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, JULY 9, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVI.--NO. 819. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

THE RALEIGH REDS.

BY JULIANA CONOVER.


"Attention! Right dress! Front! Order arms! Carry arms! Present arms!
Right shoulder arms! Carry arms! Stand straighter, Billy. Can't you
fellows keep in line? Right face! Left face! About face! Oh, all right,
I won't go on with the drill if you don't try harder than that."

"Let us off this afternoon, Tommy? There's a good fellow," begged Billy
Atkins, a fat little chap of twelve, who, between the heat and his
exertions to keep his round body erect, was nearly used up.

"You won't ever learn to drill decently, then," answered the discouraged
Sergeant.

"Oh, yes, we will, in double-quick time; but it is so hot, and we all
want to be in good shape for to-morrow."

"What do you say, fellows?" asked Tommy, turning to the other panting
recruits.

"Let's stop," they all responded, briskly, "and try to fix up some
scheme for the Fourth."

"Very well," answered the Sergeant, a little reluctantly. "I did want to
try the bayonet exercise; but I suppose we can do that some other time."
Then drawing himself up in true martial style: "Port arms! Dismissed!"

The boys took instant advantage of the command, and hastily stacking
their arms, they squatted on the grass to try and cool off by means of
mumble-the-peg and a discussion of Fourth-of-July plans.

Tom Porter, aged twelve, had spent a year at a military academy, and had
come home for his summer holidays burning with military ardor, and
primed with tactics from the latest manual of arms.

He soon fired the ambition of the other boys, and in a week had
organized a company--or "squad," as he decided it really was--composed
of ten raw recruits and a band of two, mustered under the banner of the
Raleigh Reds.

They drilled faithfully day after day under the command of their
enthusiastic Sergeant, and the discordant sounds from the fife and drum
became a nuisance to the neighborhood.

But now that the novelty of the drill was wearing off, the boys began to
pine for active service, and wild plans of campaigns, with long
marches, bloody battles, and glorious victories, floated through Tommy's
brain, as he nightly revolved the future of the Raleigh Reds.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, how are we going to celebrate the Fourth?" asked Lilly Atkins,
throwing down the knife in disgust, after failing ignominiously in the
delicate operation known as "eating oysters." "It's no fun just marching
at the tail end of a parade."

"We might make another raid on old Jones's cattle," suggested Herbert
Day; "we know a lot more tactics and manoeuvres now."

"Not much, unless Tommy teaches us some slick barbed-wire-fence drill,"
said Dick. "I'm on my last pair of trousers."

"That _was_ a pretty big fizzle," Tommy said, shaking his head. "And how
they did jolly me at home! Did you ever hear the poem my sister wrote
about it?"

"No; what was it?"

"Well, it was sort of like 'Half a League,' only different, about us,
instead of the 'Six Hundred.' It's pretty good," modestly.

"Can't you say it?" asked Herbert.

"Yes, go ahead, Tommy," chimed in the others.

Tommy blushed. It seemed conceited to recite his sister's verses, and
yet he was genuinely proud of them.

"It's a grind on us, you know," he said, warningly.

"Oh, that's all right; we're used to it; fire away."

Thus pressed, Tommy began:

  "'Half a mile, half a mile,
  Dust-choked and solemn,
  Straight for old Jones's field
    Marched the brave column.

  "Forward, the Raleigh Red!
  Charge for the bull!" he said.
  Into the grazing herd
    Marched the firm column.

  "'Forward the squad brigade.'

"That's wrong, you know," he stopped to explain, "but Alice wouldn't
change it; she said it didn't matter."

"It doesn't a bit," Dick answered. "Go on; it's great!"

  "'Forward the squad brigade.'"

Went on Tommy.

  "'Was there a man afraid?
  Not though the privates knew
    Jones's bull's bad manners.
  Theirs not to make a row,
  Theirs not to question how,
  Theirs but to charge the cow,
  Into the grazing herd
    Marched the red banners.

  "'Cows to the right of them.
  Cows to the left of them,
  Cows still in front of them,
    Peacefully chewing.
  Gazed at in wild surprise,
  Boldly, with steady eyes,
  Marched on at double-quick
  Shouting their battle-cries,
    To their undoing.'

  "'Whisked all the tails so bare,
  Whisked in the sultry air,
  Staring, as cows do stare,
    Chewing the cud the while.
  When from the close ranks
  Broke forth a muffled beat.
  _Not_ of bass drums, but feet,
    Jersey and Alderney
  Gazed on this mad retreat,
  Gazed on the gay pranks
  Of the old bull, who had
    Broken the phalanx.

  "'Fence to the right of them,
  Fence to the left of them,
  Jones's bull behind them.
    Pawing and bellowing.
  What need commands to tell?
  Boldly they ran and well,
    Not one small private fell.

  "'Out of the horns of death,
  Sergeant and squad pellmell,
  Through the barbed-wire fence
    Crawled the torn column.
  When can their glory fade,
  Oh, the retreat they made,
    All Raleigh applauded!
  Honor the Sergeant's feet,
  Honor the squad's retreat,
    Long be it lauded!'"

"Guy, that's fine!" ejaculated little Billy. "Isn't it, Dick?"
enthusiastically.

"Slickest thing I've ever heard," answered Dick.

"We did get to that fence quick, and no mistake. And, George! I woke up
every night for a week dreaming that the old bull was just running his
horns into me."

"We'll have to do something to get a better 'rep,'" said Tommy; "we've
done nothing but retreat so far. Old Farmer Applegate sent us flying,
when he had nothing but cow-hide boots and a pitchfork."

"It was his garden," reflected Fatty Simmons; "that was why I ran."

"Well, what are we going to do to-morrow, that's what I want to know?"
said Jack Green.

"I have it!" exclaimed the Sergeant, his eyes sparkling. "The very
thing, fellows! I heard Davis and Jim White talking yesterday (they
didn't know I was there), and they were arranging a scheme for the
Fourth, which it would be dandy fun to break up."

"What was it?" the others asked, eagerly.

"You know the little cannon in Mr. Scott's field? He thinks no end of
it; it's a Revolutionary relic or Waterloo or something. Well, those
fellows are going to steal it to-night and have a great time to-morrow.
Five of them are in it."

"Whew!" whistled Herbert Day. "I shouldn't like to be in their shoes
when Mr. Scott finds it out; he'll make it hot for them! But how's that
going to help us, Tommy; we're not in it?"

"I know; but what we want to do," answered the Sergeant, "is to guard
the cannon and spoil their little game. It would be great to get ahead
of Davis for once."

"Wouldn't they punch our heads?" said Billy, doubtfully; "they're
bigger."

"I'd like to see them," blustered Fatty; "we'd run them through with our
bayonets."

"What time did they agree to take the cannon, Tommy?" asked Bert.

"After dark, about nine, I suppose. They said they could drag it across
the field to Davis's barn, and that nobody would catch on."

"What sport!" chuckled Green. "We'll go early, then, and form in single
file round the old cannon, and I'd like to see the man who could take it
from us."

"Mr. Scott has a big mastiff, hasn't he?" asked Billy.

"What of that?" scornfully, and Billy was silenced. The boys forgot
their heat and fatigue in their eagerness to prepare for such a great
undertaking, and over and over again the Sergeant's commands rang out:
"Load! squad, ready! aim! _fire!_ Order arms! Load! ready! aim! recover
arms! _fire!_" etc., for a full hour.

At half past eight that same evening the Raleigh Reds, with fife and
drum silent, marched through the lane leading to Mr. Scott's field.

"Squad, halt!" was the command when they reached the fence. Then after a
whispered consultation and a stealthy glance round, lest the enemy might
attack them in the rear, they climbed carefully over the rails, and came
down cautiously on the other side.

"Forward, march!" ordered the Sergeant, and his squad started by twos up
the field.

The cannon was mounted at the other end, and the shadows which the moon
cast across their path looked to the boys' excited fancy like figures
rising from the ground.

"A little faster step--hep, hep!" urged the Sergeant, as they lagged.
"Double time!" he commanded; but alas! a low ferocious growl, followed
by a loud bark, caused a sudden panic in the dauntless Reds.

"The mastiff!" cried Joe Morris; "cut for your lives!"

"Don't you do it! Charge bayonets!" shouted Tom, dismayed by this
breaking of the close-locked ranks.

"About face!" yelled Fatty Simmons, assuming the command in his terror:
"quick to the fence, fellows--run!" and as the big dark object bounded
towards them, the squad for the second time in its short history took to
its heels without waiting further orders. Before the Sergeant could
collect his scattered wits, a rough hand seized him by the collar, and a
grim voice said, "I've caught you, hev I? You'll just come to Mr. Scott,
young man; he's waitin' for you."

"Call that dog off; he'll chew them fellows up," gasped Tommy, trying to
wriggle away from the tight grip.

"Sarve 'em right for sneaking in after dark and stealing the old cannon
that's stood here over a hundred years."

"We didn't steal it," said the indignant Sergeant. "We came to guard
it!"

"To guard it! Well, you didn't have much luck, then, for it's been gone
this half-hour. Mr. Scott, he's in a terrible way about it."

"My, how early they must have come!" exclaimed Tom.

"They? Who?"

"Why, the fellows we came to keep from taking it." And then he explained
to the astonished farmer.

The result was that the "Raleigh Reds" were recalled, trembling, from
their refuge behind the rail breastwork. Dom Pedro was quieted down, and
the demoralized squad was marched sheepishly to the house as prisoners
of war of the tall farmer.

Mr. Scott interviewed them, and his anger gave way to amusement as the
boys told, in shamefaced confusion, of their part in the evening's work.

"What your men need, Captain, is experience," he said; "so I will make a
bargain with you. If you manage to bring the cannon back by twelve
o'clock to-morrow morning, I will promise to furnish the finest display
of fireworks ever seen in this town, to celebrate the valor of the
'Raleigh Reds.'"

The boys blushed as crimson as their colors at these words, but Tom
replied, stoutly:

"We'll do it, Mr. Scott. Just see if we don't. I know we deserve to be
locked up in the guard-house for desertion; but give us one more chance,
and if we can't do anything but retreat, and in disorder too, then we'd
better give up the soldier business altogether."

And so Mr. Scott clinched the bargain.

How the little Sergeant racked his brains that night, as he tossed from
side to side, trying to hit upon some plan by which they could get the
field-gun away from its triumphant capturers!

It would be no easy matter to drag the heavy cannon so far even if they
had a fair field; but when it was held by the enemy--five big
boys--Tommy shook his head in doubt, for he had no longer confidence in
the courage of his squad.

The more he thought of it, the more he felt convinced that the only
thing to do was to decoy the guard in some way; but how? Suddenly he sat
up in bed and looked out of the window. It was moonlight, and he could
see some distance through the trees into a large field at the end of the
garden.

"Yes, that will work," he murmured. "I don't want to do it, but it's the
only thing I can think of, and we've _got_ to get that field-gun
somehow."

So, having at last made up his mind, he turned over and fell asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Fire! fire! fire!" clanged the great iron bell, putting all the toy
cannons to shame.

"Fire! fire!" shouted the men and boys as they dropped their pipes and
their fire-crackers, and started in the direction from which a volume of
smoke rose black and dense against the clear sky. There were not many
fires in Raleigh, and this looked like a promising one. From all parts
of the little town the people swarmed, eager for any excitement that
would help to celebrate the holiday.

"Now's our chance," whispered Tommy to the "Reds," as, ensconced behind
a hedge, they watched the crowd assemble. "We've got to hustle, for the
fire won't last long."

"The fellows are all there, except Jim White," returned Dick, "and there
he comes, puffing like a steam-engine."

"Then we're safe. Have you got the rope all ready, Billy?"

"Yes, slip-knot and all."

"Then come on, fellows."

And the boys cast one lingering glance at the crackling flames, the
fire-engine, and the crowd, then turned round and started heroically in
the opposite direction. They knew well where the cannon was, for had not
the victorious party jeered at them from the top of the shed, when they
went to reconnoitre early in the morning? They looked cautiously over
the gate of Davis's barn-yard. All was quiet. They opened the gate, and
walked softly in. Yes, there stood the bone of contention, alone,
unguarded, its mouth pointed towards the barn.

"Hurry up, Bert; you understand about putting on the rope," said the
nervous Sergeant, as he watched the smoke against the sky growing
perceptibly less.

"They'll suspect us, sure," replied Joe, "when they find we're not
there."

"Think of missing a fire!" groaned Bert; "and such a beauty too!"

By the time the boys were ready to start the smoke had almost died away,
and the shouts had entirely subsided.

"We must fight to-day, fellows, or break up the company," said Tommy, as
they toiled up the field dragging the gun after them over the rough
ground.

"Does Pat Kinney know we're coming?" asked Dick.

"Yes; and he's going to bring Dom Pedro to back us up," answered
"Fatty," straining away on the rope.

"Lucky for us," said Billy, his spirits rising.

Just as they reached the end of the field where the cannon always stood,
a shout from the fence made them grasp their arms and fall quickly in
line with bayonets fixed.

"Steady!" cried the Sergeant, his knees beginning to shake--"steady,
fellows; don't run."

On the big boys came. Six or seven of them, headed by Davis, bearing
down on the trembling squad with yells like wild Indians.

"Steady," said the Sergeant again, and immovable as the Inchcape Rock
the line received the charge.

"Get out of here or we'll break your necks!" cried White, as the squad
closed in round the cannon.

"Throw a pack of big crackers at them," said a rough-looking boy; "that
will break their ranks," and a shower of fire-crackers followed these
words.

Still the squad stood firm.

"All right, then," said Harvey, solemnly; "if you don't surrender we'll
have to wade in and do you up. Won't we, Davis?"

"Yield!" shouted Davis, flourishing a big stick; "the cannon or your
life!"

"Come on," cried the undaunted little Sergeant, as a twenty-five-cent
cracker went off under his nose. "We'll never surrender!"

"We'll never surrender!" echoed the rest of the squad, spurred on to
resistance by their leader. "Come on!"

And the next moment the bayonets were shattered by the charge, the guns
wrenched from the boys' hands, and down they went on the ground a
wriggling mass of arms and legs.

It began to look very bad for the Raleigh Reds, when, to their great
relief, the reserve force came up on a full gallop, urged on by the
command of, "At 'em, Pedro, at 'em!"

This time Dom Pedro discriminated between his allies and the foe, for he
dashed at Davis with a growl that struck terror to the stoutest heart.

"Here comes Mr. Scott, boys!" cried White, scrambling up from Dick's
prostrate form; "we'd better skip;" and leaving the still unconquered
squad fighting manfully on their backs, the big boys made for the fence,
with Dom Pedro in hot pursuit.

The Reds picked themselves up, and looked ruefully for their scattered
arms. They were pretty well battered and broken, but the cannon was
safe.

"Fall in," commanded the Sergeant, as Mr. Scott walked up, holding Pedro
by the collar.

"Good for you, boys," he said, smiling; "you held your own well. I
watched from behind the fence, and was delighted with the way you stood
up to those big fellows."

Tommy blushed with pride and pleasure. "They would have whipped us," he
replied, modestly, "if Dom Pedro hadn't scared them off."

"At any rate you brought the field-gun back, and you deserve great
credit for the way you stuck to your colors. But what is this that
Kinney tells me about setting a barn on fire?"

"It belonged to Tommy," said the others. "It was an old tool-house which
his father gave him to keep our things in. It made a beautiful fire."
Regretfully.

"And you burnt it up just so as to decoy the boys?" Incredulously.

"It was the only way to get the cannon," Tommy answered. "And the roof
leaked, anyway."

"It certainly was a clever scheme, though rather a risky one," said Mr.
Scott.

"I asked my father," Tommy hastened to explain. "And first he said no,
we mustn't do it, but when I told him that it was military tactics, and
how we wanted to prove to you that we were not such miserable cowards,
he gave in and said to go ahead."

"Well, you certainly have proved it, and fulfilled your part of the
contract with honor, so now I want to do my part. So you may invite
everybody you want--the whole town, if you wish--in my name, to a grand
exhibition of fireworks in honor of the Raleigh Reds."

The little Sergeant beamed from ear to ear. "Guy!" he ejaculated,
fervently, "what a slick old time we'll have!" Then, turning to the
smiling and embarrassed line, he cried, "Squad, _salute_!" and every
hand went up while the demoralized fife and drum favored Mr. Scott with
their wildest and most discordant tones.

Then down the field they marched triumphantly, with torn banner flying,
and Dom Pedro stalking gravely on ahead.




THE LITTLE MINUTE-MAN.

BY H. G. PAINE.


All during the winter Brinton had been saying what he would do if the
redcoats came, and grieving because his age, which was eight, prevented
him from going with his father to fight under General Washington.

Every night, when his mother tucked him in his bed and kissed him
good-night, he told her not to be afraid, that he had promised his
father to protect her, and he proposed to do it.

His plan of action, in event of the sudden appearance of the enemy,
varied somewhat from day to day, but in general outline it consisted of
a bold show of force at the front gate and a flank attack by Towser, the
dog. Should these tactics fail to discourage the British, he intended to
retire behind a stone fort he had built on the lawn, between the two
tall elms, and to fire stones at the invaders until they fell back in
confusion, while his mother would look on and encourage him from the
front porch.

When the redcoats unexpectedly appeared in the distance, one afternoon
in May, what Brinton really did was to run helter-skelter down the road,
up the broad path to the house, through the front hall into the library,
close the door, and then peep out of the window to watch them go by.

When he first caught sight of the soldiers Brinton was sure that there
was at least a regiment of them, but when they were opposite the front
gate all that he could see were a corporal and three privates. Instead
of keeping on their way, however, they turned up the path toward the
house, and then it seemed to Brinton that they were the most gigantic
human beings that he had ever seen.

His mother was away for the day, and had taken Towser with her. This,
together with the fact that the enemy were now between him and his fort,
entirely spoiled Brinton's plan of campaign, and he decided to seek at
once some more secluded spot, and there to devise something to meet the
changed conditions. But when he started to run out of the room, he found
that in his hurry he had left the front door open, so that any one in
the hall would be in plain sight of the soldiers, who were now very
near.

Unfortunately there was no other door by which Brinton could leave the
room. What was worse, there was no closet in which he could hide. The
soldiers were now so close at hand that he could hear their voices, and
a glance through the window showed him that two of them were going
around to the back of the house, as if to cut off any possible escape in
that direction.

And his mother would not be back until six o'clock. Instinctively his
eyes sought the face of the tall time-piece in the corner. It was just
three; and he could hear the soldiers' steps on the front porch!

The clock!

Surely there was room within its generous case for a very small boy.

[Illustration: THE MINUTE-MAN TAKES HIS POSITION.]

In less time than it takes to write it Brinton was inside, and had
turned the button with which the door was fastened. As he pressed
himself close against the door, so that there should be room for the
pendulum to swing behind him, he heard the corporal enter the room. He
knew it must be the corporal, because he ordered the other man to go up
stairs and look around there, while he searched the room on the other
side of the hall.

Brinton could hear the footsteps of the men as they walked about the
house, and their voices as they talked to each other. Then all was quiet
for a long while. He was just on the point of peeping out, when all four
men entered the room.

"Well," said a voice that he recognized as the corporal's, "it is plain
there is no one at 'ome. Me own himpression is that the bird's flown.
'E's probably started back for camp, and the wife and the kid with 'im.
I don't believe in payink no hattention to w'at them Tories says, nohow,
goink back on their own neighbors--and kin, too, like as not. It's just
to curry favor with the hofficers, it's me own hopinion. 'Ow did 'e know
the Major was comink 'ome to-day, anyhow?"

Nobody answered him. Perhaps he didn't expect any one to.

The Major! Brinton's own father! He was coming home! This, then, was the
surprise that his mother had said she would bring him when she went off
with Towser in the morning to go to Colonel Shepard's. And now those
redcoats were going to sit there and wait until he came, and then--
Brinton did not know what would happen, whether he would be shot on the
spot, or merely put in prison for the rest of his life.

Oh, if he could only get out and run to meet his father and warn him!
But the men seemed to give no signs of leaving the room.

"Perhaps he haven't come at all yet," suggested one of the privates.

"Perhaps 'e hasn't," answered the voice of the corporal; "but w'y, then,
wouldn't his folks be 'ere a-waitink for 'im? 'Owever, I'll give 'im
hevery chance. It's now five-and-twenty minutes after three. I'll give
'im huntil six, but if 'e doesn't turn hup by then, we'll start away for
the shore without 'im."

"Six o'clock!" thought the boy in the clock. The very time his mother
had told him she was going to be home again "with something very nice
for him." And now she and his brave papa would walk right into the arms
of these dreadful English soldiers, and he could not stop them!

_Whang!_

What a noise! It startled Brinton so much that he nearly knocked the
clock over; and then he realized that it was only the clock striking
half past three.

Half past three! He had been in there only half an hour, and already he
was so tired he could hardly stand up. How could he ever endure it until
four, until half past four, five, six?

"If only something, some accident even, will happen to detain papa and
mamma!" he thought. But how much more likely, it occurred to him, that
his father, having but a short leave of absence, would hasten, and
arrive before six.

"Tick-tock," went the clock.

"How slow, how very slow!" thought Brinton, and he wished there were
only some way of hurrying up the time, so that the soldiers would go
away.

Still the soldiers staid in the room, all but one, who had gone into the
kitchen to watch from there.

"Tick-tock," went the clock, and "whang-whang-whang-whang!" Only four
o'clock. Brinton began to fear that he could not hold out much longer.

"Tick-tock," went the clock. Each swing of the pendulum marked one
second, Brinton's mother had told him. If he could only make it swing
quicker, so that the seconds would fly a little faster!

"Why not try to?" Brinton was on the point of breaking down. He was
desperate. He felt that he must do something. He took hold of the
pendulum and gave it a little push. It yielded readily to his pressure.
None of the soldiers seemed to notice it. He gave it another push. The
result was the same. Brinton began to pick up courage, and he pushed the
pendulum to and fro, to and fro, to and fro.

He tried to keep it swinging at a perfectly even rate, and apparently he
succeeded. At any rate, the soldiers appeared to notice nothing
different. Yet Brinton was sure that he was causing the old clock to
tick off its seconds at a considerably livelier gait than usual. Half
past four came almost before he knew it, but by five o'clock Brinton
began to realize that he was very, very tired. He had already stood
absolutely still in that cramped, dark, close case, and he had pushed
the pendulum first with one hand and then with the other in that narrow
space until both felt sore and lame. Yet now that he had once begun, he
did not dare leave off, and still it did not seem possible that he could
keep it up.

The soldiers had kept very quiet for a long time. Brinton thought that
two of them must be napping.

At five o'clock the soldier who was awake aroused the corporal and the
other private, whom the corporal sent to relieve the man on guard in the
kitchen.

"I must 'ave slept mighty sound," remarked the corporal. "I'd never
believe I'd been asleep an hour, if I didn't see it hon the clock."

"No soigns av any wan yit," reported the man who had been in the
kitchen, whom Brinton judged to be an Irishman. "Be's ye going to wait
till six?"

"Yes," answered the corporal. "But no longer."

Then they began talking about the British fleet that was cruising in
Long Island Sound, and about the ship on which they were temporarily
quartered until they could join the main body of the army, and how a
neighbor of Brinton's father's and mother's had been down at the store
when a ship's boat had put in for water, and how he had told the officer
in charge that Major Hall, Brinton's father, was expected home for a few
hours that day, and what a fine opportunity it would be to make an
important capture.

The clock struck half past five.

"H'm!" grunted the corporal. "It doesn't seem that late; but, you know,
you can't tell anythink about anythink in this blaisted country."

Brinton now began to be very much afraid that his father would come
before the soldiers left. He wanted to move the pendulum faster and
faster, but after what the corporal had said he did not dare to. Then,
when the men lapsed into silence, it suddenly came over Brinton how
dreadfully weary he was, how all his bones ached, and how much, how very
much, he wanted to cry. But he felt that his father's only chance of
safety lay in his keeping the pendulum swinging to and fro, to and fro.

At last, however, came the welcome sound of the corporal's voice bidding
the men get ready to start.

Whang-whang-whang-whang-whang-whang!

"Fall in!" ordered the corporal. "Forward, march!"

As the sound of their footsteps died away, Brinton, all of a tremble,
opened the door of the clock and stumbled out. He knelt at the window
and watched the retreating forms of the redcoats. As they disappeared
down the road he heard a noise behind him, and jumped up with a start.

There stood his father!

The next instant Brinton was sobbing in his arms.

Brinton's mother came into the room. "Dear me!" she said; "what ever can
be the matter with the clock? It's half an hour fast."




SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.[1]

BY KIRK MUNROE.


CHAPTER XXXVII.

BIG AMOOK AND THE CHILKAT HUNTERS.

"A goat is a good thing so far as it goes," remarked Phil, gravely, "but
one goat divided among one man, two boys, a little chap, and three
awfully hungry dogs isn't likely to last very long. With plenty of goats
ready to come and be killed as we wanted them, we might hold out here,
after a fashion, until the arrival of a tourist steamer. Wouldn't that
be fun, though? And wouldn't we astonish the tourists? But how we should
hate goat by that time! Still, I don't think there is the slightest
chance of our having that experience, for I understand that the
mountain-goats are among the shyest and most difficult to kill of all
wild animals.

"Which being the case," continued Phil, "it won't do for us to live as
though we had goats to squander. Consequently, we must make an effort to
get out of here before our provision is exhausted. As we have no boat in
which to go to Sitka, and the nearest point at which we can obtain one
is Chilkat; that is the place we have got to reach somehow. So I propose
that Serge and I take a prospecting trip into the mountains to-morrow
and see what chance there is for our crossing them."

As no better plan than this was offered, Phil and Serge started early
the following morning on their tedious climb. Each carried a gun, and
they took Musky and Luvtuk with them in the hope of getting a bear, as
Serge had heard that bears were plentiful in those mountains. Nel-te was
left to take care of the hospital, in which Jalap Coombs, with his many
aches, and Amook, with his cut feet, were the patients.

That afternoon was so warm that the door of the little cabin stood wide
open. Before a fire that smouldered on the broad hearth Jalap Coombs
dozed in a big chair, while Nel-te romped with Amook on the floor. Now
the little chap was tantalizing the dog with the fur-seal's tooth,
which, still attached to its buckskin thong, he had taken from his neck.
He would dangle it close to Amook's nose, and when the dog snapped at
it, snatch it away with a shout of laughter.

While the occupants of the cabin were thus engaged the heads of several
Indians were suddenly but cautiously lifted above the beach ridge. After
making certain that no one was in the vicinity of the house, one of
their number swiftly but noiselessly approached it. Crouching under a
side wall, he slowly raised his head.

This Indian was one of a party of Chilkat hunters who had come to
Glacier Bay in pursuit of hair seals, which in the early spring delight
to float lazily about on the drifting ice-cakes. They had camped at the
mouth of Muir Inlet the night before, and during the day had slowly
hunted their way almost to the foot of the great glacier. While there
they discovered a thin spiral of smoke curling from the cabin chimney.
This so aroused their curiosity that they determined to investigate its
cause. They imagined that some of the interior Indians, who were
strictly forbidden by the Chilkats to visit the coast, had disobeyed
orders, and come to this unfrequented place to surreptitiously gather in
a few seals. In that case the hunters would immediately declare war, and
the prospect of scalps caused their stolid faces to light and their dull
eyes to glitter.

When it was discovered that a white man was in the cabin, the Indians
were greatly disappointed, but concluded to withdraw without allowing
him to suspect their presence, for the Chilkats have no love for white
men. But for Nel-te and Amook they would have succeeded in this, and our
travellers would never have known of their dusky visitors, or the chance
for escape offered by their canoes.

If the fur-seal's tooth had been able to speak just then, it would have
said, "I am disgusted with the ways of white people. In their hands I am
treated with no respect. They lose me and find me again with
indifference. They even give me to children and dogs as a plaything. How
different was my position among the noble Chilkats! By their Shamans and
chiefs I was venerated; by the common people I was feared; while all
recognized my extraordinary powers. To them I am determined to return."

With this the fur-seal's tooth, which was at that moment dangling from
Nel-te's hand, gave itself such a vigorous forward swing, that Amook was
able to seize the buckskin thong, which immediately slipped into a
secure place between two of his sharp teeth. As Nel-te attempted to
snatch back his plaything, the dog sprang up and darted from the open
doorway.

At that moment the Indian who had inspected the cabin was just
disappearing over the beach ridge. At sight of him Amook uttered a yelp,
and started in pursuit. The Indian heard him, and ran. He sprang into
the canoe, already occupied by his fellows, and shoved it off as Amook,
barking furiously, gained the water's edge. Lying a few feet away, and
resting on their paddles, the Indians taunted him. Suddenly one of their
number called attention to the curious white object dangling from the
dog's mouth. They gazed at it with ever-increasing excitement, and
finally one of them began to load his gun with the intention of shooting
the dog, and so securing the coveted trophy that so miraculously
appeared hanging from his jaws. Ere he could carry out his cruel
intention little Nel-te appeared over the ridge in hot pursuit of his
playmate. Without paying the slightest heed to the Indians he ran to the
dog, disengaged the buckskin thong from his teeth, slipped it over his
own head, tucked the tooth carefully inside his little parka, and
started back toward the cabin. Amook followed him, while the Indians
regarded the whole transaction with blank amazement.

Both Nel-te and Amook regained the cabin, and were engaged in another
romp on its floor before Jalap Coombs awoke from his nap. An hour later,
when he was surprised by the appearance of half a dozen Indians before
the door, he thrust the child and dog behind him, and standing in the
opening, axe in hand, boldly faced the newcomers. In vain did they talk,
shout, point to Nel-te, and gesticulate. The only idea they conveyed to
the sailorman was that they had come to carry Cap'n Kid back to the
wilderness.

"Which ye sha'n't have him, ye bloody pirates! Not so long as old Jalap
can swing an axe!" he cried, at length wearied of their vociferations
and slamming the door in their faces.

In spite of this the Indians were so determined to attain their object,
that they were planning for an attack on the cabin, when all at once
there came a barking of other dogs, and, looking in that direction, they
saw two more white men, armed with guns, coming rapidly toward them.

"Hello in the house! Are you safe? What is the meaning of this?" cried
Phil, in front of the closed door.

"Ay, ay, sir!" replied Jalap Coombs, joyfully, flinging it open. "We're
safe enough so far; but them black swabs overhauled us awhile ago, and
gave out as how they'd got to have Cap'n Kid. I double-shotted the guns,
stationed the crew at quarters, and returned reply that they couldn't
have him; then they run up the black-flag and allowed they'd blow the
ship out of water. With that I declined to hold further communication,
cleared for action, and prepared to repel boarders."

In the mean time Serge was talking to the natives in Chinook jargon.
Suddenly he exclaimed:

"They are Chilkats, Phil, and they want something that they seem to
think is in Nel-te's possession."

"In Nel-te's possession?" repeated Phil, in a puzzled tone. "What can
they mean? I don't see how they can know anything about Nel-te, anyway.
They can't mean the fur-seal's tooth, can they?"

"That is exactly what they do mean!" replied Serge, after asking the
natives a few more questions. "They say it is hanging about his neck,
inside of his parka."

"How long have these people been here, Mr. Coombs?" queried Phil.

"Not more 'n ten minutes."

"Have they seen Nel-te?"

"No, for he hain't been outside the door."

"Could they have seen him at any time during the day?"

"Not without me knowing it; for he hain't left my side sence you boys
went away."

"Then it is more certain than ever that there is magic connected with
the fur-seal's tooth, and that the Chilkats are in some way involved in
it. How else could they possibly have known that it was in our
possession, just where to find us, and, above all, the exact position of
the tooth at this moment?"

"It surely does look ridicerlous," meditated Jalap Coombs; while Serge
said he was glad Phil was becoming so reasonable and willing to see
things in a true light.

"How did these fellows get here?" asked Phil.

"They say they came in canoes," replied Serge.

"Ask them if they will take us to Sitka, provided we will give them the
fur-seal's tooth."

"No; the Indians could not do that."

"Will they give us a canoe in exchange for it?"

"They say they will," replied Serge, "if we will go with them to their
village and allow their Shaman (medicine-man) to examine the tooth, and
see whether or not it is the genuine article."

"Won't that be awfully out of our way?"

"Yes. I should think about seventy-five miles; but then we may find a
steamer there that will take us to Juneau, or even to Sitka itself."

"It would certainly be better than staying here," reflected Phil. "And I
know that neither Serge nor I want to try the mountain trail again after
what we have seen to-day. So I vote for going to Chilkat."

"So do I," assented Serge.

"Same here," said Jalap Coombs; "though ef anybody had told me half an
hour ago I'd been shipping for a cruise along with them black pirates
before supper-time, I'd sartainly doubted him. It only goes to prove
what my old friend Kite Roberson useter say, which were, 'Them as don't
expect nothing is oftenest surprised.'"


CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE TREACHEROUS SHAMAN OF KLUKWAN.

So delighted were the Chilkat hunters to know that they were to have the
honor of conveying the fur-seal's tooth back to their tribe, that they
wished to start at once. The whites, however, refused to go before
morning, and so the Indians returned down the inlet to their camp of the
preceding night, where they would cache what seals they had obtained in
order to make room in the canoes for their unexpected passengers. They
agreed to be back by day-light.

After they were gone, and our travellers had disposed of their simple
but highly appreciated meal of goat meat and tea, they gathered about
the fire for the last of those "dream-bag talks," as Phil called them,
that had formed so pleasant a feature of their long journey. Without
saying a word, but with a happy twinkle in his eyes, Jalap Coombs
produced a pipe and a small square of tobacco, which he began with great
care to cut into shavings.

"Where on earth did you get them?" asked Phil.

"Found the pipe in yonder rubbish," replied the sailorman; "and Cap'n
Kid give me the 'baccy just now."

"Nel-te gave you the tobacco! Where did he get it?"

"Dunno. I were too glad to get it to ask questions."

"Well," said Phil, "the mysteries of this place are beyond finding out."

"This one isn't," laughed Serge; "though I suppose it would be if I
hadn't happened to see one of the Indians slip that bit of tobacco into
Nel-te's hand."

"What could have been his object in giving such a thing as that to a
child?"

"Oh, the Chilkat children use it as well as their elders; and I suppose
he wanted to gain Nel-te's good-will, seeing that he is the guardian of
the fur-seal's tooth. I shouldn't be surprised if he hoped in some way
to get it from the child before we reached the village."

"Which suggests an idea," said Phil, removing the trinket in question
from Nel-te's neck and handing it to Serge. "It is hard to say just who
the tooth does belong to now, it has changed hands so frequently, but it
will be safer for the next day or two with you than anywhere else.
Besides, it is only fair that, as it came directly from the Chilkats to
you, or, rather, to your father, you should have the satisfaction of
restoring it to them."

So Serge accepted from Phil the mysterious bit of ivory that he had
given the latter more than a year before in distant New London, and hung
it about his neck.

"Last night," said Phil, after this transfer had taken place, "Mr.
Coombs and I only needed a pipeful of tobacco and a knowledge of how we
were to escape from here to make us perfectly happy. Now we have both."

"The blamed pipe won't draw at all," growled Jalap Coombs.

"While I," continued Phil, "am bothered. I know we must go with those
fellows, but I don't trust them, and shall feel uneasy so long as we are
in their power."

"Do you think," asked Serge, "that these things go to prove that there
isn't any such thing in this world as perfect happiness?"

"No," answered Phil; "only that it is extremely rare. How is it with
you, old man? Does the approaching end of our journey promise you
perfect happiness?"

"No indeed!" cried Serge, vehemently. "In spite of its hardships, I have
enjoyed it too much to be glad that it is nearly ended. But most of all,
Phil, is the fear that its end means a parting from you; for I suppose
you will go right on to San Francisco, while I must stay behind."

"I'm afraid so," admitted Phil. "But, at any rate, old fellow, this
journey has given me one happiness that will last as long as I live, for
it has given me your friendship, and taught me to appreciate it at its
true worth."

"Thank you, Phil," replied Serge, simply. "I value those words from you
more than I should from any one else in the world. Now, I want to tell
you what I have to thank the journey for besides a friendship. I believe
it has shown me what is to be my life-work. You know that missionary at
Anvik said he was more in need of teachers than anything else. While I
don't know very much, I do know more than those Indian and Eskimo boys,
and I did enjoy teaching them. So, if I can get my mother to consent, I
am going back to Anvik as soon as I can and offer my services as a
teacher."

"It is perfectly splendid of you to think of it," cried Phil, heartily,
"and all I can say is that the boys who get you for a teacher are to be
envied."

So late did the lads sit up that night talking over their plans and
hopes that on the following morning the Indians had arrived and were
clamorous for them to start before they were fairly awake. By sunrise
they, together with the three dogs, were embarked in a great long-beaked
and marvellously-carved Chilkat canoe, hewn from a single cedar log, and
painted black. Two of the Indians occupied it with them, while the
others and the sledge went in a second but smaller canoe of the same
ungraceful design as the first.

As with sail set and before the brisk north breeze that ever sweeps down
the glacier the canoes sped away among the ice floes and bergs of the
inlet, our boys cast many a lingering backward glance at the little
cabin that had proved such a haven to them, and at the stupendous
ice-wall gleaming in frozen splendor on their horizon. Under other
conditions they would gladly have staid and explored its mysteries. Now
they rejoiced at leaving it.

So favoring were the winds that they left Glacier Bay, passed Icy
Strait, and headed northward as far as the mouth of Lynn Canal before
sunset of that day. During the second day they ran the whole fifty-mile
length of the canal, which is the grandest of Alaska's rock-walled
fiords, entered Chilkat Inlet, passed the canneries at Pyramid Harbor
and Chilkat, which would not be opened until the beginning of the salmon
season in June, entered the river, and finally reached Klukwan, the
principal Chilkat village.

[Illustration: THEY WERE WELCOMED BY THE ENTIRE POPULATION OF KLUKWAN.]

Here, as the smaller canoe had preceded them and announced their coming,
our travellers were welcomed by the entire population of the village.
These thronged the beach in a state of wildest excitement, for it was
known to all that the long-lost fur-seal's tooth was at last come back
to them. Even the village dogs were there, a legion of snarling,
flea-bitten curs. Ere the canoe touched the beach, Musky, Luvtuk, and
big Amook were among them, and a battle was in progress that completely
drowned the cries of the spectators with its uproar. The fighting was
continued with only brief intervals throughout the night; but in the
morning the three champions from the Yukon were masters of the
situation, and roamed the village with bushy tails proudly curled over
their backs, and without interference. "For all the world," said Phil,
"like the Three Musketeers."

The guests of the village were escorted to the council-house, to which
were also taken their belongings. Here they were supplied with venison,
salmon, partridges, and dried berries; and here, after supper, they
received many visitors all anxious for a sight of the magic tooth. Most
prominent of these were the head Shaman of the village, and the
principal woman of the tribe, whose name was so unpronounceable that
Phil called her "The Princess," a title with which she seemed well
pleased.

She was the widow of Kloh-kutz, most famous of Chilkat chiefs, and the
one who had presented the fur-seal's tooth to Serge Belcofsky's father.
On the occasion of this visit she wore a beautifully embroidered dress,
together with a Chilkat blanket of exquisite fineness thrown over her
shoulders like a shawl, and fastened at the throat with a stout
safety-pin. The Princess devoted herself to Serge, whom she evidently
considered the most important person in the party, and to little Nel-te,
who took to her at once. While she pronounced the fur-seal's tooth to be
the same that had belonged to her husband, the Shaman shook his head
doubtfully. Then it was handed from one to another of a number of lesser
Shamans and chiefs for inspection. Suddenly one of these dropped it to
the floor, and, when search was made, it could not be found.

Phil was furious at the impudence of this trick. Even Serge was
indignant, while Jalap Coombs said it was just what might be expected
from land sharks and pirates.

The Shaman insisted that the tooth was not lost, but had disappeared of
its own accord. If it were not the same fur-seal's tooth that belonged
to their tribe in former years, it would not be seen again. If it were,
it would appear within a few days attached to a hideously carved
representation of Hutle, the thunder-bird that stood in one of
Kloh-kutz's houses, now used as a place for incantation.

"We don't care anything about all that!" exclaimed Phil, when this was
translated to him. "Tell him he can do as he pleases with the tooth, so
long as he gives us the canoe we have bargained for."

To this the Shaman replied that they should surely have a canoe as soon
as the tooth proved its genuineness by reappearing. In the mean time, if
they were in such a hurry to get away that they did not care to wait, he
had a very fine canoe that he would let them have at once in exchange
for their guns and their dogs. "You may tell him that we will wait,"
replied Phil, grimly, "but you need not tell him what is equally true
that we shall only wait until we find a chance to help ourselves to the
best canoe and take French leave."

So they waited, though very impatiently, in Klukwan for nearly a week,
during which time Phil had ample opportunities for studying Chilkat
architecture and totem poles. The houses of the village were all built
of heavy hewn planks set on end. They had bark or plank roofs, with a
square opening in each for the egress of smoke. Many of them had glass
windows and ordinary doors; but in others the doors were placed so high
from the ground as to be reached by ladders on both outside and inside.
The great totem poles that stood before every house were ten, twenty, or
thirty feet tall, and covered with heraldic carvings from bottom to top.

During this time of waiting the Shaman made repeated offers to sell the
strangers a canoe, all of which were indignantly declined. That they did
not appropriate one to their own use was for the very simple reason that
all, except a few very small or leaky canoes, mysteriously disappeared
from the village that first night.

At length the tricky medicine-man was forced to yield to the threats of
the Princess, who had taken the part of our travellers from the first,
and to popular clamor. He therefore announced one evening that he had
been informed during a vision that the fur-seal's tooth would reappear
among them on the morrow.

On the following morning Phil and his companions were aroused by a
tremendous shouting and firing of guns, all of which announced that the
happy event had taken place.

"Now," cried Phil, "perhaps we will get our canoe."

But there were no canoes to be seen on the beach, and the Shaman coolly
informed them that, though the precious tooth had indeed come back to
dwell with the Chilkats, they would still be obliged to wait until some
of the canoes returned from the hunting expeditions on which they had
all been taken.

At this Phil fell into such a rage that, regardless of consequences, he
was on the point of giving the old fraud a most beautiful thrashing,
when his uplifted arm was startlingly arrested by the deep boom of a
heavy gun that seemed to come from the mouth of the river.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 801.




OAKLEIGH.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.


CHAPTER III.

When Cynthia asked at Mrs. Parker's door if that lady were at home it
was not necessary for her to give her name. The maid recognized Miss
Trinkett at once.

"Yes, she's at home, ma'am. And won't you please step into the parlor,
Miss Trinkett? Mrs. Parker'll be glad to see you."

Mrs. Parker came hurrying down.

"Dear Miss Trinkett, how are you? Why, I should scarcely have known you!
What have you done to yourself?"

Cynthia laughed her great-aunt's high _staccato_ laugh.

"Well, now, I want to know, Mrs. Parker! Don't you see what it is? Why,
my nieces at Oakleigh, they saw right away what the difference was. I
thought 'twas about time I was keeping up with the fashions, and so I
bought me a fine new piece of hair for my front. I was growing somewhat
gray, and I thought 'twas best to keep young on Silas's account. It
isn't that I care for myself, but you have to be particular about
men-folks, as you'll know when you've seen as much of them as I have."

Cynthia was a good actress, and she carried herself precisely as Miss
Betsey did, and imitated her voice to perfection.

She repeated some of her aunt's best-known tales, and good Mrs. Parker
never dreamed of the possibility of her caller being any one but worthy
Miss Betsey Trinkett, of Wayborough, whom she had known for years.

Mrs. Parker was a great talker, and usually she was obliged to fight
hard to surpass Miss Trinkett in that respect. During the first part of
the call to-day it was as difficult as usual, but Mrs. Parker presently
made a remark which reduced her visitor to a state of alarming silence.

"I suppose you have come to announce the news," said the hostess,
smiling sympathetically.

"Now I don't know a bit of news. Why, my dear Mrs. Parker, Silas and I
we never--"

"Ah, but this has nothing to do with Silas, though it may affect you,
more or less. Surely you know what I am alluding to?"

"I haven't the least idea."

And Cynthia bridled with curiosity on her own account as well as Aunt
Betsey's. She thought something interesting must be coming.

"Well, now, to think of my being the one to tell you something about
your own family! I don't know whether I ought to, but I think it must be
true, and you'll hear it in other ways soon enough. You know I have
relatives in Albany, where she lives."

"Where who lives?"

"Miss Gordon, Hester Gordon. They say--but, of course, I don't know that
it's true, it may be just report, but they do say-- I don't know whether
I ought to tell you, I declare! that it won't be long before she's Mrs.
Franklin."

"Mrs. Franklin!"

"Yes, Mrs. John Franklin. Hasn't your nephew told you? Well, well, these
men! They do beat all for keeping things quiet."

"Is it true?"

It was Cynthia's natural voice that asked this question. She quite
forgot that she was supposed to be Miss Betsey Trinkett.

[Illustration: "YOUR VOICE SOUNDS SORT OF UNNATURAL, TOO," ADDED MRS.
PARKER.]

"I suppose it is. But, dear me, Miss Trinkett, don't be worried! Seems
to me you look very queer, though I can't see your face very well
through that veil, and you with your back to the light. Your voice
sounds sort of unnatural, too," added Mrs. Parker. "Let me get you some
water."

"Oh no, it is nothing," said Cynthia, who had quickly recovered herself,
and was now summoning all her energy to finish the call in a proper
manner. "You surprised me, that's all, and I never did care much for
surprises. But I think there's not much truth in that, Mrs. Parker. I
don't believe my fa--nephew is going to be married again. In fact, I'm
very sure he is not." And she nodded her head emphatically.

"Ah, my dear Miss Trinkett, you never can tell. Sometimes a man's family
is the last to hear those things. And it will be a good match, too. She
comes of an old family, and she has a great deal of money. The Gordons
are all rich."

"Do you suppose he'd care for that?" exclaimed her visitor, wrathfully.

"Well, well, one never knows! And think how much better it would be for
the children. Edith is too young to have so much care, and they say
Cynthia runs wild most of the time, just like a boy. Indeed, I call it a
very good thing. Though I must say she is a pretty brave woman to take
on herself the care of that family."

Here "Miss Betsey" suddenly darted for the door. It could be endured no
longer. Mrs. Parker bade her farewell, and then went back to tell her
daughters that Miss Trinkett was sadly changed. Though she was still so
young in appearance, she was evidently very much broken.

For some time Jack could obtain no reply to his questions, but at last
Cynthia's resolution broke down, and she burst into tears. They had
turned into a shady lane instead of going directly home, and there was
no danger of meeting any one.

"Jack, Jack!" she moaned, "I'll have to tell you. Mrs. Parker says papa
is going to be married again! What shall we do! What shall we do!"

For answer Jack indulged in a prolonged whistle.

"Isn't it the most dreadful thing you ever heard of? Jack, how shall we
ever endure it?"

"Well, it mayn't be as bad as you think. If she's nice--"

"Oh, Jack, she won't be! Stepmothers are never nice. I never in my life
heard of one that was. She'll be horrid to us all."

"Oh, I say, that's nonsense. If you were to marry a widower with a lot
of children you'd be nice to them."

"Jack, the very idea! _I_ marry a widower with a lot of children! I'd
like to see myself doing such a thing!"

Cynthia almost forgot her present troubles in her wrath at her brother's
suggestion.

"Well, after all it may not be true. Because Mrs. Parker says so,
doesn't prove it. Where did she hear it?"

"From some of her Albany relations, I suppose. The--the lady lives
there. But, oh, Jack! Do you think there is any chance of its not being
true?" cried Cynthia, catching at the least straw of hope.

"Why, of course! Father hasn't told us, and you can't believe all the
gossip you hear," said Jack, loftily.

"Perhaps it isn't true, after all," exclaimed Cynthia, drying her eyes
and smiling once more, "and I've been boo-hooing all for nothing! I
sha'n't say a word about it to Edith, and don't you either, Jack. It
isn't worth while to worry her, and Mrs. Parker is a terrible gossip."

They went home, and Cynthia gave her sister a gay account of her visit,
carefully omitting all exciting items, and then she helped Edith put
away some of the things, and finally was free to go on the river in the
afternoon. Jack, boylike, had forgotten all about Mrs. Parker's news. He
did not believe it, and therefore it was not worth thinking of. But
Cynthia's mind was not so easily diverted. She did not believe it,
either, but then it might be true, and if it were, what was to be done?
It seemed as if a worse calamity could not happen.

Jack, her usual companion on the river, was busy with some carpentry. He
was making a "brooder" like one he had bought, to serve as a home for
the little chicks when they should be hatched. He used the "barn
chamber" for a workshop, and the sound of his saw and his hammer could
be heard through the open window.

Cynthia was deeply interested in poultry-raising, but she wished it did
not consume so much of her brother's time and attention.

Edith was going to the village to an afternoon tea at the Morgans'.
Gertrude Morgan was her most intimate friend, and all the nicest girls
and boys would be there to talk over a tennis tournament. Cynthia was
rather sorry that she had not been asked. She said to herself that she
would be of more value in the discussion than Edith, for she really
played tennis, while Edith merely stood about looking graceful and
pretty. However, she had not been invited, and, after all, the river was
more fun than any afternoon tea.

One of the men put the canoe in the water for her, and, with a huge
stone to act as ballast, she paddled up stream, browsing along the banks
looking for wild flowers, or steering her way through the rocks, of
which the river was very full just at this point.

Cynthia, fond as she was of companionship, being of an extremely
sociable disposition, was never lonely on her beloved river.

Edith dressed herself carefully and drove off to the tea. She looked
very attractive in her spring gown of gray and her large black hat, and
as she studied herself in the small old-fashioned mirror that hung in
her room she felt quite pleased with her appearance.

"If I only had more nice gloves I should be satisfied," she thought. "It
is so horrid to be saving up one pair, and having to wear such old
things for driving and whisk them off just before I get to a place and
put on the good ones. And a handsome parasol would be so nice. I don't
think I'll take this old thing. I don't really need one to-day. I wonder
where the children are. I ought to look them up, I suppose, but they are
all right, somewhere, and it is getting late. After all, why should I
always be the one to run after those children?"

And then she drove away to Brenton, leaving housekeeping cares behind
her, and prepared for a pleasant afternoon.

About half a dozen boys and girls had already arrived at the Morgans'
when Edith drove in. It was a fine old house standing far back from the
road, and surrounded with shady grounds. The river was at the back. A
smooth and well-kept tennis-court was on the left of the drive as one
approached the house, and here the guests were assembled.

"Oh, here's Edith Franklin at last!" cried Gertrude Morgan, while her
brother went forward, and, after helping Edith to alight, took her horse
and drove down to the stable.

Presently all the tongues were buzzing, each one suggesting what he or
she considered the very best plan for holding a tournament. It was
finally arranged to have it at the tennis club rather than at the
Morgans', as had at first been thought best, and it would be open to all
the comers who had reached the age of fourteen.

"That is very young," said Gertrude, "but we really ought to have it
open to Cynthia Franklin. She is one of the best players in Brenton."

"By all means," said her brother, who was always on the side of the
Franklins, "and, Edith, you'll play with me, won't you, in mixed
doubles?"

"Oh, I don't play well enough!" exclaimed Edith. "Thank you ever so
much, Dennis, but you had better ask some one else. I don't think I'll
play."

Every one objected to this, but it was finally settled that Edith should
act as one of the hostesses for the important occasion, which was
greatly to her satisfaction. She rather enjoyed moving slowly and
gracefully about, pouring tea and lemonade, and handing it to the poor,
heated players, who were obliged to work so hard for their fun.

They were startled by the sound of the clock on the church across the
road. It struck six, and Edith rose in haste.

"I must go," she said. "I had no idea it was so late! Those children
have probably gotten into all kinds of mischief while I've been away,
and papa will not be home until late, so I am not to wait in the village
for him."

The others looked after her as she drove away.

"Isn't she the sweetest, dearest girl?" cried Gertrude. "And won't it be
hard for her if her father marries again, as every one says he is going
to do? But, after all, it may be a good thing, for then Edith wouldn't
have to do so much for the children. I wonder if she knows about it?
She hasn't breathed a word of it, even to me."

Janet and Willy, the inseparable but ever-fighting pair, came in at the
side door, not very long after Edith went to the village. They found the
house empty and the coast clear, and their active brains immediately set
to work to solve the question of what mischief they could do.

They wandered into the big silent kitchen. The servants were upstairs,
and beyond the buzzing of a fly on the window-pane and the singing of
the kettle on the range perfect quiet reigned.

"Let's go down and see the inkerbaker," suggested Willy.

"All right," returned Janet, affably, and down they pattered as fast as
their sturdy little legs could carry them.

They peered in through the glass front at the eggs, which lay so
peacefully within.

"It must be turrible stupid in there," said Janet, pityingly. "Shouldn't
you think those chickens would be tired of waiting to come out?"

"Yes. We might crack a lot and help 'em out."

"Oh, no. Jack says they won't be ready for two days. But I'll tell you
what we might do. We might see whether it's hot enough for 'em in there.
I guess Jack's forgotten all about 'em. I don't believe he's been near
'em to-day, nor Martha, either."

"How d'yer find out whever it's hot enough?"

"I don't know. Guess you open the door, and put your hand in and feel."

For Janet had never been taught the significance of the thermometer
inside, and knew nothing of the proper means of ventilating the machine.

No sooner said than done. One of the doors was promptly opened, and two
fat hands were thrust into the chamber.

"My goodies, it's hot there!" cried Janet. "We ought to cool it off.
Let's leave the door open and turn down the lamp, and open the cellar
window."

Mounted on an old barrel, Janet, at the risk of her life, struggled in
vain with the window. She chose one that was never used, and it refused
to respond to her efforts. Then she descended, and returned to the
incubator.

"Can't do it," she said. "But I'll tell you what we'll do."

"What?" asked the ever-ready Willy.

"Pour some ice water over 'em. That'll cool 'em nicely."

They travelled up the cellar stairs to the "cooler," which stood in the
hall.

"Wish we had a pitcher," said Janet. "You take the tum'ler, and I'll get
a dipper."

It required several journeys to and fro to sufficiently cool the eggs,
according to their way of thinking, but at last it was accomplished,
with much dripping of water and splashing of clean clothes.

The water-cooler was left empty, and the incubator was in a state of
dampness alarming to behold.

"There; I guess it's cool enough now!" said Janet, when the last trip
had been taken.

Alas, the mercury, which should have remained at 103°, had dropped
quietly down to 70°.

"I'd like to see what's in those eggs," said Willy, meditatively. "D'yer
s'pose they're chickies yet?"

"I guess so. I'd like to see, too. I'll tell you what, Willy? Let's take
one, and carry it off and see."

"All right. I'll be the one to take it. What'll Jack say?"

"He won't mind. Just one egg, and he has such a lot. And we've been
helping him lots this afternoon, cooling 'em off so nicely. But I'll be
the one to take it."

"No, me!"

"Let's both do it," said Janet, for once anxious to avoid a quarrel. "I
speak for that big one over there," and she abstracted one from the
"thermometer row," the row that was most important and precious in the
eyes of the owner of the machine.

"And I'll take dis one. It's awful heavy, and I guess de dear little
chicken'll he glad to get out and have some nice fresh air."

"Let's go down behind the carriage-house and look at 'em."

They fastened the door of the incubator, and departed with their
treasures.

Half an hour later, Jack, having finished his work, came whistling into
the house. He would go down and have a look at the machine, and then
walk up the river-bank to meet Cynthia, whom he had seen as she paddled
off early in the afternoon.

His first glance at the thermometer gave him a shock--75° it registered.
What had happened? He looked at the lamp which heated the chambers, and
found that it had been turned down very low. What could Martha have been
thinking of, when he told her it was so important to keep up the
temperature this last day or so? The day after to-morrow he expected the
hatching to begin, and he had closed the door of the incubator that
morning. It was not to be opened again until the chicks were out.

Jack was on tiptoe with excitement. If they came out well, what a
triumph it would be! If they failed, what would his father say?

He looked again, and a most unexpected sight met his eyes. Water was
dripping from the trays, and the fine gravel beneath had become mud.

And there was a vacant space in the tray. An egg had gone--and it was
from the third row, the row which he had been so careful about, which
contained the best eggs.

And, yes, surely there was another hole. Another egg gone! What could
have happened?

He ran up stairs three steps at a time, shouting for Martha.

"What have you been doing, Martha?" he cried. "Two eggs are gone, and
the thermometer way below 80°, and all that water!"

"Sure, Mr. Jack, I haven't been there at all! You were at home yourself
to-day, and I never go near the place of a Saturday."

"Well, some one has been at it. Where's Cynthia? Where's Edith? Why
isn't somebody at home to attend to things?"

No one could be found. Jack rushed frantically about, and at last heard
the sound of wheels. Edith was returning from the tea. And at the same
moment, around the corner of the house came Cynthia, leading two crying
children.

They all met on the front porch.

"They've been up to mischief, Jack," said Cynthia; "I hope they haven't
done much harm. I found them on the bank behind the carriage-house. They
must have been at the incubator, for they had two eggs and the chickens
are dead. And they are two bad, naughty children!"

Even Cynthia the peacemaker had been stirred to righteous wrath by the
sight on the river-bank.

"You rascals!" cried Jack, in a fury, shaking them each in turn; "I'd
like to lick you to pieces! You've ruined the whole hatch."

"Go straight to bed," said Edith, sternly; "you are the very worst
children I ever knew. I ought not to leave the house a minute. You can't
be trusted at all."

They all went in, scolding, storming, and crying. In the midst of the
confusion Mr. Franklin arrived, earlier than he had been expected. It
was some minutes before he could understand the meaning of the uproar.

He looked about from one to the other.

"It only serves to justify me in a conclusion that I have reached," he
said. "You are all too young to be without some one to look after you.
Take the children to bed, Edith, and then come to me. I have something
to tell you."

Edith, wondering, did as she was told. Cynthia gave Jack one despairing
look and fled from the room. Her worst fears were on the point of being
realized.

And after tea, when they were sitting as usual in the long parlor, Mr.
Franklin, with some hesitation and much embarrassment, informed them
that he was engaged to be married to Miss Hester Gordon, of Albany.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




[Illustration: TWO FAIRY SPONGES]

BY WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON.


[Illustration: Decorative T]

he pretty works of my fairy and his companions in mischief are seen on
every hand from spring until winter, but few of us have ever seen the
fay, for Puck is no myth nor Ariel a creature of the poet's fancy. Their
prototype existed in entomological entity and demoralizing
mischievousness ages before the traditional fay, in diminutive human
form, had been dreamt of. The quaint bow-legged little "brownies" which
have brought our entire land beneath the witching spell of their
drollery can scarce claim prestige in the ingenuity of their mischief,
nor can the droll doings of imps and elves chronicled in the folk-lore
of many an ancient people begin to match the actual doings of the real,
live, busy little fairy whose works abound in meadow, wood, and copse,
and which any of us may discover if we can once be brought to realize
that our imp is visible. Then we must not forget that ideal type of the
true "fairy"--a paragon of beauty and goodness, with golden hair and
dazzling crown of brilliants, with her airy costume of gossamer begemmed
and spangled, her dainty twinkling feet and gorgeously painted butterfly
wings. And we all remember that wonderful wand which she carried so
gracefully, and whose simple touch could evoke such a train of
surprising consequences.

And who shall say that our pretty fay is a myth, or her magic wand a
wild creation of the fancy? May we not see the wonder-workings of that
potent wand on every hand, even though our fairy has eluded us while she
cast the spell? There are a host of these wee fairies continually
flitting about among the trees plotting all sorts of mischief, and
leaving an astonishing witness of their visitation in their trail as
they pass from leaf to leaf or twig to twig. But these fairies, like
those of Grimm and Laboulaye, are agile little atoms, and are not to be
caught in their pranks if they know it, and even though our eye chanced
to rest on one of them, it is doubtful whether we would recognize him,
so different is the guise of these _real_ fairies from those invented
Creatures of the books. Once, when a mere boy, I caught one of the
little imps at work, and watched her for several minutes without
dreaming that I had been looking at a real fairy all this time. What did
I see? I was sitting in a clearing, partly in the shade of a sapling
growth of oak which sprang from the trunk of a felled tree. While thus
half reclining I noticed a diminutive black wasplike insect upon one of
the oak leaves close to my face.

The insect seemed almost stationary and not inclined to resent my
intrusion, so I observed her closely. I soon discovered that she was
inserting her sting into the midstem of the leaf, or, perhaps,
withdrawing it therefrom, for in a few moments the midge flew away. I
remember wondering what the insect was trying to do, and not until years
later did I realize that I had been witnessing the secret arts of the
magician of the insect world--a very Puck or Ariel, as I have said--a
fairy with a magic wand which any sprite in elfindom might covet.

The wand of Hermann never wrought such a wonder as did this magic touch
of the little black fly upon the oak leaf. Had I chanced to visit the
spot a few weeks later, what a beautiful red-cheeked apple could I have
plucked from that hemstitched leaf!

This was but one of a veritable swarm of mischief-making midges
everywhere flitting among the trees; and while they are quite as various
in their shapes as the traditional forms of fairies--the ouphes and
imps, the gnomes and elves of quaintest mien, as well as the dainty fays
and sylphs and sprites--there is one feature common to them all which
annihilates the ideal of all the pictorial authorities on fairydom.
Neither Grimm, nor Laboulaye, nor any of the masters of fairy lore seems
to have discovered that a fairy has no right to those butterfly wings
which the pages of books show us. Those of the real fairy are quite
different, being narrow and glassy, and bear the magician's peculiar
sign in their crisscross veins.

What a world of mischief is going on here in the fields! Here is one of
the witching sprites among the drooping blossoms of the oak. "You would
fain be an acorn," she says, as she pierces the tender blossoms with her
wand, "but I charge thee bring forth a string of currants"; and
immediately the blossoms begin to obey the behest, and erelong a mimic
string of currants droops upon the stem. Upon another tender branch near
by a jet-black gauze-winged elf is casting a similar spell, which is
this time followed by a tiny downy pink-cheeked peach. And here alights
a tiny sprite, whose magic touch evokes even from the _same_ leaf a
cherry, or a coral bead, perhaps a huge green apple! How many of us have
seen the little elf that spends her life among the tangles of creeping
cinque-foil, and decks its stems with those brilliant scarlet beads
which we may always find upon them, looking verily like tempting
berries.

[Illustration: THE INHABITED ROSE SPONGE.]

We see here about us swarms of these busy elves in obedience to their
own peculiar mischievous promptings. What whispers this glittering midge
to the oak twig here to which she clings so closely? We may not guess;
but if we pass this way a month or so hence what a beautiful response in
the glistening rosy-clouded sponge which encircles the stem! "But this
sponge is not pretty enough by half," exclaims a rival fairy. "Wait
until you see what yonder sweet-brier rose will do for _me_." Hovering
thither among its thorns she imparts her spell, and, lo! within a month
the stem is clothed in emerald fringe, which grows apace, until it has
become a dense pompon of deep crimson--a sponge worthy the toilet of the
fairy queen herself!

[Illustration: THE ELFIN SPONGE OF THE BRIER ROSE.]

[Illustration: THE ELFIN SPONGE OF THE OAK.]

Who shall still say that the fairy is a myth! These two fairy sponges
are familiar to us all, at least to those of us who dwell for even a
small part of the year in the country and use our eyes. Indeed, we need
go no further than our city parks, or even our "back-yard" gardens to
find at least one of them, for the sweet-brier is rarely neglected by
this particular fairy.

So many specimens of both of these sponges have been sent to me by ROUND
TABLE correspondents and others, that I have begun to wonder how many of
those other young people who have seen them and kept silence have
wondered at their secret.

[Illustration: THE ROSE MISCHIEF-MAKER.]

The two fairies which are responsible for these sponges have been
captured by the inquisitive scientist, and have had their portraits
taken for the rogues' gallery, and now we see them stuck upon tiny
little three-cornered pieces of paper, and pinned in the specimen case
as mere _insects_--gall-flies. The one is labelled _Cynips seminator_,
the other, _Cynips rosæ_.

[Illustration: THE FAIRY USING HER MAGIC WAND.]

And now the prosaic entomologist proceeds to supplant fact for fancy.
This gall-fly is a sort of cousin to the wasps, but what we would call
its sting is more than a mere sting. Like a sting, it seems to puncture
the bark or leaf, and at the same time probably to inject its drop of
venom; but at the same time it conveys to the depths of the wound a tiny
egg, or perhaps a host of them. One gall-fly is thus a magician in
chemistry, at least, for no sooner are these eggs deposited than the
wounded branch begins to swell and form a cellular growth or tumor about
them, the character of this abnormal growth depending upon the peculiar
charm of the venomous touch--to one a tiny coral globe, to another a
cluster of spines, to another a curved horn, and to our cynips of the
white or scrub oak a peculiar globular spongy growth which completely
envelops the stem, sometimes to the size of a small apple. In its prime
it is a beautiful object, with its fibrous glistening texture studded
with pink points. But this condition lasts but a few days, when the
entire mass becomes brownish and woolly, which fact has given this
insect the common name of "wool-sower."

[Illustration: THE REAL FAIRY OF THE OAK SPONGE.

A. One of the points detached. B. Section of the base.
C, D. Cynips emerging.]

And now we must lose no time if we would follow its history to its
complete cycle. If we put one of these faded sponges in a tight-closed
box, we shall in a few days learn the secret of its being. For this
singular mimic fruit, which has sprung at the behest of the gall-fly,
like other fruits, has its seeds--seeds which are animated with peculiar
life, and which sprout in a way we would hardly expect. Within a
fortnight after gathering, perhaps, we find our box swarming with tiny
black flies, while if we dissect the sponge we find its long-beaked
seeds entirely empty, and each with a clean round hole gnawed through
its shell, explaining this host of gall-flies, all similar to the parent
of a few weeks since, and all bent on the same mischief when you shall
let them loose at the window.

The beautiful sponge of the sweet-brier has been called into being by
exactly similar means. And its hard woody centre is packed full of
cells, at first each with its tiny egg, and then with its plump larva,
followed by the chrysalis, and at length by the emergence of the
full-fledged _Cynips rosæ_.

This sponge-gall of the rose is commonly known as the Bedegnar, and like
all other members of its tribe, as with the familiar oak-apple, was long
supposed to be a regular accessory fruit of its parent stalk. Among
early students were many superstitions connected with the Bedegnar, the
nature of which may readily be inferred from its other common name of
"Robin's Pin-cushion."




[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.


A LIST OF DON'TS FOR STAMP COLLECTORS.

Don't paste your stamps into your albums, but use "stickers" or
"hinges."

Don't use any old copy-book if you can afford to buy an album. Dealers
can supply albums at any price from twenty-five cents upward.

Don't trim your stamps. Many valuable stamps have been ruined by this
process.

Don't cut envelope stamps to shape. Cut them out square, leaving a good
margin on all sides.

Don't handle your stamps any more than you can help.

Don't buy rare stamps from any but responsible dealers. Some
counterfeits resemble the genuine stamps marvellously. No one not an
expert could tell them apart.

Don't buy Chinese locals, "Seebecks," and other philatelic trash, which
is made purposely for sale to stamp collectors.

Don't expect to get something for nothing.

     FRANK P. HELSEL.--The U. S. 12c. 1872 issue is worth 15 cents. The
     50c. green Mauritius 1880 issue is worth 60 cents, unused; 85
     cents, used. The "U.S. Post" is the 1864 issue; worth 15 cents.

     W. L. L. P.--Most of the Heligoland stamps sold are reprints. They
     are worth 3 cents each. Originals are worth from 15 cents to $5
     each.

     JAMES H. CREIGHTON.--The two stamps are the 3c. 1861 and 1872.
     They are sold by stamp-dealers at 1 cent each.

     J. A. M.--There is no premium on the 1872 U. S. 1c. coin.

     R. F. B.--The U. S. 2c. stamp bearing a representation of a
     horseman is the 1869 issue, worth 8 cents used, 25 cents unused.

     J. DUFF.--The coin-dealers ask $1.50 for good copies of the 1877
     trade dollar. There are several varieties of the 1801 and 1797
     copper cents worth from 25 cents to $3 each, according to
     condition. There is no premium on the Canadian coin.

     G. G. BEATTIE.--Write to any stamp-dealer whose address you find
     in our advertising columns. We cannot give addresses in this
     Department. The German coin mentioned has no premium.

     HARRY RILEY, Brunswick, Maine, wants to correspond with some
     members of the ROUND TABLE living in Central or South America.
     Most of the Hamburg stamps in albums are reprints. When the word
     "cancelled" is printed on a stamp it cannot be used for postage.
     It is simply a "specimen" or fac-simile. The Hong-Kong stamps
     mentioned by you have not yet been catalogued.

     G. KNAUFF.--Many thanks for calling my attention to the three
     varieties of the present 2c. U. S. (1) The variety in which the
     horizontal lines run across the triangular ornaments in uniform
     thickness. (2) That in which the horizontal lines between the
     outer and inner lines of the ornaments are deepened. (3) That in
     which the lines are entirely missing between the outer and inner
     lines of the ornaments. All three were known, and in addition
     there is the variety showing a flaw in the forehead. This is
     sometimes found strongly marked; in others it is more or less
     distinct. I advise philatelists to collect all these varieties, as
     well as all the shades of color, which are almost innumerable.

     LAURA WELCH.--Both the stamp and the embossed envelope were used
     by the War Department for several years. This use has been
     discontinued many years. The stamp is worth 5 cents, the 1c.
     envelope, if on white paper, is worth $2.50, if on amber paper
     $35, if on manila paper 5 cents

     L. P. DODGE.--The stamp you describe is one of the German locals
     which are not collected in this country. There are many
     counterfeits of the New Orleans Confederate local. It is
     impossible to say whether your copy is genuine or counterfeit
     without examination.

     H. R. C.--The present blue Special Delivery is collected as a new
     variety. The Sedang stamps are worthless. Your complaint will be
     investigated if you will send the Stamp Editor your full name and
     address.

     F. E. WELSH, JUN.--"Regular" perforations cut out little circles
     of white paper between each stamp on the sheet. "Pin" perforations
     are simply holes punched into the spaces between the stamps
     without removing the little circles of white paper. Saw-tooth
     perforations are simply cuts into the spaces between the stamps
     somewhat like this--v v v v v v. When the stamps are torn apart
     the margins look just like the teeth on a saw. The Columbian
     stamps are rapidly advancing in value. The 8c. Sherman has dropped
     in value during the past year from 4 cents to a 1/2 cent each.

     JAMES F. ANDERSON.--The stamp you describe is the New Orleans
     local. It is worth at least $1.50.

     A. W. DUNCAN.--The 1830 half-dollar is not at a premium.

     R. B. H.--The 3c. green U.S. is worth 1 cent.

     F. LOCKE.--The 1853 dime is worth face value only.

     GEO. H.--We cannot answer questions regarding dealers in this
     column.

     B. W. LEAVITT.--The 50c. revenue-stamps mentioned are sold by
     dealers at 2 cents each.

     C. C. COONER.--The 1c. blue 1861 is worth 3 cents; the others are
     worth 1 cent each.

PHILATUS.




THAT SLEIGHT-OF-HAND PERFORMANCE.

BY CHARLES M. SHELDON.


It had been a very dull winter at Colby, and when we college boys came
home for our Christmas vacation we determined we would liven it up for
the village.

As it happened, curiously enough, a funeral was the cause of the lively
time that followed our determination.

Old Father Colby, one of the original settlers, had died the week
before, leaving a wife and three orphaned grandchildren in the old
homestead, and, as it turned out, very destitute. So the idea occurred
to us to get up a benefit entertainment, and turn over the proceeds to
the widow Colby and her family of grandchildren.

The idea took with the neighborhood. And we at once rented the
Town-hall, and proceeded to bill the village and every barn in the
township with the notices of our performance.

There were three of us: Tom Chandler, Jonas Willitts, and myself, Peter
Samuels. We were the only village boys who had ever been to college, and
we were the envy of all the farmers' boys and the admiration of all the
village girls. So we made the most of our brief vacations to get into
public notice.

We determined to give a sleight-of-hand performance. Tom sent down to
Boston for materials, and we all practised diligently, keeping
everything as secret as if we were in a conspiracy against the United
States.

Our announcements, which were scattered all over the township, were
certainly very attractive. They read as follows:

"Extraordinary Performance to be given at the Town-hall, Colby, December
20, 18--. Marvellous Feats of Prestidigitatorism! The Egg and the
Handkerchief! The Watch Mortar and Magic Pistol!

"The Handkerchief that will not Burn! The Pudding in the Hat! The
Inexhaustible Bottle! And Numerous other Marvels and Mysteries lately
Imported from India and the East!

"The above Unrivalled Performance will be given for only 25 cents
admission. Proceeds to be devoted to Benevolent Cause. Doors open at
7.30. Performance to begin at 8. Come early and avoid being turned away.
No reserved seats. Carriages may be ordered for ten o'clock."

We debated some over the last line on the handbills, but finally decided
to let it go in. It made the bills look more cosmopolitan and did no
harm.

Tom and Jonas were to be the principal performers. I was general ticket
agent and business and stage manager. We all had our dress suits with
us, and, of course, we wore them when the time came.

Well, that was the largest crowd that ever came to an entertainment in
Colby. There hadn't been anything going on all winter. Most of the young
people had never seen any sleight-of-hand tricks, and all the old people
turned out to help Grandma Colby. Before eight o'clock the hall was
jammed. Every seat was taken, and people crowded into the broad aisle
and sat on the platform, and stood up all around in a black fringe
against the wall.

We had rigged up a curtain in front of the narrow platform, and at eight
o'clock, when the hall was so full that no more people could get into
it, the curtain was pulled aside by Peter Samuels, the stage director,
and revealed the Magician's Home.

The first trick on the programme was "The Egg and the Handkerchief."
Jonas was behind the table acting as Tom's assistant, while I was
stationed just out of sight behind a fold of the curtain, ready to step
in at the right moment, for the trick required the use of three persons.

It was simple enough, and yet Tom's blunder at the start led to the
ridiculous accident which was the first of a series that made that
sleight-of-hand performance a thing for Colby people to reckon time
from.

The trick was, first, for Tom to produce an egg from Jonas's month by
rapping him on the back of his head, Jonas already having been provided
with a guinea-hen's egg secreted in his mouth for the purpose. Then,
when the egg appeared, Tom was to pretend to place it in a handkerchief,
really substituting for it a china egg of the same size, and slipping
the real egg into a little pochette of his dress-coat. What he did,
however, was to drop the real egg into the handkerchief, because, as he
afterwards said, the china egg stuck in his pochette, and he could not
get it out. The next part of the trick was to gather up the four corners
of the handkerchief and whirl it around rapidly, saying, "Ladies and
gentlemen, keep your eyes on my assistant yonder." At that point I
stepped out, holding on a plate a very nice-looking sponge-cake
previously prepared. Then Tom was to say: "I will now cause the egg in
the handkerchief to pass into the cake. Watch closely, ladies and
gentlemen."

At that point Tom should have brought the handkerchief around in such a
way as to slip the china egg out into his other hand. Then I was to come
forward and cut open the cake, displaying an egg (also china),
previously placed within. And then Tom was to have produced the real
egg, and in order to prove that it was a real egg within the cake
(exchanging the two by palming one of them), he was to break the real
one into a dish.

All this, which sounds so complex to describe, was simple enough as we
had rehearsed it, and even with Tom's blunder of dropping the real egg
in the handkerchief, might have turned out all right if he had not let
go one of the corners of the handkerchief as he whirled it around his
head. I, Peter Samuels, stage manager and director of that extraordinary
performance of "Marvellous Feats of Prestidigitatorism," will never
forget my sensations when, as I advanced solemnly with the cake, a white
body whizzed through the air and struck me full on my expansive shirt
bosom, breaking with a splash, and running down over my vest and
trousers in a yellow stream.

I remember the scared look on Jonas's face, the perfectly horrified
expression that Tom wore, and also remember dimly wondering if a
guinea-fowl's egg would make as large an omlet as that of an ostrich.
For it seemed to me as if I was swimming in egg batter.

The next instant the audience broke into a perfect roar of laughter. I
threw the cake down on the table and rushed back of the curtain again,
leaving Tom and Jonas to get out of the blunder as best they could,
while I wiped off the egg as best I could with my handkerchief.

How that audience did roar! Tom stood with a knife in his hand waiting
to cut the cake. He said afterwards he felt mad enough to jump down off
the platform and pummel half a dozen big boys on the front seat. But he
kept his temper, and when the laugh died down he cut the cake open and
showed the egg, saying something about its being a small-sized egg on
account of spilling a part of it on the way. So that mystified the
people a little and restored the reputation of the performance, at least
for a while.

The next trick was an easy one, and went off without any slip, and was
applauded. Tom and Jonas had the stage to themselves for a while, and I
staid out of sight and scrubbed at the egg. But do what I could, my
shirt bosom was ruined.

Then came the "Watch Mortar" trick, and to my dying day I shall never
forget how that turned out. Neither will Tom.

We had an apparatus made to resemble an old-fashioned druggists' mortar.
It was really made of tin, in two compartments, so that any heavy object
dropped into it would depress a false bottom and drop through on a shelf
back of the magician's table, at the same time letting into the upper
part of the mortar the fragments of an old watch previously pounded into
bits. Then Tom was to pretend to smash the borrowed watch, and
afterwards fire a pistol at me and take the real watch from my vest
pocket, where he would place it when he went back of the scenes for his
pistol.

He described his intentions and asked for a watch from the audience.
Uncle Job Cavendish, the village barber, handed up an old silver-case
time-piece that was worth perhaps $3.

Tom took it, and after a good deal of talk, dropped it down into the
mortar, picked up the ridiculous club used for a pestle, and began to
pound away. There was a great smashing sound, and poor Uncle Job looked
serious. But he did not begin to look half so serious as Tom did, and I
saw in a minute that something was wrong.

He dropped the pestle, and said hurriedly to the audience, "Ladies and
gentlemen, I find I have left my pistol in the other room. Excuse me
while I run after it."

Then Tom came into the wing where I stood, and jerking his own gold
watch out of his pocket, thrust it into mine, and whispered to me
fiercely, "That mortar stuck in some way, and I smashed Uncle Job's
watch into chicken-feed! Here is mine! I'll have to give him something
back, or we'll be mobbed out of the village!"

Then he grabbed up the stage pistol and hurried back. He rammed the
remains of Uncle Job's poor watch down the big mouth of the pistol, and
I stepped forth, baring my egg-stained bosom to the pistol shot. Bang!
went the powder from the false chamber of the pistol, and Tom, with a
ghastly smile, stepped up to me and pulled his watch out of my pocket,
and with the utmost courage leaned out over the edge of the platform and
handed the watch to Uncle Job, saying, "Here you are, sir! Not only as
good as new, but changed from silver to gold!"

Uncle Job was so taken by surprise that he sat with open mouth. He took
the watch and looked at it in dumb astonishment. The audience was taken
as much by surprise as he was.

Tom and Jonas held a hurried consultation, and at once announced the
next trick. There was a great deal of confusion in the hall. Several
voices shouted out, "Show the silver watch!" Tom paid no attention, and
the next half-dozen tricks were so well done that the people applauded,
and we began to gain fresh courage.

But alas! The next on the programme was the "Handkerchief that will not
burn."

Almost any one with a little practice can pass a handkerchief obliquely
through the flame of a candle without burning it. All that is needed is
the proper dexterity. And this caution must be heeded. The handkerchief
must be free from cologne or perfumery, which contains spirits, and is
very inflammable.

This was Jonas's trick. He called for a lady's handkerchief, and who
should hand one up but Sally Conners, the prettiest girl in the village,
and the one of all with whom Jonas was smitten.

But to the grief of Jonas, Sally was very much addicted to perfumery,
and had that evening drenched her handkerchief with it. Jonas lighted
the candle, keeping up a running talk about making the handkerchief
enchanted, and then he passed it through the flame.

The effect could not have been more certain if he had poured kerosene on
the candle. Poor Sally's delicate perfume-drenched handkerchief blazed
up in an instant like a display of fireworks. Jonas squeezed his hands
around the fragments that were left, and danced around the stage,
howling at the sudden pain of the burn. And the audience went wild. I
thought it never would stop laughing. Tom was desperate. I could see he
meant to conclude the performance before we had ruined our reputations
forever.

With becoming modesty he addressed himself to the audience when it had
tired of laughing, and announced that the entertainment would close with
the startling trick, "The pudding in the hat."

He and Jonas had practised this until they felt sure of it. Like all
sleight-of-hand tricks, it is easy enough if properly done.

First Jonas prepared a dish of batter made of eggs broken in, shells and
all, a little flour, milk, raisins, and molasses. A ridiculous mixture,
from which, he assured the audience, would come forth a beautiful
pudding, nicely baked in a stovepipe hat, which he would wear on his own
head to prove that there was nothing in it. A sentence which had a
double meaning, and to which Jonas fully assented in every particular
before the evening was over.

Well, the dish that held the batter was poured into the hat, apparently.
Of course it was really poured into a tin which exactly fitted into the
hat, and which contained also a second tin concealing the pudding,
tipped into it by Tom at the proper moment. Then the next part of the
trick consisted in placing the hat on Jonas's head, while he was to
strut about the stage jauntily. Then the hat would be removed, and lo!
in the centre of it would be found the pudding nicely baked.

[Illustration: THEN THE WHOLE HAT SEEMED TO LET GO LIKE A BROKEN
RESERVOIR.]

Now, whether Tom made some mistake in getting those tins canted into the
hat properly or not will never be known. Perhaps he pulled the hat down
too hard over Jonas's brows when he put it on him, and so loosened
something. At any rate, Jonas had not taken two steps before a streak of
batter was seen running down over his face. Then the whole hat seemed to
let go like a broken reservoir, and the milk and molasses and egg and
flour streamed down in a shower over the miserable Jonas.

He tried to pull the hat off, and did so, leaving on his head, however,
the tins, which gave him the most astonishing appearance possible. Tom
fell back on the table in an agony of laughter, and in doing so sat down
on the dish that had contained the batter. The audience simply cried
itself hoarse with laughter. Sally Conners screamed with all her might,
and all the farmers' boys, who were present for miles around, haw-hawed,
and the old folks almost died looking at poor Jonas. In the midst of it
all, I, Peter Samuels, stage director, drew the curtain, and with the
other two performers stole down the back stairs, and made a run for
home, and so the great sleight-of-hand performance came to an end.

The Colby people never forgot that performance. We never did, either.
Uncle Job kept Tom's watch until he left for college, and then gave it
back to him, and Tom bought him a new silver time-piece. The widow Colby
and her grandchildren realized a good sum from the entertainment, and
the next vacation we three boys spent in the city. I am afraid Jonas has
lost the favor of Sally Conners, for she never can speak of him without
laughing. But then Sally always did laugh on almost any provocation.




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


So far as is known, no schedule of interscholastic track and field
records has ever before been printed, and although the table published
in this issue is as accurate as can be made under the circumstances,
still there are doubtless a few errors scattered around in it somewhere
that will be discovered by sharp-eyed readers in the very near future.
If the latter will inform this Department of the mistakes as soon as
they are found out, the table may be depended upon to be absolutely
exact the next time it is printed--and it certainly will be offered in
better form. To-day I have been obliged to put two bicycle events and
two hammer and shot events on the list, because the interscholastic
associations in the various parts of the country are about evenly
divided in the choice of distances and the use of weights. I have left
out entirely such acrobatic events as the hop, step, and jump, and
throwing the baseball, because they are not athletic, and do not deserve
to be recognized on any interscholastic programme. Perhaps a year from
now the school associations will have come to the conclusion that, take
it all in all, it is really better to have a uniform measure of
efficiency in sport as well as in anything else, and then a comparative
table will be of more value.

INTERSCHOLASTIC RECORDS OF THE UNITED STATES, 1895.

  Event.                         Record.             Maker.

  100-yard dash                     10-1/5 sec.   F. H. Bigelow.
  220-yard run                      22-2/5  "     F. H. Bigelow.
  440-yard run                      50-3/5  "     T. E. Burke.
  Half-mile inn               2 m.   4-1/5  "     J. A. Meehan.
  Mile run                    4 "   34-2/5  "     W. T. Laing.
  Mile walk                   7 "   17-3/5  "     A. N. Butler.
  120-yard hurdle                   15-3/5  "     A. F. Beers.
  220-yard hurdle                   26-1/2  "     Field.
  Mile bicycle                2 "   34-1/5  "     I. A. Powell.
  Two-mile bicycle            5 "   18-2/5  "     Baker.
  Running high jump           5 ft. 11     in.    S. A. W. Baltazzi.
  Running broad jump         21 "    6      "     C. Brewer.
  Pole vault                 10 "    7      "     B. Johnson.
  Throwing 12-lb. hammer    125 "                 R. F. Johnson.
  Throwing 16-lb. hammer    111 "   10      "     F. G. Beck.
  Putting 12-lb. shot        40 "      3/4  "     A. C. Ayres.
  Putting 16-lb. shot        39 "    3      "     M. O'Brien.

  Event.                       School.

  100-yard dash             Worcester H.-S.
  220-yard run              Worcester H.-S.
  440-yard run              Boston English H.-S.
  Half-mile inn             Condon, N.Y.
  Mile run                  Phillips Academy, Andover.
  Mile walk                 Hillhouse H.-S., New Haven.
  120-yard hurdle           De La Salle, N.Y.
  220-yard hurdle           Hartford H.-S.
  Mile bicycle              Cutler, N.Y.
  Two-mile bicycle          Hotchkiss, Lakeville, Conn.
  Running high jump         Harvard, N.Y.
  Running broad jump        Hopkinson, Boston.
  Pole vault                Worcester Academy.
  Throwing 12-lb. hammer    Brookline H.-S.
  Throwing 16-lb. hammer    Hillhouse H.-S.
  Putting 12-lb. shot       Condon, N.Y.
  Putting 16-lb. shot       Boston English H.-S.

  Event.                        Time and place.

  100-yard dash             N.E.I.S.A.A. games, 1894.
  220-yard run              N.E.I.S.A.A. games, 1894.
  440-yard run              N.E.I S.A.A. games, 1894.
  Half-mile inn             N.Y.I.S.A.A. games, May 11, 1895.
  Mile run                  N.E.I.S.A.A. games, 1894
  Mile walk                 Conn. H.-S.A.A. games, June 8, 1895
  120-yard hurdle           N.Y.I.S.A.A. games, May 11, 1895.
  220-yard hurdle           Conn. H.-S.A.A. games, June 8, 1895.
  Mile bicycle              N.Y.I.S.A.A. games, May 11, 1895.
  Two-mile bicycle          Conn. H.-S.A.A. games, June 8, 1895.
  Running high jump         N.Y.I.S.A.A. games, May 11, 1895.
  Running broad jump        N.E.I.S.A.A. games, 1890.
  Pole vault                N.E.I.S.A.A. games, June 15, 1895.
  Throwing 12-lb. hammer    N.E.I.S.A.A. games, 1894.
  Throwing 16-lb. hammer    Conn. H.-S.A.A. games, June 8, 1895.
  Putting 12-lb. shot       N.Y.I.S.A.A. games, May 11, 1895.
  Putting 16-lb. shot       N.E.I.S.A.A. games, 1894.

INTER-COLLEGIATE RECORDS OF THE UNITED STATES, 1895.

  Event.                       Record.          Made by.

                                             { E. J. Wendell, Harvard; W.
                                             { Baker, Harvard; C. H.
  100-yard dash                 10     sec.  { Sherrill, Yale; L. Cary,
                                             { Princeton; E. S. Ramsdell,
                                             { Penn.
  220-yard dash                 21-4/5  "    L. H. Cary, Princeton.
  Quarter-mile run              47-3/4  "    W. Baker, Harvard.
  Half-mile run            1 m. 55-1/4  "    W. C. Dohm, Princeton.
  Mile run                 4 "  23-2/5  "    G. W. Orton, Penn.
  Mile walk                6 "  42-4/5  "    F. A. Borcheling, Princeton.
  120-yard hurdle               15-4/5  "    H. L. Williams, Yale.
  220-yard hurdle               24-3/5  "    J. L. Bremer, Harvard.
  Two-mile bicycle         4 "  10      "    W. D. Osgood, Penn.
  Running high jump        6 ft. 4     in.   W. B. Page, Penn.
  Running broad jump      23 "               L. P. Sheldon, Yale.
  Pole vault              11 "   2-3/4 "     C. T. Buckholz, Penn.
  Throwing 16-lb. ham'r  135 "   7-1/2 "     W. O. Hickok, Yale.
  Putting 16-lb. shot     44 "   1-1/2 "     W. O. Hickok, Yale.

How is it possible to gauge the performances of school champions with
those of others--college-men and athletic club amateurs--when we have no
common ratio? We cannot, of course. For instance, take Beers's record of
15-3/5 sec. in the high hurdles, made at the New York Interscholastics
last May. On paper this looks very well. It apparently beats the
inter-collegiate record made by Harry Williams in 1891, by one-fifth of
a second. But it really does not. Beers ran his race over lower hurdles,
and so it is not possible to make a comparison. The hurdles used by the
N.Y.I.S.A.A. are only 3 feet high, whereas the inter-collegiate sticks
are 3 ft. 6 in. Some of the interscholastic associations use the
standard 3 ft. 6 in. hurdles, but as it was impossible to ascertain
exactly what the records were that had been made over these at school
meetings in the past, I took the fastest time over the dwarfed hurdles,
and let it go in as a fit companion for the 12-lb. shot and hammer and
the mile bicycle-race.

In the future, however, I shall give little attention to these one-eyed
records. The college associations have set up a standard of distance and
weight which experience has shown to be a good one. A sufficient number
of interscholastic associations have adopted the same standard, thereby
making it clearly evident that it is none too high for school-boy
athletes. Therefore, in making out a comparative table of college and
school records, this Department will accept the standard established by
the I.C.A.A.A. and adopted by the majority of the interscholastic
associations. If in the near future a general interscholastic league is
formed, I feel sure that its legislators will agree with me in this, and
will adopt the same course when they lay out their programme.

It is to be regretted that the Oakland, Cal., High-School athletic team
was unable to accept the Stockton High-School's challenge for dual games
to be held on June 15th last, but unless something unforeseen turns up
the meeting will be held soon after the next school term begins, which
is in August. The California schools open about five weeks earlier than
our Eastern institutions, and the football season with them, therefore,
starts in the closing days of summer. There will also be the semi-annual
field day of the Academic Athletic League at about that time, or in
September, and bicycle road races, in which teams from the several
schools of the A.A.L. will be matched against one another. At the field
day there will be a contest for the all 'round championship of the
Pacific Coast Association. Five or six events will be selected from the
programme, and every competitor for the championship will have to
compete in each one, the champion to be the winner of the greatest
number of points.

The object of this athletic Department in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE is not
only to criticise and comment upon the various sports of the calender,
but also to explain any intricate points of these games, to answer
questions on matters of sport and athletics, and to give all such
information as shall justly come under the head of Interscholastic
Sport. A number of correspondents have requested that some space be
devoted to an explanation of the "100-up" method of scoring in tennis,
and to give the rules for odds. This "100-up" method, sometimes called
the "Pastime" system, was devised a few years ago to meet the defects of
the old system of scoring, which had been handed down to us from the
ancient English game of tennis. The latter has a good many disadvantages
in spite of its universal use, the chief objection being that it
frequently happens in a match that a player scores more strokes, or even
more games, than his antagonist, and yet is beaten. This, of course, is
manifestly unfair; and as for handicaps, in which more than two players
are competing, the complex and unsatisfactory system of adjusting the
odds according to the old way is unnecessarily complicated.

The rules for the "100-up" method are comparatively simple and very
easily remembered after having been used once or twice. The player who
serves first must serve six times in succession, and then his opponent
does the same, the service changing always after each one has served six
consecutive times. One fault and one good service; two faults; or one
good service counts as a service. After the first, third, fifth, or, in
other words, every alternate series of service, the players change
courts, thus making each six successive services one series of services.
The first player to score one hundred points wins the game; but the
match can be played for any number of points--more or less than a
hundred--as the contestants may agree upon beforehand. The usual figure,
however, is one hundred. If the score comes to be 99-all, play goes on
as before, until one of the players has a majority of two points. He
then wins; but no game can be won by a lesser majority than two points.

The odds in the regular old-fashioned method of counting are, briefly,
thus: A "bisque" is one point that can be taken by the receiver of the
odds at any time during the set except after a service is delivered, or,
if he is serving, after a fault. "Half fifteen" is one stroke given at
the beginning of the second, fourth, and every alternate game of a set,
and "fifteen" is one stroke given at the beginning of every game. In the
same way "thirty" is two strokes given at the beginning of every game,
whereas "half thirty" is one stroke given at the beginning of the first
game, two at the beginning of the second, one at the beginning of the
third, and so on, two and one, alternately, until the end of the set.
"Forty" is three strokes before every game, "half forty" three and two,
alternately, as before. "Owed odds" signifies that the giver of the odds
starts behind scratch. Thus "owe half fifteen" means that one stroke is
owed at the beginning of the first, third, fifth, and every alternate
game of the set. Other "owed odds" are reckoned inversely in the same
manner as given odds. If a player gives odds of "half court," he agrees
to play in a certain half of the court, either the right or the left,
and he loses a stroke whenever he returns a ball outside any of the
lines that bound that half court.

But the newest of all the systems of odds, and the one now most
generally used by experts, is called the "quarter" system. In this
method fifteen is divided into four quarters, and thus a closer handicap
may be obtained. "One quarter" of fifteen is one stroke given at the
beginning of the second, sixth, and every fourth game thereafter in the
set. "Two quarters" (the "half fifteen" spoken of above) is one stroke
at the beginning of the second, fourth, sixth, etc., games. "Three
quarters" is one stroke at the beginning of the second, third, fourth,
sixth, seventh, and eighth games, and so on. When it is "odds owed," as
before, "one quarter" is one stroke in the first and fifth games; "two
quarters" is one stroke in the first and third; and "three quarters" is
one stroke in the first, third, and fourth games, and so on to the end
of the set. In order to get odds at a similar ratio when the match is
being scored on the "100-up" system, the following table of equivalents
has been adopted:

  1 quarter of 15 =  5 points per 100
  2 quarters    "   11    "        "
  3     "       "   16    "        "
  15    "       "   22    "        "
  15.1  "       "   27    "        "
  15.2  "       "   32    "        "
  15.3  "       "   38    "        "
  30    "       "   43    "        "
  30.1  "       "   49    "        "
  30.2  "       "   54    "        "
  30.3  "       "   59    "        "
  40    "       "   65    "        "

The principal difficulty about this new system of odds, except for
experts and for those who play constantly, is the difficulty of
remembering it. It certainly takes more study to become familiar with it
than with the old half-point system. In that the odds change at every
game, and change directly back again even when most complicated, so that
really all there is to remember is which odds came with the service. The
chief advantage of the "quarter" system is that it affords greater
accuracy, and to experts this is a sufficient compensation for its
intricacy. I should not advise the average player, however, to bother
with it, for, unless he intends to try for a national championship, life
is too short to devote many hours of study to the "quarter" system.

Another correspondent asks for information as to the best way to get up
a tennis tournament, and now that we are on the subject of tennis, his
query might just as well be disposed of. A tournament, like anything
else, demands time and care in preparation if it is to be a success.
Don't put off everything until the last moment, or the day will surely
be a failure; whereas, if thought is given to all the small details that
go to make such an occasion enjoyable, everything will go as easily as
rolling off a log. In the first place, those who want to arrange a
tournament, or the committee which has been chosen to make the
arrangements, should get together and discuss the situation and decide
what they want to do and how they want to do it. In this preliminary
talk a calculation of expenses should first be made. Find out how much
money will probably be required, and then, as a measure of safety, add
about ten per cent. to that, for expenses are usually underestimated.
Having determined how much money will be needed, make arrangements for
securing that amount either by subscription, entrance fees, or sale of
tickets. If the tournament is to be conducted by a club, there will
probably be some money in the treasury that can be used. It is not
usually advisable, and seldom practicable at an impromptu summer tennis
tournament, to demand admission fees of the spectators.

The financial part of the enterprise having now been attended to, a
treasurer should be appointed to take charge of the funds, and to keep
an account of all receipts and expenditures. Of course, if, as I have
said before, the tournament is being held by a club, many of these
details are already fulfilled by previous organization. The date should
be the next thing decided. In each instance there will be many
circumstances affecting this date. If the idea of having a tournament is
being discussed with a view to holding it later in the summer, find out
what players will be in the neighborhood at that time, and try to invite
players to visit the locality at about that period. If you only have a
week or ten days in which to make your preparations (for a small
tournament), try to fix on a day when there will be nothing else of
importance going on near by. The chief object of the managers or of the
committee should be to secure as large an attendance as possible, for a
crowd will encourage the players to better effort.

The date having been settled upon, send out notices. State clearly all
the facts. Say at what place, on what date, and at what time of day the
tournament is to be held; and also under whose auspices. Give a list of
the events--such as men's singles, doubles, women's singles, mixed
doubles, or whatever there is to be; state the requirements for
entrances, and give the date when entries close. Be sure to give the
name and address of the person who has been assigned to receive these
entries. State also in the notice the hours of play, the number of sets
to the match, the kind of balls that are to be used, and announce any
special regulations that it may have been found necessary to adopt.
Finally, enumerate the prizes; but remember that it is always in better
taste to make these inexpensive and more in the nature of souvenirs of
the occasion than trophies.

The notices disposed of and sent out, the managers should now see that
the courts are rolled and otherwise put in order, so that they may be in
the best possible condition on the day set for the tournament. There
should be a plentiful supply of balls, for sometimes an entire box is
used in a match. In large tournaments I have seen the players dispose of
a box every set. At each end of the net put up a couple of chairs on
boxes for the umpires, and arrange seats about the court for the
spectators. If there are not enough chairs and benches handy, lay boards
on boxes, and so produce impromptu settees. Don't fail to hire a couple
of boys to pick up the balls.

All these details are necessary ones; there are a few others that might
be termed luxuries, such as having printed tickets and programmes, and
an awning stretched along one side of the court to shelter the ladies
from the sun. One more necessary point, however, is to secure competent
judges and umpires, otherwise something might occur during play that
would mar the pleasure of the day. Of course it would be a
misunderstanding, but this can be easily avoided by having officials
fully conversant with the game and familiar with the duties required of
them.

After all the entries have been received, make the drawings, and, if
possible, post them somewhere where all those interested in the coming
tournament will be able to see them. When, on the day set, the hour to
begin play arrives, start promptly. Delay is always fatal to the success
of any sporting event. People don't like to sit around and wait. But all
that I have said here is merely in the line of suggestion. Many little
matters crop up as soon as any enterprise of this kind is entered into,
and these questions have to be settled according to the emergency. Let
the central idea be to anticipate anything that might happen; then, as a
rule, nothing will happen.

  THE GRADUATE.




[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

     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.


HOW TO CATCH CLOUDS.

   7th.  About
  11th.  this
  14th.  time
  17th.  look
  21st.  out
  28th.  for
  31st.  storms.

This was usually the weather warning in the old-time almanacs which the
farmer was in the habit of consulting nightly, in order to make his
plans for his haying or harvesting, his sowing or reaping, the success
of which depended on the state of the weather.

The amateur photographer who makes a specialty of landscapes should put
this warning in his note-book, substituting the word clouds for that of
storms, changing it to read, "About this time look out for clouds."

A picture of a landscape with clouds in the sky is much finer than where
the sky is perfectly white, and cloud pictures themselves are very
interesting.

It is not an easy matter to catch the clouds even when the sky is full
of them. If they are obtained in the negative, they are usually lost in
the printing, as the landscape portion of the negative, being less dense
than the sky, prints much more quickly, and to obtain a print of the
clouds the lines of the landscape would be almost black from
over-printing.

There is a device called a "cloud-catcher," which is a shutter so
arranged with adjustable disks that the foreground or landscape part of
the picture is given a time exposure, while the sky is taken
instantaneously. This is supposed to give the proper time of exposure
for each part of the picture.

The amateur cannot always afford such an attachment, and, in order to
obtain clouds in his landscapes, must resort to various devices of
developing and printing.

The most common method is to take two pictures, one exposed for the sky,
and the other for the landscape, and print from both negatives. In
printing from a "sky"-and-"landscape" negative, print the sky first,
covering the part of the sensitive paper on which the landscape is to be
printed. After printing the sky, place the other negative in the frame
and print the landscape. It does not matter if the opaque paper which
covers the landscape does not follow the horizon lines exactly, as the
darker tones of the landscape will blot out the outlines of the clouds
if they lap on the horizon.

If one has a negative where the clouds are good but will not print out
unless the rest of the picture is over-printed, a good print may be
obtained by this simple device: Take an empty tin-can a little longer
than the printing-frame. Cut off the top and bottom, and cut the can in
two the long way. This will give you a piece of rolled tin. Flatten one
edge, leaving the other curved. Attach the flat edge to the side of the
printing-frame so as to shield the landscape part of the negative. This
will make a shade for this part of the negative, which prints the
fastest, and thus retard the printing, allowing the denser portions a
longer time to print. A shaded negative should always be printed in
diffused light, not in the direct rays of the sun.

Pictures of clouds, or rather, _false_ clouds, are made by holding the
negative over the flame of a candle and letting the glass side become
covered with lamp-black. Then, with a soft tuft of cotton, wipe off the
smoke in places, leaving the outlines of clouds on the glass. Very good
clouds can be made by this method with a little practice. Another way is
to attach a piece of fine tissue-paper to the negative and sketch clouds
in the sky portion, unless the sky is very dense. A thin sky is often
improved by these sham clouds.

[Illustration: PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN IN THE TYROL, SHOWING CLOUD EFFECT.]

The picture which we reproduce here was taken by Sir Knight Sidney
Stearns, of Cleveland, Ohio. It was taken at Halle in the Tyrol, time
nearly sunset. The sun, as may be seen by looking at the picture, is at
the left of the camera and well toward the front. This is usually the
best direction from which the strongest light should fall, either from
the left or right and near the front of the camera. One should seldom or
never take a picture with the sun directly behind the camera.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




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

[Illustration: Royal Baking Powder]




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




[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.




[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 final run into Albany on the road from New York, according to the
plan which we have been following--that is, of making the journey in
four days--is from Hudson to Albany, a distance of twenty-eight to
thirty miles. Leaving Hudson, which was the northernmost point reached
on last week's map, the rider goes out on to the main road by the way of
Fourth Street and Pond Road, and thence follows the telegraph poles
direct to Stockport, passing through Stottville. The road is hilly while
running from the town of Hudson, and about half-way from Stottville to
Stockport there is another rather stiff hill. The distance is a little
over five miles, and the road is poor, on the whole, owing to its
rolling nature and the fact that the road-bottom is largely clay. From
Stockport to Stuyvesant Falls it improves a little, though it is
somewhat hilly. The rider should follow the telegraph poles all the way,
and keep a sharp lookout for L.A.W. signs, which will be of great
assistance wherever they are found. This run is about three and
three-quarters or four miles, and the next stage, from Stuyvesant Falls
to Kinderhook, is four miles. There is no difficulty in following the
road, with the possible exception of an abrupt fork about one and
one-half or two miles out of Stuyvesant Falls. Here, of course, the
rider should keep to the right on the main road. From Kinderhook to Pine
Grove is a little under five miles. Keep to the left at Kinderhook after
leaving the Kinderhook Hotel, keeping always to the Albany Post Road
with the telegraph poles. Thence continue from Pine Grove to Schodack
Centre, and when you have made four and one-half miles, and crossed two
small bridges, turn to the right at Willow Trees, whence the run to
Schodack Centre is clearly marked, a distance, in all, of a little over
eight miles. From here the run to the Hudson, opposite Albany, passes
through East Greenbush, three miles away, and finally brings up at the
Hudson at South Bridge, a little less than five miles further. This last
stage of the journey is somewhat hilly again, and there is a bad descent
just before reaching Greenbush, where the rider should take the utmost
care, owing to the fact that the hill itself is bad, and the difficulty
complicated by a railroad crossing. On reaching the Hudson the rider
should cross on South Bridge, and running into Albany turn into
Broadway, thence to State Street, thence to North Pearl Street, and
finally put up at the Kenmore Hotel.

While this run from New York to Albany is in parts hilly, and while
occasionally the rider will strike a bit of difficult road, it is
nevertheless one of the best bicycle trips in the United States, not
only on account of the condition of the roads, but on account of its
picturesque and historical interest. As was said last week, any one who
intends to take the trip, or who can give the time to it, is strongly
advised to take a week to do it in, to cross the Hudson several times on
the way, and make short runs into the country on the other side. It is
possible in this way for a rider of reasonable experience to see
practically the whole of the Hudson River valley between these two
points, and to have a fine outing without doing too much "scorching,"
or, on the other hand, taking the journey too slowly. The distance from
New York to Albany, or rather from Central Park and 110th Street to the
Kenmore Hotel, is one hundred and fifty-three and three-quarter miles,
and by taking seven or eight days to the trip, the rider can easily
cover three to four hundred miles in his excursions off the main route.

     NOTE.--Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of
     route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford,
     Connecticut, in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New
     Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814.
     Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816.
     Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in
     No. 818.




[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.


I have talked to you about notes and letters in a previous number of the
paper, but some of my ROUND TABLE readers ask to have the subject
treated again, with special attention to correspondence of a ceremonious
character.

A note of invitation should be very cordial, affectionate, and explicit.
You should state clearly in such a note the day and train which you
would like your friend to take, and the length of time you expect her to
stay with you. Formerly it was regarded as inhospitable to limit in any
way the duration of a friend's visit, but we understand now that it is
more convenient and comfortable for all concerned to have the precise
number of days or weeks indicated. This arrangement enables your friends
to make other engagements, and leaves you free to invite other friends
if, as often happens, you can have the pleasure of entertaining
successive guests during a summer. Let me give you some examples.

Mary Hills wishes to ask Abby Lewis to spend a week with her at Dove's
Nest in the Catskills, Mary's country home. Her letter of invitation
might be written as follows:

  DOVE'S NEST, TANNERSVILLE P.O., NEW YORK.

     DEAREST ABBY,--It seems very long since I saw you. Mamma and I
     were talking last night about the delightful visit we had at your
     home just before the Van Blarcoms went abroad. It is very lovely
     at Dove's Nest now, and we are anxious to have you see the place
     while our sweet-pease and nasturtiums are in bloom. Won't you come
     on Thursday, the twentieth, by the ten-o'clock train (West Shore),
     and stay with me till Monday, the thirty-first? I will meet you at
     the station on Thursday afternoon. We have a new golf course, and
     all sorts of pleasant things are going on.

     Hoping soon to see you, I am, dear Abby,

  Yours lovingly,
  MARY HILLS.
  July fifteenth, eighteen--

Abby's reply would probably be somewhat like this:

  182 SEVENTY-EIGHTH STREET, NEW YORK.

     DEAR, DEAR MARY,--How good you are to ask me for so charming a
     visit! It will give me the greatest pleasure to go to you on the
     twentieth and to stay for ten days, as you suggest. You may expect
     to see me flying down the station to meet you when the ten-o'clock
     train reaches the mountains on that afternoon. I can hardly wait
     for the blissful time to arrive. Mamma sends her love, and I am,
     as ever,

  Devotedly yours,
  ABBY LEWIS.

A household critic suggests to me at this point that "Dearest Abby" and
"Dear, dear Mary," are rather gushing, and not quite in the approved
literary style which ought to be shown to girls. But I am talking to
real girls, and I know how they write, and I don't mind in the least a
little effervescence in the way of adjectives. I like girls to call me
"Dearest" when they write to me, and I don't mind their saying "Dear" to
one another over and over again.

How much luggage you must take when going on a visit depends on the
length of the visit and the number of engagements it will include. As a
rule, in our changeable climate you will need, in going away from home,
something thick and something thin. A trunk is a great comfort, though
one can manage with a large bag or a telescope, while a man's suit-case
lends itself finely to the folding of a girl's gown.

With two or three pretty shirt-waists and a nice skirt, a simple dress
for evenings, and a warm stuff costume of serge or flannel for cool or
rainy mornings, a girl will be supplied for every needful requirement.
One's own dainty home wardrobe is sufficient for a visit, and if the
sailor hat be trim, the shoes and gloves in order, and the girl carry
herself gracefully, nobody will think a second time about her dress.

As soon as possible after a journey lay aside your travelling dress, and
make a fresh toilette before joining the family. Try to ascertain the
family habits, and conform to them.

I heard not long ago of a girl, said to be very clever and bright, who
exclaimed: "Make my own bed! Why, I wouldn't know how to begin! I
couldn't get the sheets on straight!" She wasn't a Pudding Stick girl of
mine, I'm happy to say. More on this subject next time.

[Illustration: Signature]

       *       *       *       *       *

SICKNESS AMONG CHILDREN

is prevalent at all seasons of the year, but can be avoided largely when
they are properly cared for. _Infant Health_ is the title of a valuable
pamphlet accessible to all who will send address to the New York
Condensed Milk Co., N. Y. City.--[_Adv._]




ADVERTISEMENTS.




Arnold

Constable & Co

       *       *       *       *       *

MISSES' AND CHILDREN'S

Wash Suits

GREATLY REDUCED PRICES.

       *       *       *       *       *

Broadway & 19th st.

NEW YORK.




[Illustration]

Trilby's Foot

was perfect (perhaps yours is), but even perfect feet get tired, and
nothing takes out the tired aches like Pond's Extract.

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

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




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.




=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]




Commit to Memory

the best things in Prose and Poetry, always including good Songs and
Hymns. It is surprising how little good work of this kind seems to be
done in the Schools, if one must judge from the small number of people
who can repeat, without mistake or omission, as many as =Three= good
songs or hymns.

Clear, Sharp, Definite,

and accurate Memory work is a most excellent thing, whether in School or
out of it, among all ages and all classes. But let that which is so
learned be worth learning and worth retaining. The Franklin Square Song
Collection presents a large number of

Old and New Songs

and Hymns, in great variety and very carefully selected, comprising
Sixteen Hundred in the Eight Numbers thus far issued, together with much
choice and profitable Reading Matter relating to Music and Musicians. In
the complete and varied

Table of Contents,

which is sent free on application to the Publishers, there are found
dozens of the best things in the World, which are well worth committing
to memory; and they who know most of such good things, and appreciate
and enjoy them most, are really among the best educated people in any
country. They have the best result of Education. For above Contents,
with sample pages of Music, address

Harper & Brothers, New York.




PRIZE-STORY COMPETITION.

SECOND-PRIZE STORY.

An Exciting Game. By Nancy Howe Wood.


It was when I was a struggling young physician in a small country town
that I passed through an adventure which I would not care to repeat,
although now I can plainly see its humorous aspect.

I had but shortly before graduated from a medical college, and was
trying hard to get my living in a little village where there were two
other older and more experienced doctors. I was becoming greatly
disheartened, when one day, on my return from a visit to a poor woman of
the village, I found an official-looking letter awaiting me. I opened it
with some degree of excitement, and was astonished to find that it was
an offer to me of the position of resident physician in the Blankville
Insane Asylum, situated about two miles away. A salary was named which
seemed a fortune to me, poverty-stricken as I then was. (I afterwards
learned that the offer was made to me through the efforts of an
influential friend.)

At first the letter gave me unlimited joy, and I shouted like a
school-boy; but when I began to think what it would actually mean my
heart sank. All my life I had had a nervous horror of insane persons,
and if I should accept this offer I would be obliged to stay with them,
eat with them, and live among them almost as one of themselves. At this
thought I fairly shuddered, and was forced to confess to myself that I
could never endure such a strain on my nerves, doctor though I was.

The next morning, however, when I again read the letter, the offer
seemed so tempting that I said to myself: "Pshaw! I will not be
conquered by an attack of nerves. Come, brace yourself up, man. Why, a
few years at that salary will be enough to set you up for life!"
Nevertheless, I determined to go up the following day, and _look over_
the place before deciding on my final answer.

So early the next morning I presented myself at the asylum, all my
nervousness gone. I was so politely shown about, and everything looked
so orderly and well cared for, and the grounds without seemed so
peaceful and quiet, that I was delighted with it all. My misgivings had
almost vanished, and I had so nearly made up my mind to accept the
lucrative offer, that I said to the smiling and complaisant guard who
was acting as my guide:

"Tell the superintendent that if he will kindly allow me to stroll in
the garden and think the matter over, I will give him my final answer
within the hour." So saying, I began to pace up and down the
flower-bordered walks.

I was by this time in such a well-satisfied frame of mind that I
promptly dispelled the last remnants of my former nervousness.

I was just on the point of re-entering the asylum to say to the
Superintendent that I gratefully accepted his offer when I was startled
by the sound of crackling twigs behind me. Turning quickly, I found
myself face to face with a man whom I supposed at first to be one of the
guards. But as soon as I moved away from him to go toward the house he
sprang forward with hand outstretched to clutch me, uttering an idiotic
chuckle. Cold shivers chased up and down my back as the thought flashed
upon me that it was an escaped patient! With a shriek I ran down the
path at the top of my speed, my fear increased by the sound of pursuing
steps behind me.

I doubled and turned on the track, striving to distance or elude my
dreaded pursuer, but in spite of my frantic efforts, he kept closely at
my heels. Finally in one of my windings I was confronted by the six-foot
stone wall that surrounded the asylum on every side. Glancing backward,
I saw that the maniac--as I now knew him to be--was almost upon me, and,
making a desperate effort, I succeeded in reaching the top of the wall.
For a moment I fancied myself secure: but my pursuer darted behind the
shrubbery, and pulled out a small ladder, evidently used by the
gardeners. Seeing him thus prepared to follow me, I hurriedly dropped to
the ground outside, and scrambled to my feet just as the lunatic's head
appeared above the top of the wall. Again I had only a short start
before he was once more on my track.

And now began an exciting race "over brush, brake, and brier"; sometimes
I stumbled over a protruding root and fell headlong, but was up again in
a twinkling; sometimes my pursuer was so close upon me that I could
easily hear his panting breath. At the end of the first mile and a
quarter I thought myself done for, but my college training, which,
luckily, I had not forgotten, stood me in good stead, and I desperately
ran on.

"Oh," thought I, wildly, "where are the villagers? Isn't anybody near?
But there was no road leading out of the village in that direction, and
few people passed that way. At last, after years, it seemed to me, we
entered the village, and tore at full speed down the main street. If I
had longed before for some human soul to help me, I now as earnestly
prayed that I might unobserved gain my own door, and so be safe. But no;
some small boy, busily engaged doing nothing, soon raised the cry,

"Say, here comes the fresh young doctor a-tearing down the street like a
steam-engine!"

Then, almost tired out, and seeing the door of a small house standing
open, I dashed in, passed through the hall and dining-room, where the
astonished family were sitting at dinner, and out into the back yard,
where, completely exhausted, and utterly unable to run a step further, I
dropped behind a barrel.

My hope had been that the people of the house would have understood my
predicament and stopped the madman, but they evidently had not taken in
the situation, or else he had been too quick for them, for from behind
the barrel where I had concealed myself I could hear him come through
the open doorway and search the yard for me.

And now I feared that my panting breath would betray me--and it did, for
I heard his stealthy steps approach the spot where I lay quaking, and
his ugly, leering face peered round at me, and he sprang forward and
touched me, calling out, as I fell back almost fainting with terror:
"_Tag! You're it!_"

In an instant the meaning of his words flashed over me, and I cursed
myself for my foolish nervousness. The confounded fool had taken it for
a game of tag!

By this time quite a little crowd of villagers had gathered around me,
and the escaped lunatic was secured to wait for the arrival of his
keeper, and I managed to reach my home, after being fortified by a glass
of wine.

It was several days before my nerves recovered their usual steadiness,
and it is perhaps needless to add that I did not accept the situation.




The Helping Hand.


The Lancelot Chapter, of Newtonville, Mass., has nine members, and each
earned twenty-five cents. Then the Chapter added a little, and the
secretary forwarded $3 with the best of Lancelot wishes Names of the
contributors are Ella A. Gould, Marion Drew Bassett, Adella J.
Saunderson, Ethel T. Gammons, Alice L. Harrison, Esther H. Dyson, Lulu
Ulmer, Mabel Glazier, and Hazel L. Bobbins.

The Edison Chapter, of Bangor, Me., send $2 for the Fund. This Fund is,
you know, to help build the Round Table Industrial School-house at Good
Will Farm, where poor boys are educated. The Table is raising this Fund,
and it asks contributions from all who want, first, to help chivalrous
young persons who are trying to help others, and second, to help in the
best possible way boys who need help.

Any sums, sent by anybody, will be thankfully received and acknowledged
in the Table. Members of the Edison Chapter, which sent the $2 the other
day, earned the money folding and carrying papers, getting out ashes,
and washing dishes--truly practical methods of being truly generous.

Founders of the Order of the Round Table want $1000 to complete this
School Fund. Who will help them?




From Some Far-Away Members.


The Table loves to hear from far-distant places, and to have members
tell us how their country looks, and what the people do. Here is news
from three friends:

  SPRING CREEK, MARLBOROUGH, NEW ZEALAND.

     New Zealand is a far-away country to you, yet I have seen some
     letters from here. The town I live near is not very large. It is
     subject to floods, and last year the water came thirteen times
     into some of the shops. I have not travelled about much, so I
     cannot describe to you my journeys as many other girls do. The
     North Island of New Zealand is very volcanic, especially near the
     centre. There are many hot springs there, some just warm, and
     others boiling. The Maories, as the natives are called, boil their
     potatoes in them, by letting them down into the springs in
     baskets.

     Out of one of the volcanic mountains the lava that streamed down
     the sides was a pale pink. It was formed into terraces all down
     the mountainside. On another mountain it was much the same, only
     the terraces were white. A few years ago a great eruption caused
     them to entirely disappear. Since then some brown ones have begun
     to form, but they are very inferior to the former ones. When the
     eruption took place there were loud noises heard almost all over
     New Zealand. Many people who lived near were wellnigh smothered
     with mud, and for miles the country was covered with ashes and
     mud, in many places several feet thick. Most of the deposit was of
     a steel-gray color, and just like knife-polish in texture. My
     younger sister and I collect stamps. As yet we have very few. I
     have seen letters asking for girls to write and exchange stamps. I
     would much like some girls to write to me, and send the stamps of
     their countries. In return I will send them New Zealand ones.

  JEAN CHAYTOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BLENHEIM, MARLBOROUGH, NEW ZEALAND.

     I am collecting stamps, and would be glad if any girls would write
     to me and send me some stamps of their country, and I will send
     them some of mine. There is a Maori pah about two miles from here.
     Some time ago the chief died, and they had a great tangi, which
     lasted for a fortnight. In old times Maoris used to bury their
     dead head down and all their goods with them, and then stick a
     canoe at the head of the grave.

  CONSTANCE CHAYTOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

  BLENHEIM, MARLBOROUGH, NEW ZEALAND.

     There was a chrysanthemum show here last Thursday, and there were
     some lovely flowers at it. I think the chrysanthemums are
     beautiful flowers, especially the Japanese ones. We have big
     floods in Blenheim. I think they are great fun, but they do great
     damage, especially to the farms. Once when we had a big flood my
     sister was sitting on the bed taking off her boots. She forgot
     about the water, and dropped her boots into it, and they floated
     about the house all night.

     A month ago Rev. Mr. Brittain, a Melanesian missionary, and
     twenty-two Melanesian boys came to Blenheim; only a few of the
     boys could speak English. The others speak Mota. It was
     interesting hearing all about the islands. At Norfolk Island there
     is a large college. There is also a beautiful church. All the
     seats are inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Last summer all our family
     and several others went down to White's Bay, which is about ten
     miles from Blenheim, camping. We had three tents. We staid two
     weeks, and had a splendid time. I collect stamps, and would be
     very glad if any of the girls would write to me and send some, and
     I in return would send them some New Zealand ones.

  MILLIE DOBSON.




Chin-Kiang, China.

     I wrote a long letter which was accepted for publication in the
     Table, and every time I get a new number I look for it, but am
     always disappointed. In the last one there was a letter from
     Juliet Bredon, with whom I spent several weeks in Japan, which
     interested me very much, and made me wish all the more to see mine
     in print. It will be soon, won't it? I will write something more
     about Chin-Kiang by-and-by if it will interest other members of
     the Table.

  MILDRED C. JONES.

Your letter shall appear in due time. Yes, tell us more about China and
the Chinese. We are much interested--all of us.




[Illustration: Ivory Soap]

When you pack for the sea shore or the mountains, fill a tray of your
trunk with Ivory Soap and require your laundress to use it. Light summer
garments should be washed only with a pure white soap.

THE PROCTER & GAMBLE CO., CIN'TI.




[Illustration]

Not of the preparations of coloring matter and essential oils so often
sold under the name of rootbeer, but of the purest, most delicious,
health-giving beverage possible to produce. One gallon of Hires' is
worth ten of the counterfeit kind. Suppose an imitation extract costs
five cents less than the genuine Hires; the same amount of sugar and
trouble is required; you save one cent a gallon, and--get an unhealthful
imitation in the end. Ask for HIRES and _get_ it.

[Illustration: HIRES' Rootbeer]

THE CHAS. E. HIRES CO., Philadelphia.




[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Carry in pocket. Takes 25 perfect pictures in one loading--re-loading
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




=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




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




Harper's Catalogue,

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




By W. J. HENDERSON

       *       *       *       *       *

Elements of Navigation

     With Diagrams. 16mo, Cloth, $1.00.

Afloat with the Flag

     Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. $1.25.

Sea Yarns for Boys

     SPUN BY AN OLD SALT. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental,
     $1.25.

       *       *       *       *       *

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: THE BABY ELEPHANT'S MISADVENTURE, OR THE SATISFACTION OF
HAVING AN EFFICIENT PARENT.]




A SAFE METHOD.


The treasures of the Bank of France are said to be better guarded than
those of any other bank in the world. At the close of business hours
every day, when the money is put into the vaults in the cellar, masons
at once wall up the doors with hydraulic mortar. Water is then turned on
and kept running until the cellar is flooded. A burglar would have to
work in a diving suit and break down a cement wall before he could even
start to loot the vaults. When the officers arrive the next morning, the
water is drawn off, the masonry is torn down, and the vaults opened.




AN INDIAN TRADITION.


Here is an Indian version of the story of the flood, as it was taken by
a writer connected with an Australian journal. Says he: "All of the
northern coast Indians have a tradition of a flood which destroyed all
mankind except a pair from which the earth was peopled. Each tribe gives
the story a local coloring, but the plot of the story is much the same.
The Bella Coola tradition is as follows: The Creator of the universe,
Mes-mes-sa-la-nik, had great difficulty in the arrangement of the land
and water. The earth persisted in sinking out of sight. At last he hit
upon a plan which worked very well. Taking a long line of twisted walrus
hide, he tied it around the dry land, and fastened the other end to the
corner of the moon. Everything worked well for a long time; but at last
the Spirit became very much offended at the action of mankind, and in a
fit of anger one day seized his great stone knife, and with a mighty
hack severed the rope of twisted skin. Immediately the land began to
sink into the sea. The angry waves rushed in torrents up the valleys,
and in a short time nothing was visible except the peak of a very high
mountain. All mankind perished in the whelming waters, with the
exception of two, a man and his wife, who were out fishing in a great
canoe. These two succeeded in reaching the top of the mountain, and
proceeded to make themselves at home. Here they remained for some time,
until the anger of Mes-mes-sa-la-nik had cooled, which resulted in his
fishing up the severed thong and again fastening it to the moon. From
this pair thus saved the earth was again populated."




WHERE IT WENT.


Lunatics often assume a superiority of intellect to others which is
quite amusing. A gentleman travelling in England some years ago, while
walking along the road not far from the side of which there ran a
railway, encountered a number of insane people out for exercise in
charge of a keeper. With a nod toward the railway tracks, he said to one
of the lunatics,

"Where does this railway go to?"

The lunatic looked at him scornfully a moment, and then replied:

"It don't go anywhere. We keep it here to run trains on."




A HUGE PIE.


The largest pie ever known was that described in the Newcastle
_Chronicle_ for the 6th January, 1770. It was shipped to Sir Henry Gray,
Baronet, London, Mrs. Dorothy Patterson, housekeeper at Hawic, being the
maker. Into the composition of this great pie entered two bushels of
flour, twenty pounds of butter, four geese, two turkeys, two rabbits,
four wild ducks, two woodcocks, six snipe, four partridges, two neats'
tongues, two curlews, seven black-birds, and six pigeons. It weighed
twelve stone, and was nine feet in circumference at the bottom. It was
furnished with a case on wheels, for convenience in passing it round to
the guests.

The receipt for this pie is given here as a hint to those of our readers
who may be thinking of getting up a picnic within the next two or three
weeks. A half dozen pies of this size ought to be enough for at least
one picnic.




A STRANGE SUIT.


According to the Pittsburg _Journal_, Peter Gruber, the Rattlesnake King
of Venango County, has made the most unique costume any man ever wore.
It consists of coat, vest, trousers, hat, shoes, and shirt, and is made
entirely of the skins of rattlesnakes. Seven hundred snakes, all caught
and skinned by Gruber during the past five years, provided the material
for this novel costume. To preserve the brilliancy and the flexibility
of the skins in the greatest possible degree, the snakes were skinned
alive, first being made unconscious by chloroform. They were then tanned
by a method peculiar to Gruber, and are as soft and elastic as woollen
goods. The different articles for this outfit were made by Oil City
tailors, shoemakers and hatters, and the costume is valued at $1000.




A FEW NOTES ABOUT COINS.


The rei of Brazil, like the mill of our own money table, is an imaginary
coin, no piece of that denomination being coined. Ten thousand reis
equal $5.45.

Vermont was the first State to issue a coinage on its own authority.
Copper coins were issued in 1785.

The first woman's face represented on a coin was that of Pulcheria, the
Empress of the Eastern Empire.

The Chinese stamp bars or ingots of gold or silver with their weight and
fineness, and pass them from hand to hand as coin.

The first Maryland coins were minted in 1662, and were put in
circulation by act of Council ordering every householder to bring in
sixty pounds of tobacco and receive ten shillings of the new money in
exchange for it.

In 1634 the Massachusetts General Assembly made bullets a legal tender
by the following enactment: "It is likewise ordered that muskett
bulletts of a full boare shall pass currently for a farthing apiece.
Provided that noe man be compelled to take above XIId att a tyme in
them."






End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, July 9, 1895, by Various