, came out, followed by Betty, a little
blue-eyed Quakeress of twelve years, with a gleam of spirit in her face
which ill became her plain dress.

"Betty," said her mother, as they walked out towards the great
horse-block by the road-side, "thee must keep house to-day. Friend
Robert has just sent thy father word that the redcoats have not crossed
the Brandywine since Third Day last, and thy father and I will ride to
Chester to-day, that there may be other than corn-cakes and baron for
the friends who come to us after monthly meeting. Mind thee keeps near
the house and finishes thy sampler."

"Yes, mother," said Betty; "but will thee not come home early? I shall
miss thee sadly."

Just then Ezra appeared, wearing his collarless Quaker coat, and leading
a horse saddled with a great pillion, into which Ann laboriously climbed
after her husband, and with a final warning and "farewell" to Betty,
clasped him tightly around the waist lest she should be jolted off as
they jogged down the rough and winding lane into the broad Chester
highway.

Friend Ann had many reasons for fearing to leave Betty alone for a whole
day, and she looked back anxiously at her waving "farewell" with her
little bonnet.

It was a troublous time.

The Revolution was at its height, and the British, who had a short time
before disembarked their army near Elkton, Maryland, were now encamped
near White Clay Creek, while Washington occupied the country bordering
on the Brandywine. His force, however, was small compared to the extent
of the country to be guarded, and bands of the British sometimes crossed
the Brandywine and foraged in the fertile counties of Delaware and
Chester. As Betty's father, although a Quaker and a non-combatant, was
known to be a patriot, he had to suffer the fortunes of war with his
neighbors.

Thus it was with many forebodings that Betty's mother watched the slight
figure under the spreading branches of a great chestnut, which seemed to
rustle its innumerable leaves as if to promise protection to the little
maid. However, the sun shone brightly, the swallows chirped as they
circled overhead, and nothing seemed farther off than battle and
bloodshed.

Betty skipped merrily into the house, and snatching up some broken
corn-cake left from the morning meal, ran lightly out to the paddock
where Daisy was kept, her own horse, which she had helped to raise from
a colt.

"Come thee here, Daisy," she said, as she seated herself on the top rail
of the mossy snake fence. "Come thee here, and thee shall have some of
thy mistress's corn-cake. Ah! I thought thee would like it. Now go and
eat all thee can of this good grass, for if the wicked redcoats come
again, thee will not have another chance, I can tell thee."

Daisy whinnied and trotted off, while Betty, feeding the few chickens
(sadly reduced in numbers by numerous raids), returned to the house,
and getting her sampler, sat down under a walnut-tree to sew on the
stint which her mother had given her.

All was quiet save the chattering of the squirrels overhead and the
drowsy hum of the bees, when from around the curve in the road she heard
a shot; then another nearer, and then a voice shouting commands, and the
thud of hoof-beats farther down the valley. She jumped up with a
startled cry: "The redcoats! The redcoats! Oh, what shall I do!"

Just then the foremost of a scattered band of soldiers, their buff and
blue uniforms and ill-assorted arms showing them to be Americans,
appeared in full flight around the curve in the road, and springing over
the fence, dashed across the pasture straight for the meeting-house.
Through the broad gateway they poured, and forcing open the door of the
meeting-house, rushed within and began to barricade the windows.

Their leader paused while his men passed in, and seeing Betty, came
quickly towards her.

"What do you here, child?" he said, hurriedly. "Go quickly, before the
British reach us, and tell your father that, Quaker or no Quaker, he
shall ride to Washington, on the Brandywine, and tell him that we, but
one hundred men, are besieged by three hundred British cavalry in
Chichester meeting-house, with but little powder left. Tell him to make
all haste to us."

Turning, he hastened into the meeting-house, now converted into a fort,
and as the doors closed behind him Betty saw a black muzzle protruding
from every window.

With trembling fingers the little maid picked up her sampler, and as the
thud of horses' hoofs grew louder and louder, she ran fearfully into the
house, locked and bolted the massive door, and then flying up the broad
stairs, she seated herself in a little window overlooking the
meeting-house yard. She had gone into the house none too soon. Up the
road, with their red coats gleaming and their harness jangling, was
sweeping a detachment of British cavalry, never stopping until they
reached the meeting-house--and then it was too late.

A sheet of flame shot out from the wall before them, and half a dozen
troopers fell lifeless to the ground, and half a dozen riderless horses
galloped wildly down the road. The leader shouted a sharp command, and
the whole troop retreated in confusion.

Betty drew back shuddering, and when she brought herself to look again
the troopers had dismounted, had surrounded the meeting-house, and were
pouring volley after volley at its doors and windows. Then for the first
time Betty thought of the officer's message, and remembered that the
safety of the Americans depended upon her alone, for her father was
away, no neighbor within reach, and without powder she knew they could
not resist long.

Could she save them? All her stern Quaker blood rose at the thought, and
stealing softly to the paddock behind the barn, she saddled Daisy and
led her through the bars into the wood road, which opened into the
highway just around the bend. Could she but pass the pickets without
discovery there would be little danger of pursuit; then there would be
only the long ride of eight miles ahead of her.

Just before the narrow wood road joined the broader highway Betty
mounted Daisy by means of a convenient stump, and starting off at a
gallop, had just turned the corner when a voice shouted "Halt!" and a
shot whistled past her head. Betty screamed with terror, and bending
over, brought down her riding-whip with all her strength upon Daisy,
then, turning for a moment, saw three troopers hurriedly mounting.

Her heart sank within her, but, beginning to feel the excitement of the
chase, she leaned over and patting Daisy on the neck, encouraged her to
do her best. Onward they sped. Betty, her curly hair streaming in the
wind, the color now mounting to, now retreating from her cheeks, led by
five hundred yards.

But Daisy had not been used for weeks, and already felt the unusual
strain. Now they thundered over Naaman's Creek, now over Concord, with
the nearest pursuer only four hundred yards behind; and now they raced
beside the clear waters of Beaver Brook, and as Betty dashed through its
shallow ford, the thud of horse's hoofs seemed just over her shoulder.

Betty, at first sure of success, now knew that unless in some way she
could throw her pursuers off her track she was surely lost. Just then
she saw ahead of her a fork in the road, the lower branch leading to the
Brandywine, the upper to the Birmingham Meeting-house. Could she but get
the troopers on the upper road while she took the lower, she would be
safe; and, as if in answer to her wish, there flashed across her mind
the remembrance of the old cross-road which, long disused, and with its
entrance hidden by drooping boughs, led from a point in the upper road
just out of sight of the fork down across the lower, and through the
valley of the Brandywine. Could she gain this road unseen she still
might reach Washington.

Urging Daisy forward, she broke just in time through the dense growth
which hid the entrance, and sat trembling, hidden behind a dense growth
of tangled vines, while she heard the troopers thunder by. Then, riding
through the rustling woods, she came at last into the open, and saw
spread out beneath her the beautiful valley of the Brandywine, dotted
with the white tents of the Continental army.

Starting off at a gallop, she dashed around a bend in the road into the
midst of a group of officers riding slowly up from the valley.

"Stop, little maiden, before you run us down," said one, who seemed to
be in command. "Where are you going in such hot haste?"

"Oh, sir," said Betty, reining in Daisy, "can thee tell me where I can
find General Washington?"

"Yes, little Quakeress," said the officer who had first spoken to her;
"I am he. What do you wish?"

Betty, too exhausted to be surprised, poured forth her story in a few
broken sentences, and (hearing as if in a dream the hasty commands for
the rescue of the soldiers in Chichester Meeting-house) fell forward in
her saddle, and, for the first time in her life, fainted, worn out by
her noble ride.

A few days later, when recovering from the shock of her long and
eventful ride, Betty, awaking from a deep sleep, found her mother
kneeling beside her little bed, while her father talked with General
Washington himself beside the fireplace; and it was the proudest and
happiest moment of her life when Washington, coming forward and taking
her by the hand, said, "You are the bravest little maid in America, and
an honor to your country."

Still the peaceful meeting-house and the gambrel-roofed home stand
unchanged, save that their time-beaten timbers and crumbling bricks have
taken on a more sombre tinge, and under the broad walnut-tree another
little Betty sits and sews.

If you ask it, she will take down the great key from its nail, and
swinging back the new doors of the meeting-house, will show you the
old worm-eaten ones inside, which, pierced through and through
with bullet-holes, once served as a rampart against the enemy.
And she will tell you, in the quaint Friend's language, how her
great-great-grandmother carried, over a hundred years ago, the news of
the danger of her countrymen to Washington, on the Brandywine, and at
the risk of her own life saved theirs.




KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS.


IV.--THE FINAL TRIAL.

"Ten Knights, as before, were put by the stone to guard it until the new
trial," continued the Story-teller. "The Archbishop was not going,
through lack of care, to have it said that anything had been done to the
stone meanwhile to make it harder for the contestants to pull forth the
sword, or easier for Arthur to perform that feat."

"I'll bet those Knights practised on it, though," said Jack. "I would
have."

"It wouldn't have done any good, I imagine," said his father. "There was
something mysterious about it all, and whatever that was it worked in
favor of Arthur and against all the others."

"I don't believe all ten of 'em together could have pulled it out,"
Mollie put in. "It was one of those trick swords, like men swallow at
circuses, I guess, and I'm certain that Mr. Merlin put it there, and
showed Arthur how the trick worked. It had a spring in it, which he
could touch with his thumb to make it come out, maybe."

"Maybe so," said her father, "although I doubt it. There were lots of
queer things happening in those days that we of to-day would hardly
believe if we saw them with our own eyes--things that sound in the
telling of them quite like fairy stories."

"Like Merlin being able to tell what was going to happen next week?"
suggested Jack.

"Exactly," said the Story-teller. "If anybody claimed to be able to do
that now, we'd laugh at him."

"He'd be a great man for a newspaper," said Jack. "If a newspaper had a
man like that on it, it could tell the people in advance that such and
such an accident was going to happen at such and such a time on such and
such a railroad, and then the people wouldn't go on that road at that
time, and their lives would be saved."

"That's so," said Mollie. "And if the accident was going to happen
because a switchman was asleep, somebody could be sent ahead to wake him
up, so that the accident wouldn't happen at all."

"There is no doubt about it," said the Story-teller. "A man like Merlin
would be very useful in these days, but his kind is very much like the
leviathans and mastodons that lived before the flood. The race has died
out, and true prophets are as scarce now as huckleberries in December.
But to come back to the story, whether there was a spring in the sword
or not, Merlin was undoubtedly responsible for it, and whatever he did,
he did it in Arthur's behalf, for when Candlemas day came about again
the same thing happened that had happened before. The sword would not
budge for any one but Arthur, and a great many people began to be
convinced that he was the rightful King. There were enough dissatisfied
persons, however, to make one more trial necessary, and the Archbishop,
yielding to these, set one more date, that of Easter, for the final
contest."

"He had to earn it, didn't he," said Mollie.

"You bet he did," said Jack. "It must have been like our medals at
school. You've got to win it six times in succession, once every month,
before it's yours for keeps."

"But you know about that rule before you begin," said Mollie. "It's fair
enough in school, but it seems to me Arthur won it at the start, and
ought to have had it."

"He certainly did win it at the start, under the terms of the contest,"
said her father. "Still it was just as well, under the circumstances,
that there should be no dissatisfaction among those who lost, and as it
wasn't at all hard for Arthur to pull the sword out, he couldn't
complain. The others had to work a great deal harder than he did, and,
in the end, got nothing for their pains."

"I guess the Archbishop kind of liked to see all those people pulling
and hauling at it," suggested Jack, with a grin. "It must have been
something like a circus for him, anyhow, with all those knights in their
fine spangles, and their horses with splendid harness, and all that."

[Illustration: THEY ALL KNELT BEFORE HIM, AND HE WAS CROWNED.]

"Very likely," said the Story-teller. "That view of it never occurred to
me before. It has always been a matter of wonder to me that the
Archbishop made poor Arthur go through the ordeal so many times, but now
I begin to understand it. He wanted to be entertained as much as anybody
else, and very possibly he ordered so many repetitions of the
performances to that end, knowing, of course, that by so doing he could
not injure Arthur's chances. Arthur had to be very careful of himself,
however, between times. The other Knights were too anxious for the prize
to stop at playing tricks on him, and Sir Ector saw to it that wherever
he went he had a strong guard about him to keep him from harm. These
guards, made up of the most faithful men in his father's service, kept
watch over him night and day until Easter, when the final trial came off
with no change in the result. Arthur pulled the sword lightly out of the
stone, but despite their struggles the others could do nothing with it.
Then the people themselves were satisfied. The Knights may not have
liked it any better than before, but the people did, and they cheered
him to the echo, and said that the question was now settled for once and
for all, and offered to slay any man who now dared to say that Arthur
was not entitled to the throne. They all knelt before him, and he was
knighted by one of the bravest men of the day, and shortly after he was
crowned. It was a long trial for him, but he was patient and worthy, and
withstood every test, and in the end he got his reward."

"Well, I'm glad of it," said Jack. "The way they made him work for it
seems to me to have entitled him to it."

"Papa," said Mollie, after a little thought on the matter, "was this
King Arthur any relation to the man Jack-the-Giant-Killer was always
sending giant's heads to."

"He was the very same man," replied her father. "Why?"

"I was only thinking," said Mollie, "that if it was the same man, Jack
couldn't have tried to pull that sword out, because I'm pretty certain
he could have done it."

"Perhaps," said her father, "but that could only have left the question
as to the rightful King unsettled."

"I don't think so," cried Jack. "Because then they'd have had to have a
match between Arthur and Jack. That would have settled it."

"And who do you think would have won in that event?" asked the
Story-teller.

"Well," said Mollie, dubiously, "of course, I don't know, but I'd have
stood for Jack."

"I'm with you, then," said the modern Jack. "A boy who could handle
giants the way he did wouldn't have had much trouble with a fellow like
Arthur."




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


The rivalry between Worcester and Phillips Andover academies, which has
existed ever since the two big schools first met on track and field in
the New England Interscholastics, was made even greater by the dual
games held at Worcester on the 8th. Andover had felt confident of
winning, but a combination of hard luck and a poor and unfamiliar track
tended to cause her defeat. As at Hartford, for the Connecticut
H.-S.A.A. games on the same day, there was a bad wind blowing up the
track which interfered with good time for the sprints, the 100 being
done to the exceedingly slow time of 11-1/5 secs. The score of 62 to 50,
however, does not by any means show how close the contest was, for first
one side was ahead and then the other; so that it was not until the last
event of the day had been decided that the Worcester contingent felt
certain of their victory. To-day the Andover men are doubtless somewhat
consoled by the way their athletes turned the tables on their Worcester
rivals at the Interscholastics on the 15th, and the regrets for defeat
must be considerably lessened by the conviction that should the
Worcester contest be held again, the result would certainly be
different. Andover made 25 points at Cambridge, while Worcester Academy
scored but 9-2/5.

[Illustration: Holt, P.A. Hine, P.A. Chase, W.A.

120-YARD HURDLE RACE, ANDOVER-WORCESTER GAMES]

Where Andover suffered most at Worcester was in the bicycle race and in
the 100-yard dash. Manning was fully ten yards ahead of the field in the
former event, and it looked as if the dark blue were here sure of six
points at least, for Palmer was coming along rapidly behind him, when
the leader lost control of his wheel and fell. Palmer rushed up and
tumbled almost at the same spot, leaving Forsyth the only Andover man in
the race. The latter forged ahead, and by a powerful spurt passed
Campbell of Worcester, who was leading. He thought he had won as he shot
past the winning post, but he had gone only seven laps, and as he slowed
up the three Worcester riders went by him to take all the points at the
finish. In the 100 the judges made a bad decision. Every one on the
field--excepting those whose province it was to do so--saw Senn of
Andover win the race by about a foot. Sargent was announced the victor,
however, and for some odd reason Andover made no protest. Perhaps they
were too confident of victory. But even if Senn had been awarded the
first place (all the other events resulting as they did), the score
would still have been in Worcester's favor--59 to 53, so the mistake of
the judges was of little consequence, except to Senn as an individual.

[Illustration: Barker, W.A. Gaskell, P.A. Munn, P.A.

THE 220-YARD RUN, WORCESTER-ANDOVER GAMES.]

Holt of Andover did the best work for the visiting team. He captured the
high hurdles in 18-3/5 secs., put the 16-lb. shot 33 ft. 6 in., and
threw the 12-lb. hammer 104 ft. 6 in. In the weight events he did not
equal his own best records. Laing ran a good race in the half-mile and
the mile, leading all the way in both events, and in the latter he was
followed home by two of his schoolmates. It is noteworthy that in almost
all sports where Andover men enter they are particularly strong in the
long-distance runs. The field events were the most exciting for the
spectators, because the score was such that all depended on the result
of these. Here the Andover men excelled, but on the track, as will
readily be seen from the table of results printed in this Department
last week, the Worcester athletes were superior. On the whole, the
meeting between the two teams was most successful, and Worcester Academy
deserves great praise for her victory. She won it by hard work, and
deserved every point scored. At the present moment the Worcester schools
may justly claim first place in the ranks of track athletic sports; for
after the High-School's performance on Holmes Field, on the 15th, it is
plain that few scholastic associations could hope to worst them.

On the following Wednesday Andover did better. The nine met the
Lawrenceville baseball team on their own grounds and it was theirs.
Everybody was surprised; even Andover. Not so much at the victory,
perhaps, for P.A. men are always sanguine, but no one anticipated a
whitewash. Andover put up the best game of the year, and I have not seen
Lawrenceville play worse. Men who had scarcely made any errors during
the entire season muffed and fumbled like a lot of novices; and in
betweentimes the Andover men pounded the ball, and the crowd helped
things along generally by plenty of shouting. Perhaps the crowd and the
unfamiliar field had something to do with Lawrenceville's defeat, but it
is hard to understand why the Jersey players, who have been batting well
all the spring, could not find the ball when they had men on second and
third. Possibly Sedgwick can explain this. Sedgwick was a host in
himself, and he received such support as has not been given by the
Andover players to any pitcher this season. He struck out nine of his
opponents and gave only two bases on balls, whereas he was hit safely
only six times. Drew, who caught him, played an errorless game; in fact,
every man on the team did, with the exception of Harker, who made in the
first inning the only misplay for the side.

The hard hitting of the home team would have won the game even if
Lawrenceville had shown better field-work. P.A. made twelve hits,
including a two-bagger, two three-base hits, and a home run. Greenway
led with two singles and a three-bagger, while Barton made a two-bagger
and a home run. As for the error-making, Lawrenceville took the lead in
that in the fourth inning. Sedgwick got his base on balls, and was
thrown out at second; Greenway took first on an error and second on an
error; Elliott got to first on balls; Dayton followed him on an error,
which let Greenway home; Waddell went to first after being struck by a
ball, and after Davis had struck out both Dayton and Elliott scored on
an error. Fortunately for Lawrenceville, the inning was closed by
Waddell's being thrown out at third.

This is the third consecutive defeat that Lawrenceville has suffered at
the hands of Andover in baseball, and never before has the victory of
the Massachusetts team been so decided. The only way to account for the
Jerseymen's weakness is that they were affected by the long journey, and
were probably "rattled" by the Andover crowd. This Lawrenceville nine
can do better. A team that can play the University of Pennsylvania 6-8
and Princeton 2-5 ought not to succumb to Andover by 11-0. The following
day Lawrenceville met Exeter, but only seven innings were played, as the
visitors had to catch a train for home. When play was stopped the score
stood 3-3, and there was considerable dissatisfaction on Exeter's part
because the last two innings could not be finished. Lawrenceville showed
better form than was exhibited at Andover, making only two errors; but
Exeter was playing good ball too, and it is an open question now as to
which is the better team. Next year more careful arrangements should be
made, for the memory of this season's game will always be
unsatisfactory.

NEW ENGLAND I.S.A.A. GAMES, HOLMES FIELD, CAMBRIDGE, JUNE 15, 1895.

                            N.E.I.S.A.A.
Event.                         Record              Made by

100-yard dash                  10-1/5 sec.  F. H. Bigelow, W.H.-S., 1894
220-yard run                   22-2/5  "    F. H. Bigelow, W.H.-S., 1894
440-yard run                   50-3/5  "    T. E. Burke, E.H.-S., 1894
Half-mile run            2  m.  6      "    S. Wesson, W.A., 1894
Mile run                 4  "  34-2/5  "    W. T. Laing, P.A., 1894
Mile walk                7  "  36      "    P. J. McLaughlin, W.H.-S., '93
120-yard hurdle                17-2/5  "    W. W. Hoyt, R.L.S., 1893
220-yard hurdle                27      "    A. H. Hine, P.A., 1894
Mile bicycle             2  "  41-3/5  "    A. A. Densmore, Hopkinson, '93
Running high jump        5 ft.  7-3/4 in.   C. J. Paine, Hopkinson, 1893
Running broad jump      21  "   6      "    C. Brewer, Hopkinson, 1890
Pole vault              10  "   6-3/4  "    W. W. Hoyt, R.L.S., 1894
Throwing 12-lb. ham'r  125  "               R. F. Johnson, B.H.-S., 1894
Putting 16-lb. shot     39  "   3      "    M. O'Brien, E.H.-S., 1894


Event.                  Winner June 15, 1895.        Performance.

100-yard dash           J. T. Roche, W.H.-S.             10-3/5 sec.
220-yard run            J. T. Roche, W.H.-S.             23-2/5  "
440-yard run            R. S. Hull, W.H.-S.              53-3/5  "
Half-mile run           A. Albertson, W.H.-S.       2  m. 5      "
Mile run                D. T. Sullivan, W.H.-S.     4  " 42-4/5  "
Mile walk               C. V. Moore, N.H.-S.        7  " 18-3/5  "
120-yard hurdle         A. H. Hine, P.A.                 18-1/5  "
220-yard hurdle         A. H. Hine, P.A.                 27-4/5  "
Mile bicycle            H. Freyberg, W.H.-S.        2  " 40-3/5  "
                        F. Holt, R.L.S.      }      5  "  7-1/2  "
Running high jump       R. Ferguson, E.H.-S. }
Running broad jump      E. L. Mills, S.H.-S.       20  "  3      "
Pole vault              B. Johnson, W.A.           10  "  7      "
Throwing 12-lb. ham'r   M. Sargent, Hopkinson     119  "  4      "
Putting 16-lb. shot     E. Holt, P.A.              36  " 11-1/2  "


Points made by Schools.

Worcester H.-S.        33
Andover                25
English H.-S.          12-1/2
Worcester Academy       9-2/5
Hopkinson               6
Newton H.-S.            5-1/5
Somerville H.-S.        5
Noble's                 4-1/5
Roxbury Latin           3-1/2
Cambridge H. and L.     3
Lynn H.-S.              2-1/5
Chelsea H.-S.           2
Chauncey Hall           1
                      ---
Total                 112

     Firsts count 5. Seconds 2. Thirds 1.

The championship pennant of the New England I.S.A.A. remains at
Worcester. It was carried down there by the High-School athletes last
March, and they made their title to it secure on Holmes Field a week ago
Saturday by rolling up a score twenty points greater than any Boston
school--greater, in fact, than the scores of all the Boston schools put
together. Andover had the satisfaction of finishing second, with her old
rival, the Worcester Academy, who defeated her the week before, in
fourth place. The games were well managed, and, considering the fact
that there were 335 entries, the events were run off with commendable
promptness. Four records were broken, and a good many others that are up
pretty high already were closely approached, as the accompanying table
will show. The marks that went were the half-mile, the walk, the
bicycle, and the pole vault. Albertson, W.H.-S., has held the record for
the 1000-yard run for two years, and his practice at that distance has
made him a capable runner for the half. He kept well back in the bunch
when the race started, and waited until the very last corner was behind
him before he attempted to pull away from his companions. Then he
spurted, and passed the three men ahead of him, winning easily a full
second under record time.

The biggest alteration of figures, however, was made after Moore of
Newton H.-S. had won the mile walk. He was looked upon as a winner at
the start, but no one anticipated such an excellent performance as 7
min. 18-3/5 sec. He is as graceful in his work as any man can be in this
acrobatic event, and will surely be heard from in years to come if the
walk is not abolished from the amateur and collegiate programmes. The
probabilities are, however, that in a very few years the walk, like the
tug-of-war, will be a back number; but Moore is a good athlete, and he
will surely be able to be just as prominent in some other branch of
sport. The spectators were almost as deeply interested in Rudischhauser
and Williams's contest for last place, as they were in Moore's struggle
for first.

A pleasing feature of the bicycle races was the absence of accidents.
There was not a single spill, and every man rode for all he was worth.
New men took the points; and that is a good thing. Both Freyberg and
Druett broke the tape ahead of record time in the second heat, but in
the finals they ran four seconds behind. The final heat, although not
the fastest, was the most interesting. Six men started, and for the
first quarter Freyberg held the lead. Then he was passed by Boardman and
Cunningham, who set the pace for a lap, after which the W.H.-S. rider
pushed ahead, and left every one behind. The finish spurt was good, but
it was evident that every rider was tired from the effects of the trial
heats. It would be well next year to follow the plan adopted by the
Inter-collegiate Association of having the preliminary heats on the
previous day.

[Illustration: A. H. HINE.]

[Illustration: E. G. HOLT.]

None of the field events were particularly interesting, except the pole
vault, in which Johnson of Worcester Academy broke Hoyt's record by a
quarter of an inch. The high jumpers only reached 5 ft. 7-1/2 in., where
Holt, R.L.S., and Ferguson, E.H.-S., tied for first place. Mills of
Somerville High came in as an unknown quantity, and took the broad jump
with a leap of 20 ft. 3 in. Andover's strong men were Holt and Hine. At
the dual games at Worcester, Holt did giant's work, but at the
Interscholastics he only took one first, in the shot, defeating O'Brien,
whom many had looked upon as a sure winner, and a place with the hammer.
Hine's hurdling was most graceful, and both races were exciting. In the
high finals the racers kept well abreast for thirty yards; then Hine
forged slowly ahead, but was overtaken by Ferguson, whom he beat home by
a few feet only. The low hurdles were even more thrilling. Fuller led at
the start, but was caught by Hine at the fourth hurdle. Then it was jump
and jump for twenty-five or thirty yards; but Hine had better form, and
came in several feet ahead. The day was most satisfactory from the point
of view of sport, and every performance of the New-Englanders made me
wish they might meet the New York school athletes on an open track and a
level field. What a contest that would be! No effort should be spared to
bring it about, and the only way to do it is to form one large
all-embracing Interscholastic Association.

One correspondent urges Hartford as the most suitable place for the
meeting. He believes it would be preferable to New Haven for many
reasons, one of which is that the Yale field track is only a quarter of
a mile around, whereas the track at the Charter Oak Park is a mile in
circumference and sixty feet wide. It is a question whether, for the
purposes of an Interscholastic meet of this kind, a mile track would be
as good as a lesser one. The time made might be faster if the road-bed
were in good condition, but the spectators would not enjoy the races so
much as if the runners passed the grand stand a number of times; and the
men themselves would find greater difficulty in gauging their speed,
most of them being accustomed to four or five lap tracks. A better
argument in favor of Hartford is that three railroads centre there.

Of the school athletes who took part in the New York A.C. games at
Travers Island, several secured places. Baltazzi won first in the high
jump, clearing 5 ft. 10-1/4 in. Fisher went into the 100 and the 220,
but was distanced, and Powell got a tumble in the bicycle race. Whether
it was his own fault, I cannot say; but there are very few races he has
ridden in this year where he has been able to keep in his saddle all the
way around the course. He retained his seat in the Interscholastics and
won. W. T. Laing came down from Andover, and entered the mile with
Conneff and Orton. He had 40 yards handicap, and came in second, with
Orton behind him. Orton, however, was pretty well fagged out from the
effects of his half-mile race with Walsh. F. W. Phillips, of Bryant and
Stratton's, had a handicap of 6 inches in the pole vault, and by making
an actual leap of 10 ft. 3 in., secured first, over Baxter at scratch,
who cleared 10 ft. 6 in.

Some creditable performances were made at the field meeting of the
Pittsburg Interscholastic A.A., which was held at the Pittsburg Athletic
Club Park last week. Only four schools were represented, but the crowd
was enthusiastic and the events well managed. Graff, of Shadyside
Academy, did the best all-round work. He won the 100 in 10-2/5 sec., and
the 220 in 24 sec., besides taking first in the hop, step, and jump
(another of those acrobatic events which have been handed down from the
Dark Ages), and third in the shot. If the Pittsburg H.-S. athletes had
been better trained they would have made a more creditable showing, for
there is good material there. As it was, they managed to score 21 points
out of a possible 135. Shadyside Academy, the winner, got 51, and was
followed by the Park Institute with 44. Allegheny, the tail-ender,
scored 19 points.

The championship of the Southern Connecticut Baseball League went to the
Black Hall School again this year. The final game was played on June
1st, against the Norwich Free Academy. The Black Hall team suffered only
one defeat out of the six games of the series--a very creditable
performance, considering the numerical size and athletic strength of the
other schools in the League. Their success was due to the steady work of
the battery, their strong batting, and careful base-running.

  THE GRADUATE.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




Highest of all in Leavening Power.--Latest U. S. Gov't Report.

[Illustration: Royal Baking Powder]




The _Interscholastic Sport_ Department of Harper's Round Table will be
as full of matter interesting to its present readers during the summer
months as it is now. Many will go to distant summer resorts where there
may be no newsdealer. To insure the prompt receipt of the paper each
week, send the accompanying coupon bearing your name and address with 50
cents for 13 weeks, or $2.00 for one year.

  HARPER'S ROUND TABLE

  Summer Subscription Coupon.

  ..............1895.

  Messrs. HARPER & BROS., New York City, New York.

  Please send Harpers Round Table for ... weeks,
                                  for which I inclose $.....

  Name.....................................................

  Address..................................................

  ...................................




[Illustration: If afflicted with SORE EYES USE Dr. ISAAC THOMPSON'S EYE
WATER]




HARPERS NEW CATALOGUE.

Thoroughly revised, classified, and indexed, will be sent by mail to any
address on receipt of ten cents.




[Illustration: BICYCLING]

     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 much 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.


[Illustration: Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers.]

The map this week continues from the point, Tarrytown, reached on map
published in No. 810 of the ROUND TABLE, to Poughkeepsie, a ride of over
forty miles, which would be another and second stage on the route from
New York to Albany. All routes of this nature must, of course, be
divided by wheelmen reading this Department into sections of a length
which is most suitable for their own special purposes. It is perfectly
simple, for example, for a good rider to go from New York to
Poughkeepsie in one day. On the other hand, for one who is unaccustomed
to long distances the route shown on this map, from Tarrytown to
Poughkeepsie, is a very good ride. When the series, therefore, covering
a distance from New York to Albany is published, by putting the maps
together each wheelman may choose how far he will go each day.

Running out of Tarrytown, the rider takes the Albany Post Road and
passes the André Monument (1), which he should pause to examine. After
leaving this monument he will come to St. Paul's Methodist Episcopal
Church. Here he should turn to the left and go down a long hill, thence
following the turnpike, which is unmistakable, until he reaches Sing
Sing, a distance of seven miles. If the wheelman takes time for it, he
may turn down to the river, about a mile before reaching Sing Sing, and
stop a moment to take a look at the State-prison. From Sing Sing the
road to Peekskill is direct; but it is a difficult twelve-mile ride,
with hills all along the way, especially just before crossing to Croton
Point, again on the Point, and then all the way up to Peekskill. The
road itself is sandy, and occasionally covered with loam. The riding is
not very good, and the wheelman is wise if he dismounts frequently.
After leaving Croton, and when approaching Verplank Point, he can look
across the river to Haverstraw, and see Treason Hill, where the meeting
between Arnold and André took place, and the terms of the surrender of
West Point were made. From Peekskill the rider runs out about half a
mile to the north, then turns to the left and follows the telegraph
poles to Garrison's. Immediately after crossing the bridges, on going
out of Peekskill, he will notice on the left the State Camp (4). The
road is sandy, and there are some bad hills over these eight miles.

If the rider has time to stop for a look at historic places, he should
turn to the left after leaving the Peekskill encampment-grounds and run
down to Highland Station, from whence he can see across the river the
site of old Forts Clinton and Montgomery (5 and 6). Keeping on this road
and running up to Garrison's along the shore, he will pass Beverly
House, Arnold's old headquarters (7). At Garrison's is the old Phillipse
Manor, and directly across the river is the United States Military
Academy of West Point. The best road from this point to Wappinger's
Falls is to follow the black route on the map, keeping to the right
beyond Garrison's, and running on through Fishkill to Wappinger's Falls,
a distance of eighteen miles.

It is possible, however, to keep to the left just beyond Garrison's, and
following the fair bicycle route, keep to the shore of the Hudson. The
road, however, is much more hilly through these highlands. By taking
this route the wheelman may cross the ferry at Fishkill village to
Newburg, where he may see the Washington headquarters (10), and Knox's
headquarters and winter camp (11) just outside Newburg. On the road from
Fishkill-on-the-Hudson to Fishkill itself he will pass the State
Hospital for the Insane (12). The road from Wappinger's Falls into
Poughkeepsie, a distance of eight and a quarter miles, is moderately
good. The roads are easy riding, and the grades are not bad. The rider
should turn to the right on leaving Wappinger's Falls, cross Wappinger's
Creek, and take South Avenue direct into Poughkeepsie. On the way he
passes at the right of the Gallaudet Home for Deaf-Mutes (13), and if he
cares to, after reaching Poughkeepsie, he may struggle up the
Poughkeepsie Hills to take a look at Vassar College (14).

     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.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CITY BOY'S CONCLUSION.

  The cricket 'neath the old rail fence
    His song forever toots.
  And sounds as if he's breaking in
    A brand-new pair of boots.




[Illustration: THE PUDDING STICK]

     This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young
     Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on
     the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address
     Editor.


Among the accomplishments which girls may cultivate to advantage none
surpasses that of reading aloud to the satisfaction of others. It is
singular that more of us do not acquire this delightful art. I do not
mean that we should become elocutionists, or study to be proficient in
dramatic effects; I simply advise girls who wish to give pleasure to
their families and friends to practise the art of reading intelligently,
in a clear and distinct voice, pronouncing their words plainly, giving
each sentence its full meaning, and being careful not to drop the voice
too suddenly at the end of a paragraph. It is so natural to let the
voice fall too much and too far at the close of a paragraph, that those
who wish to be heard make a point of learning how to use the rising
inflection--not to the degree which implies interrogation, but, so to
speak, leaving off with tones on the level, so that the voice carries
well across the room.

During vacation you will have opportunities to exercise this gift if you
possess it. Half a dozen girls may enjoy the same story if one reads
aloud while the rest work. The dear auntie whose sight is failing, and
who is bidden by the doctor to rest her eyes, will be very much obliged
to you if you will read to her an hour or more a day at intervals, as
she and you may find convenient.

I have found in my own experience that when I am reading with a view to
remembering a poem or essay or chapter of history, it is fixed upon my
mind more readily than otherwise if I read the passage aloud to myself.
Hearing as well as seeing the words, two senses aid in carrying the
message to the brain. I like to read poetry aloud when I am alone, thus
doubly enjoying its music and its feeling.

As every bright young woman should be informed about current events, my
girl friends hardly need the reminder to read the daily papers. In doing
this, read according to system. You will be able to secure better
results if you have a plan than if you scan the journal taken in your
home in a slip-shod, heedless way.

Every newspaper has its summary of contents, in which the news of that
day and paper are condensed and presented in a compact form. Read this
first. Select from this what you most wish to read--the foreign letters,
the society gossip, the political leaders, the description of a
prominent personage. Whatever you read, read with your whole attention,
and learn how to skip a great many things which, while coming under the
head of news, are not important to you. Reports of crime, for example,
must be published, but you and I can very well omit reading them.

Somebody in the house, and it may as well be you, dear daughter Jane or
Charlotte, should take upon herself to see that the daily papers are not
spirited off to line closet-shelves or kindle the kitchen fire before
they are a week old. Father often wishes to refer to last Thursday's
_Sun_ or _Tribune_, Brother Tom wants another look at yesterday's
_Herald_ or the _Weekly Record_ or _Register_, whatever the favorite
paper may be. Nothing is more annoying than to search the house
over--mother's room, the library, the back parlor, the halls--and
discover no trace of the longed-for sheet, which probably has been
dissolved into ashes, fluff, and smoke, to save Bridget a little
trouble. You might charge yourself with seeing that no paper is ever
destroyed until it is a whole week old. Also when a paper contains an
item or a story which will probably interest grandmother or Uncle Roger
in another town, it is very sweet in you to slip a wrapper around the
paper, first marking the column in question, and mail it to the person
to whom it will give pleasure. Do not forget the marking. Nobody likes
to spend a morning hunting for the reason why a paper has been sent to
him.

[Illustration: Signature]

       *       *       *       *       *

DON'T WORRY YOURSELF

and don't worry the baby: avoid both unpleasant conditions by giving the
child pure, digestible food. Don't use solid preparations. _Infant
Health_ is a valuable pamphlet for mothers. Send your address to the New
York Condensed Milk Company, N. Y.--[_Adv._]




ADVERTISEMENTS.




Postage Stamps, &c.




[Illustration]

100 all dif. Venezuela, Costa Rica, etc., only 10c.; 200 all dif. Hayti,
Hawaii, etc., only 50c. Ag'ts wanted at 50 per ct. com. List FREE!

=C. A. Stegmann=, 2722 Eads Av., St. Louis, Mo.




=50= var., all dif., 5c.; 12 var. Heligoland, 15c.; 6 var. Italy, 1858
to 1862, 5c.; 3 var. Hanover, 5c.; 35 var. C. American, 50c. Agents
wanted.

F. W. MILLER, 904 Olive St., St. Louis, Mo.




=100= all different, China, etc., 10c.; 5 Saxony, 10c.; 40 Spain, 40c.;
6 Tunis, 14c.; 10 U. S. Revenues, 10c. Agts. wtd., 50% com.; '95 list
free.

CRITTENDEN & BORGMAN CO., Detroit, Mich.




[Illustration: If afflicted with SORE EYES USE Dr. ISAAC THOMPSON'S EYE
WATER]




[Illustration]

a Living Picture

of health--because she uses Pond's Extract at her toilet, and
appreciates the fact that no substitute can equal it.

Avoid substitutes; accept genuine only, with buff wrapper and yellow
label.

POND'S EXTRACT CO., 76 Fifth Ave., New York.




[Illustration]

Sick Headache

and

Constipation

are quickly and pleasantly cured by

Tarrant's Effervescent Seltzer Aperient.

The most valuable family remedy for

Disordered Stomach

and

Impaired Digestion.

50 Cents and $1.00--All Druggists.

=FREE=--Palmer Cox's, =The Brownies' Discovery=--Illustrated.

TARRANT & CO., Chemists, New York.




[Illustration]

The Eight Numbers of the Franklin Square Song Collection contain

1600

of the Choicest Old and New Songs and Hymns in the Wide World.

Fifty Cents per Number in paper; Sixty Cents in substantial Board
binding; One Dollar in Cloth. The Eight Numbers also bound in two
volumes at $3.00 each. Address Harper & Brothers, New York.




Prize Story Awards.


The Round Table offered a First Prize of $50, a Second of $25, and a
Third of $25 for the best original stories written by authors who had
not passed their eighteenth birthday. There was no condition about the
kind of a story required, but appearance of manuscript, spelling,
construction, character, and plot were to be considered. Stories were
required to contain not more than two thousand nor fewer than one
thousand words. There were a few under five hundred contestants, some of
whom were as young as ten, and in one case seven years. Many stories
were extremely clever, considering the ages of their authors.

The First Prize is won by a Knight who lives in Delaware. His name is
Henry S. Canby, aged sixteen. A Knight, also from a Southern State
(South Carolina), won the first prize in the Table's previous story
contest. The Second Prize is won by a Lady. She is thirteen, and lives
in Minnesota. Her name is Nancy Howe Wood, and the title of her story,
which will be published in order, is "An Exciting Game." The story
standing third is "Joey's Christmas." It reached us bearing no name of
the writer, although it said it was intended for this contest. Owing to
this oversight by the author we cannot award it the Third Prize. We
will, however, give the author, when found, an extra prize of $10. Will
he or she write us? The Third Prize is awarded to the story standing
fourth. It is "The Beverly Ghost," by Jennie Mae Blakeslee, aged
fifteen, a resident of New Jersey. The Table congratulates the winners.

Stories by the following authors are specially commended, the order of
that praise being indicated by the order in which names are printed:
Upton B. Sinclair, Jun., Frances Chittenden, Constance F. Wheeler, Edith
den Bleyker, Alice E. Dyar, Mande Newbolt, A. D. Parsons, Oliver Bunce
Ferris, Agnes Barton, Fanny Fullerton, Joseph B. Ames, Helen H. Hayes,
Louis E. Thayer, George Clarkson Hirts, George W. Halliwell, Jun., Janet
Ashley, Ray Bailey Stevenson, Edith Eckfield, Gay Hugh Leland, Helen L.
Birnie, Virginia Louise De Caskey.




An Old Civil War Veteran.


Living here is the oldest cavalry horse of the civil war. He belongs to
Sergeant B. F. Crawford, Company C, Sixteenth Pennsylvania Cavalry, who
captured him in Virginia just after his owner had been shot from his
back. He was then eight years old. Now he is forty, as black as coal,
save for some gray hairs in mane and tail, and still fond of martial
music, especially on Decoration day, the local parade of which he always
forms a part. Last year he went to the National Encampment of the Grand
Army at Pittsburg, but he is too feeble to go to another. "Old Ned" is
his name, and he is a universal favorite. His greatest war service was
his three days at Gettysburg, where he was in at the beginning and
finish, and didn't get a scratch.

  HARRY MOORHEAD.
  NORTH EAST, PA.




Care and Food of Fresh-water Turtles.


Several members ask about the care and food of turtles--really
fresh-water tortoises. They should be kept in a tank or vessel, with
some sort of an island upon which they may crawl when tired of swimming.
The best food for them is fresh animal food--flies, worms, or very tiny
live fish. If a live fly is put on the water so that it will kick, the
tortoise will come up and get it, as he will not be so apt to do with a
dead one. A worm may be dropped in for him once in a while; but as these
are sometimes hard to find, he may be fed with bits of meat, raw or
cooked. As a rule, tortoises will not eat vegetables or bread, though
these will not hurt them. They can go for a long time without food, but
it is better to feed them every day.




A Jaunt Up Mount Macedon.


One fine day in December a few girl friends and I thought of walking
from Woodend to the top of Mount Macedon and back again. The first part
of the road leading to the Mount was smooth, and the shade thrown by the
eucalyptus-trees was very pleasant. As we got further on it became
rather hot, and we were glad to rest and eat our luncheon in a cool spot
about half-way up the Mount. Lilac Walk is a beautiful spot at the top
of Mount Macedon, and is so called because wild lilac blooms there in
profusion. The trees, which are tall, interlace and form arches, which
almost shut out the sun.

The Camel's Hump is the highest peak of Mount Macedon. It was a very
steep climb, but we were rewarded for it. We could see around us miles
and miles of beautiful country, with here and there a tiny house among
the trees. On a fine day you can see Port Phillip Bay, which is over
forty miles distant. On our way back we saw a beautiful place thickly
covered with ferns, with a tiny stream running through it. We did not
feel very tired when we got there, although we had walked fourteen
miles. I intend forwarding you next time a brief description of the
Hanging Rock near Woodend.

  EVELINE WALLACE, R. T. L.
  TASMA, MORELAND RD., W. COBURG.




What Shall Our Badges Be?


The Founders decided the Order is to have a new badge, to be made in two
styles. One is to be of silver, or at least of some material that may be
secured at a low price, say ten cents, and the other of gold, or gold
and enamel, to cost as much as fifty cents, perhaps; certainly little if
any more. A score or more Founders suggested that designs be submitted.
Very good. Now where shall we get the designs? Do members wish to give
us some? If so, send them in. Draw them in either India or wash, that we
may reproduce them.

[Illustration]

Here is the top of what is said to be the original King Arthur's Table.
It is preserved in the cathedral at Winchester, England. The figure is
that of Arthur, and the names are those of the original Knights. It was
suggested that the badge be a reproduction of this, but if the entire
table-top be employed designs will be so small they cannot be read.
Besides, we Americans hardly want to wear badges bearing a figure of
royalty, do we? Why not use the rose in the centre--the rose is
historic--and vary the inscription around it?

In making designs, be careful to consider the time and nation. One
member sends us a design in which appears the fleur-de-lis, which is
French, not English. The sword, ancient pattern, the red and white rose,
the cross, other than the Latin--all these may be used. Of course we
will keep the "K. L. O. R. T." If need be, the words could be spelled
out: "Knights: Ladies: Order: Round: Table." Let us have your designs at
once. Any who wish may submit them. The two or three best will be
published, if made so we can reproduce them. Possibly an artist can
select the best features of several and combine them. So send along your
ideas.




How to Plan a Gala Evening.


For July or August there are few entertainments more novel and
delightful than out-of-door ones. Why not have some in aid of the School
Fund? Or they might be partly in aid of the Fund and partly for the
benefit of a Chapter. The way to begin is to get together from six to a
dozen friends, and then write to us for particulars.

Here is briefly what we shall recommend, but be sure to write, because
we can give you more explicit directions than we have space for here. We
shall give you titles of some very funny farces and pantomimes, similar
to those that college students give as burlesques, and which any company
of persons of any age can learn and render with very little trouble and
with certain success. We shall also tell you how to build a rustic stage
out of doors, to arrange hemlocks or spruces for "scenery," etc. A good
way is to charge a fee of twenty-five cents, and give, after the stage
entertainment is over, a plate of ice-cream free. You will have plenty
of fun--and help a good cause, and perhaps yourselves. Write us, sure.




A Natural History Bit.


There are a great many violets about here, and the ones we have the most
of are the swamp violets and the little ones that grow in the fields.
The swamp violets are a very light purple with darker lines on the lower
petal. There are from two to twenty violets on one plant. They grow in
the woods and in wet places. The white violets also grow in the woods.
They are very much smaller, and are entirely white except the lower
petal, which has purple lines. They are very sweet. I have never seen
more than seven or eight violets on one plant.

There are three other kinds that I know of that grow in the woods. One
is the yellow violet. It grows in dry places, and there is usually more
than one violet on a stem. The leaves also grow on the stem, instead of
starting from the roots, as most others do. The flower is a bright
yellow, with purple lines on the lower petal. There is the crow's-foot
violet, which grows in dry places and is a deep purple; also a little
purple violet whose name I do not know. It grows much like the yellow
violet, only it is much smaller, and often grows on rocks where there is
very little earth.

The violet that grows in the fields is very small, and is oftenest a
deep purple, but sometimes the petals are purple and white mottled
together.

  H. W. S.
  CONNECTICUT.




A Bit of An Old Fort.


Not very far from Bluffton near Beaufort is situated the island called
Paris Island. A friend of my father's owns a part of this, and he says
that on it are the remains of old Fort Charles, built by the Huguenots
in 1562. Will some one please write to me? I am fourteen. Bluffton is in
the very southwestern part of Beaufort County, S. C. The steamer _Alpha_
plies between Bluffton, Beaufort, and Savannah, but she is the slowest
steamer in existence.

  AUGUST MITTELL.
  BLUFFTON.




[Illustration: STAMPS]

     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.


The stamp editor wants to make this column as interesting and as useful
as possible to all the boys and girls who collect stamps. Is there any
subject on which you would like to have information? Shall we talk about
the United States stamps? Or about the great rarities which are so
eagerly sought by the advanced collectors that they are willing to pay
from $100 to $2500 each for these interesting little bits of paper? Or
about the different stamps issued in the Confederate States during the
great civil war? Or about the different water-marks, perforations,
papers, etc., which will make two stamps which "look just alike" worth
in the one case two cents and in the other $50? Or about auctions of
rare stamps? Or any other subject? Let us hear from you, boys and girls.
This is your column, and it shall be made as interesting as possible. Do
you keep the back numbers, so that you can refer to them? If you do, it
will be possible to answer fully some questions which are asked
frequently by simply referring to some other number in the current
volume.

Several collectors ask how to distinguish the provisional stamps used in
Peru during the war in 1881-83 between Chili and Peru. Counting all the
different types of each stamp, there are over one hundred in all, and
their enumeration in the standard stamp catalogues covers three or four
pages. Collectors who make a specialty of Peruvian stamps make the
number much larger. In general, these stamps are simply the regular
Peruvian issue of 1874-79 with different surcharges. The victorious
Chilians printed their coat of arms on these stamps--sometimes alone,
and at other times the arms and a band in a horseshoe frame, with the
words "Union Postal Universal--Peru." The Peruvians used the same
horseshoe band as a surcharge, but without the Chilian arms. Another
Peruvian surcharge is the triangle with the word "Peru," and above it a
character intended to represent the sun. As almost all these surcharges
were printed by a hand-stamp, they are easily counterfeited, and
collectors should be careful to buy these stamps from responsible
dealers only.

     GILBERT JACKSON.--There are five varieties of the $5 United States
     Internal Revenue stamps first issue. The perforated ones are worth
     from two cents to thirty-five cents each. There are eleven $1
     stamps of the same issue, worth from one cent to $2.50 each.
     Twelve varieties of the fifty-cent stamp, worth from one cent to
     $1 each.

     J. R. P.--The 1875 reprints of 1869 are on very white paper. The
     2c. of this issue is worth $3. Many of the 1869 issue show little
     or nothing of the grille. The Cape of Good Hope are quoted in the
     catalogue mentioned by you. The drawing enclosed by you is of a
     German local which has no value. The other stamps are probably
     revenues, but your description is imperfect.

     FRITZ BRANDT.--The United States envelope which you describe is
     the official service envelope of the Post-office Department. It is
     a franked, not a stamped, envelope. It is not generally collected.

  PHILATUS.




[Illustration: Ivory Soap]

To retain the brilliancy of Ginghams, wash them only in luke warm water,
in which a tablespoonful of salt and an equal quantity of Ivory Soap to
each gallon of water, have been dissolved. Dry in the shade.

THE PROCTER & GAMBLE CO., CIN'TI.




You Can't take too much of

[Illustration: HIRES' Rootbeer]

  It quenches your thirst
          That's the best of it.
  Improves your health
          That's the rest of it.

A 25 cent package makes 5 gallons. Sold everywhere. Made only by The
Chas. E. Hires Co., Phila.




[Illustration]

BASE BALL, HOW TO PLAY IT.

A Great Book, contains =all= the rules; also the _secret_ or pitching
curved balls, and to bat successfully. Rules for Football and Tennis.
Every player should have it. Entirely new and handsomely illustrated.
This =Great Book Free= to any one sending us 10 cents to pay postage.
=Also= Catalogue Guns, Revolvers, Musical Instruments, Magic Tricks.
=All for 10c. Order quick.= For =$1.25= we will send =Our Base Ball
Outfit=, consisting of 9 Caps, 9 Belts, 1 Ball, 1 Bat. =BATES SPORTING
CO., 100 High St., Boston, Mass.=




[Illustration: If afflicted with SORE EYES USE Dr. ISAAC THOMPSON'S EYE
WATER]




[Illustration: The Kombi Camera]

[Illustration]

Carry in pocket. Takes 25 perfect pictures in one loading--reloading
costs 20c. Ask your dealer for it, or send for free booklet "All About
the Kombi."

ALFRED C. KEMPER,

Branches: London, Berlin. 132-134 Lake Street, Chicago




[Illustration]

CARD PRINTER =FREE=

Sets any name in one minute; prints 500 cards an hour. YOU can make
money with it. A font of pretty type, also Indelible Ink, Type Holder,
Pads and Tweezers. Best Linen Marker; worth $1.00. Sample mailed FREE
for 10c. stamps for postage on outfit and large catalogue of 1000
Bargains.

R. H. Ingersoll & Bro. 65 Cortlandt St. N.Y. City




[Illustration]

WONDER CABINET =FREE=. Missing Link Puzzle, Devil's Bottle, Pocket
Camera, Latest Wire Puzzle, Spook Photos, Book of Sleight of Hand, Total
Value 60c. Sent free with immense catalogue of 1000 Bargains for 10c.
for postage.

INGERSOLL & BRO., 65 Cortlandt Street N. Y.




=DEAFNESS & HEAD NOISES CURED= by my =INVISIBLE= Tubular Cushions. Have
helped more to good =HEAR=ing than all other devices combined. Whispers
=HEAR=d. Help ears as glasses do eyes. =F. Hiscox=, 853 B'dway, N.Y.
Book of proofs =FREE=




=Horned Toad=, alive, $1.00; horse-hair lariat, Indian make, $3.00; five
Indian pottery vessels, $2.00; Navajoe Indian blankets, $3.00: volcanic
glass chips, 15c., all prepaid.

C. W. RIGGS, WALLACE, N. M.




NEW BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

       *       *       *       *       *

By MRS. SANGSTER.

       *       *       *       *       *

     =Little Knights and Ladies.= Verses for Young People. By MARGARET
     E. SANGSTER, Author of "On the Road Home," etc. Illustrated. 16mo,
     Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $1.25.

Healthful, natural, and just the simple narrative poems and kindly
temperate effusions most pleasing to children.--_Philadelphia Press._

The real poetry of child-life.--_Boston Advertiser._

Characterized by womanly feeling--by observation of and sympathy with
the child side of domestic life.--_N. Y. Mail and Express._

       *       *       *       *       *

By W. J. HENDERSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

     =Afloat with the Flag.= By W. J. HENDERSON, Author of "Sea Yarns
     for Boys," etc. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

A good healthy story, attractively written, full of stirring incident
and adventure.--_N. Y. Times._

W. J. Henderson sustains the reputation which he has achieved for
meritorious work by his latest juvenile book.... This volume of
adventure, battle, heroic endeavor, and thrilling struggle on sea and
land is a most captivating story told in the luminous and trenchant
style which characterizes this author's work.--_Philadelphia Press._

       *       *       *       *       *

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

_For sale by all booksellers, or will be mailed by the publishers,
postage prepaid, on receipt of the price._




[Illustration: "NOW I KNOW PUSSY ATE UP MY GOLDFISH, FOR YOU CAN SEE THE
BONES STICKING OUT OF HER CHEEKS."]




A QUESTION OF PEDIGREE.


  "Now who is that?" asked a dignified hen;
    "That chicken in white and gray?
  She's very well dressed, but from whence did she come?
    And her family, who are _they_?"

  "She never can move in our set, my dear,"
    Said the old hen's friend to her, later;
  "I've just found out--you'll be shocked to hear--
    _She was hatched in an incubator!_"




Patrick, in answer to an advertisement for a coachman, applied for the
position. He was one of three applicants, and patiently waited until his
turn arrived to offer his services. The gentleman who wanted the
coachman loved a joke, and when the first applicant had answered a few
of his questions, he finally asked him,

"How near to the edge of a precipice would you undertake to drive my
carriage?"

"Your Honor, I'd come within a foot of it."

The same question was put to the second applicant, who replied,

"I'll drive within three inches of it all the way, and never slip a
wheel."

Patrick was then asked what he would do. "Faith, your Honor, I'd kape as
far away from the idge as possible." Patrick was engaged.




Every boy and girl has doubtless heard of the great composer Handel.
Here is a little story told of him and of Dr. Maurice Green, a musician
whose compositions were never remarkably fine. It seems he had sent a
solo anthem to Handel for his opinion, and Handel invited him to take
breakfast, and he would say what he thought of it. After coffee, Green's
patience became exhausted, and he said, "Well, sir, what did you think
of it?"

"Oh, your anthem! Ah, I did t'ink dat it wanted air."

"Air!" cried Green.

"Yes, air; and so I did hang it out of de vindow," replied Handel.




"James," asked the school-teacher, "what do you do with your odd moments
after school?"

"I waits until they adds up into an hour, and then I goes fishin'."




FREDDY (_five years old_). "Boys, keep away from me."

CHORUS. "Why, what's the matter?"

FREDDY. "The teacher said I was sharp to-day, and you might get cut."




MOTHER. "Frank, what is baby crying about?"

FRANK. "I guess because I took his cake and showed him how to eat it."




There is a story going the rounds of the British press about two very
distinguished archæologists--Sir William Wilde and Dr. Donovan. It seems
that these two gentlemen made an excursion to the Isles of Arran, where
interesting remains of archæological nature have been found.

They came across a little rough stone building, and both entered into a
fierce argument as to the exact century of its erection. Finally each
claimed a date, one giving it the sixth century, and the other a later
one.

A native who had listened with gaping mouth and ears to the lengthy and
learned terms used by the disputants, broke into the conversation with
the remark, "Faix, you're both wrong as far as that little buildin' is
consarned; it was built just two years ago by Tim Doolan for his
jackass."




THE HIGHWAYMAN AND THE TRAVELLER.


[Illustration]

  A highwayman grim--here's a picture of him--
    A traveller once did waylay,

[Illustration]

  But his pistols were rusted; he fired: they busted.

[Illustration]

  And the traveller went on his way.





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, June 25, 1895, by Various