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 16, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVI.--NO. 820. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

HOW JACK LOCKETT WON HIS SPURS.

BY G. T. FERRIS.

A STORY OF THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR FOUNDED ON FACT.


The chips flew merrily under Jack Lockett's axe to the tune of his
whistling, for he was chopping the night's supply of firewood, and the
dark was shutting down apace on the cold January day. He had already
made the horse and the cows snug in the barn, and his young appetite was
sharp set for the supper which would be ready with the finish of his
chores. He looked out on the dreary waters of the bay with the gleam of
a dull twilight on them, and saw shining through the dusk a white sail
skimming shoreward. "Some belated fisherman. Br-r-r, how cold it must be
out there!" Jack said to himself, as he breathed on his frosted fingers
and smote the wood with still harder strokes. This stalwart lad of
fourteen, with his fearless blue eyes and tanned face, looked more than
his years, for he lived in parlous times, which ripened men early. His
father, Colonel Lockett, of the Connecticut line, was away with the army
in winter-quarters at Valley Forge, and his young son had to shoulder a
heavy burden. He could not yet carry a firelock in battle, perhaps, but
he could toil patiently for his mother and sisters, with many a sigh
that there was no beard to his chin, while his brave father faced cold
and hunger in camp or the lead and steel of the redcoats in the field.
When he had lugged in the last armful of fagots, and sat down at the
smoking supper table, the common thought found vent on his lips.

"I feel as if I couldn't eat a thing, hungry as I am, mother, when I
remember dear old daddy at Valley Forge. They say that General
Washington himself has scant rations, and men die every day from
hunger. What'll be the end of it all?"

"Perhaps the stories belie the truth" (there hadn't been a word from the
absent soldier for months), said the mother, trying to keep back the
tears. "But look--look, Jack, at the window!" with almost a shriek.
"That face! What is it?"

The cold had begun to coat the glass with a crystal veil. Somebody stood
out there, and by melting the frost with the breath, now looked in on
them with shadowy features and gleaming eyes. Jack stared with open
mouth at the apparition. Then, with a wild whoop, and a spring which
almost upset the table, he yelled, "Why, don't you see it's daddy come
home?" and executed a war-dance of joy to the door.

Colonel Lockett was almost eaten up by his wife and children before he
was permitted to retaliate on the savory dishes of the supper table. He
had been all day in an open boat on the water (the unsuspecting Jack had
had a glimpse of him), and without food since daybreak.

"'Twas unsafe to cross the enemy's lines by land," he said, with a sigh
of delicious contentment, sitting before the great blazing crackling
hearth and looking into the loving faces of his young people and their
mother. "To get through even as far as Sandy Hook was a narrow shave of
capture. So, then, 'twas off uniform and on fisherman's suit, lent me by
a kind heart, who also gave me a cast in his dory to the Great South
Bay. Thence across Long Island to Glen Cove, and 'twas easy there to
find a sail-boat to fetch me home over the Sound."

"And you didn't know of the British ship _Tartar_ lying off the place
here?" said Jack, with wonder and alarm.

"Not till too late. And having thus ventured, 'twould have been a
coward's job to have gone back," answered the father, with a smile.

"But," said Mrs. Lockett, with a face as white as the snow without,
"you're not in uniform. Should you be taken?" Even the youngest of the
children knew what that meant, and they shuddered with the vision of him
they loved standing with the fatal noose about his neck amidst the jeers
of a brutal soldiery.

"Tut, tut, good wife," quoth the Colonel, gayly. "These be but soldiers'
risks, and, trust me, the hemp you fear is not yet spun. And now away
with grewsome thoughts. Tell me how you make matters here, for I've long
been without news."

"Lackaday," said the wife, "'tis but a dull story. All the good-men
away, and none but lads and grandfathers to till the fields and care for
the women. The Cowboys and the Skinners[1] scour the country like
wolves. What the one leaves the other takes. We've suffered with our
neighbors, but bear it lightly, dear heart, for thought of you all in
the thick of the trouble."

"No tongue can speak what the poor fellows endure," said the soldier.
"Uniforms in rags, without blankets to keep 'em warm at night, scarcely
one good meal a day, shoeless feet that drip blood a-walking post in the
snow. His Excellency had me to dinner the night before I left camp. One
tough smoked goose for eight, but 'twas washed down with the General's
choice Madeira. Tears came to his brave patient eyes as he talked. 'Oh,
for some brave heroic deed,' he said, 'some dashing stroke, something to
shoot a thrill of cheer through these downcast spirits! 'Twould be
better, methinks, than the coming of a great supply train.' Even his
iron soul sometimes falters. And now, Jack, about the _Tartar_. Does she
trouble the country overmuch? I made a long beat to 'scape the
look-out."

The boy clinched his teeth. "'Tis a brazen jackanapes, that Captain
Askew. His boat parties do as much mischief as the Cowboys. There's
scarcely a ham left in the place from the Christmas killing. Only two
days since I met him swaggering on the beach, and he threatened to
impress me on the _Tartar_ for a powder-monkey. There was a scowl on his
red face. 'Look ye, you rebel spawn, they say your father calls himself
a Colonel under Mr. Washington. Some day I shall come and take ye aboard
to serve his Majesty, and introduce ye to his Majesty's faithful
servant, the cat.'" The boy stopped, and then started as if something
burned him. "Oh, daddy, think of what General Washington said! If we
could only--"

The same thought leaped like an electric spark between them--brave
father and gallant boy. No need of words. Eye flashed it to eye. To
capture and destroy the _Tartar_--a small matter indeed in the sum of
the struggle, but might it not be like a spark of flame in dead dry wood
to kindle fire and hope?

Colonel Lockett lay quietly at home during a whole week. Scarcely a soul
seemed to know of his coming. But Jack took long rides, to his mother's
wonderment, by night and by day through the country. The secret talks
between Jack and his father, the look of excitement that kept his face
aglow--some mystery alarmed her. At last she learned with terror of the
enterprise afloat to cut out the British ship, and she made the boy's
father promise that Jack should not go with the boats.

"No! no!" he said to the agonized lad. "You are my faithful Lieutenant
ashore, but must stay behind from the attack. Should aught happen to
you, what will come to your mother and sisters when I am gone?" Poor
Jack bit his lip in silence. 'Twas a hard strain on filial obedience,
for his hot young blood had tingled with the thought of what was to
come.

A large barn stood in a lonely place about three miles from the Lockett
house. One night a passer-by would have fancied something strange going
on there. Many a horse was hitched to the trees of the adjacent wood,
lantern-lights twinkled through the crevices, and every few minutes
little groups came up and slipped through the barn-door. When all had
gathered, the tall form of Colonel Lockett arose in their midst, and the
roll was called to see that none was there except those apprised.

"You know what you've come for, friends and neighbors," said he. "We are
about to strike a gallant blow for the good cause. It's not too late for
those to withdraw who fancy the hazard overbold. For half-armed
countrymen to storm a royal ship seems heavy odds of failure. But
courage on one side and panic on the other will right the scales. And
there are no better weapons than yours for a hand-to-hand fight. A
pitchfork with a short handle, a scythe set in a stick, make the best of
boarding-pikes. We need no firelocks. The ship must be taken by
surprise, and carried with a rush. The decks once swept and the hatches
battened down, and she is ours. There is no moon, and the air and sky
betoken a great snow-storm brewing. When that comes, whether to-morrow
night or later, we attack." And so he gave them stirring words, saying
that this feat would ring like the peal of a trumpet.

He proceeded to tell off the boat-crews, appoint the officer of each
division, and give careful instructions.

"And now, old men and beardless boys, it rests with you to do what will
set men's hearts thumping when 'tis known," was his parting, as each
went his way fired with the thought of a gallant deed to be done.

The next night proved propitious. It was a thick, windless snow-storm,
and the white smudge of flakes blinded eyesight better than the blackest
black. An hour after midnight the four whale-boats which floated the
expedition pushed off from the little cove. Jack had gone to the landing
to say "good-by" to his father, his head buzzing with things that didn't
get to his tongue, and, curiously enough, he had slipped a heavy hatchet
under his coat.

"It's for you to be hero at home just now," was the Colonel's last word.
"Two years hence, if the struggle still goes on, my brave lad shall have
a chance to strike a blow."

Jack, whose conscience smote him sorely, mumbled something as his
father's boat moved out into the storm with muffled oars. But as the
last boat slid into deep water the boy gave a spring and landed in the
stern, light as a feather. "'Sh! Not a word," said he, in a low voice.
"I'm going if I have to swim."

The officer of the boat, an old farmer, who had seen service in the
French and Indian wars, scratched his gray poll in grave doubt. "Waal, I
like yer grit fust rate, and ye come by it naturally. I guess I'll hev
to see ye through, ef it is agin the Kurnel's orders. But ye ha'nt no
we'p'n?" Jack pulled out his hatchet, and the old chap laughed again to
himself. "Blessed ef breed don't tell ary time, when it's a bull-pup."

The _Tartar_ lay at anchor two miles off the point, and on such a blind
night, with its smother of snow, it was easy to miss the goal. Orders
had been strict that the boats should keep bunched together almost
within oar's-length. True, the men of the crews knew their waters so
well that they might have bragged they could smell their way to the
frigate over that smooth black pitch like hounds on the scent. But
cocksureness was tricky on such a night. They pulled with slow strokes,
straining to catch a sound or a glimpse. It had begun to get intensely
cold, and the spit of the snow stung their faces and stiffened their
fingers. Jack's young blood was proof against rigor of frost, for his
ears sang with a roaring music, as if a pair of sea-shells had been
clapped against the sides of his skull. His veins beat like
hammer-strokes. He thought he felt a new sensation. "Can it be I'm
afraid?" he repeated to himself.

No, Jack, fear never comes that way. Fear strikes the coward to a lump
of jelly. What you feel now quivering to your finger-tips is the thing
which gives fire and mettle to every gallant heart, and nerves the
muscles to greater strength. No fighter worth his salt ever failed of
this galloping music in his veins on the eve of action. Whisper to that
gray beard by your side whether he doesn't feel the same leap of pulse,
though his sinews have got stiff at the plough-tail, and his blood
sluggish with years since he smelt powder. And don't you remember, too,
Jack, that you felt a little of the same sort of thing that time you
"pitched in" and "licked" the hulking bully nearly twice your size, for
insulting the "school-marm," till he bellowed like a calf?

It seemed that more than an hour must have passed. Could they have
missed the ship, was the thought of all. This meant failure. There was
not the faintest ripple in the dead silence. But hark! there suddenly
boomed on the night the sweet muffled notes of a ship's bell, and with
it there was a dim flicker to starboard, as of a light shining through a
port-hole. Luck was with them, after all, and now the time was close at
hand. A denser black loomed against the darkness, vaguely outlining the
ship's hull, and the head-boat grated on the long hawser holding the
after anchor, thrown out to take up the swing of the ebb-tide. And hark
again! Through the cabin windows, suddenly thrown open as if for a
breath of fresh air, floated the sounds of laughter and singing, the
chorus of a Bacchanalian catch. Captain Askew and his subs, late as it
was, were still making merry with song.

"Gad! 'tis dark as Erebus," said one of the voices at the grating. "What
a night for a cutting-out party!"

A dozen strokes parted the boats to port and starboard, and they dashed
for the ship's sides. Up they swarmed into the chains and clambered
aboard, though not with the sailor's light foot. The watch on deck were
asleep or dozing in sheltered nooks. They sprang to arms with a shout,
but were speedily killed or disabled. A dozen lanterns flashed over the
decks as the crew tumbled up out of the fo'c's'le hatch, for all others
had been spiked down. Half naked, and scarcely awake, they yet fought
doggedly. The Captain and his officers trooped out of the cabin,
flustered with wine, but loaded to the muzzle with pluck, and fell to
with sword and pistol. Colonel Lockett had detailed a dozen picked men
with bags of slugs and powder-canisters to make ready and wheel around
fore and aft a couple of the deck-carronades. The assailants were in the
waist of the ship, and the fury of the assault had begun to drive
men-o'-war's men under hatch, for the ship was undermanned, and the crew
somewhat outnumbered. Scythe and pitchfork did their work well. It was
at this moment that one of the carronades sent its rain of buckshot into
the thick of the British sailors and completed the rout.

Instantly they had boarded, Jack, swinging his hatchet, looked about for
his father, and pressed forward to his side, though the Colonel did not
see him, thinking him at home watching with his mother. When Captain
Askew made the dash from the cabin the two leaders instinctively knew
each other and crossed blades, for Colonel Lockett had snatched a
cutlass from a fallen sailor. They cut and parried fiercely on the
half-lit deck for a few moments, when the Colonel's foot slipped on the
wet wood. That second would have been his last, but Jack's uplifted
hatchet fell like lightning on Captain Askew's shoulder, and smote him
flat to the deck. With this the battle was ended.

Colonel Lockett looked on the lad's panting flushed face with amazement.
"Why, Jack, I ordered you not to come. What does this mean? You deserve
a good horsewhip-- Why, Jack, Jack, you disobedient young villain,
you've saved your father's life!" and with tears rolling down his face
he clasped the brave lad in his arms. The _Tartar_ was taken up to New
Haven, and the Captain, who was only severely wounded, with the other
prisoners, delivered over to the Continental officer in charge of the
post.

When Colonel Lockett returned to Valley Forge, which he did without
delay, Washington thanked him in general orders for his brave feat. Jack
got his heart's wish, and the last year of the war actually served on
the staff of the Commander-in-Chief, young as he was.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] During the Revolution there were gangs of ruffians, little less than
bandits, who spread terror through the region adjacent the field
occupied by the armies. Within a radius of twenty miles from New York,
then in possession of the British, these bands were dubbed Cowboys and
Skinners, the first nominally Tories, the others Patriots, both
outcasts, whose only thought was plunder.




QUILL-PEN, ESQUIRE, ARTIST.

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.


Jimmieboy had been looking at the picture-books in his papa's library
nearly all the afternoon, and as night came on he fell to wondering why
he couldn't draw pictures himself. It certainly seemed easy enough, to
look at the pictures. Most of them were made with the fewest possible
lines, and every line was as simple as could be; the only thing seemed
to be to put them down, and in the right place.

"Why don't you try?" said somebody.

"Eh?" asked Jimmieboy, with a sudden start, for he had supposed he was
alone.

"I say why don't you try?" replied the strange somebody.

"Try what?" queried Jimmieboy, who, not having spoken a word on the
subject of drawing pictures, was quite sure that the question did not
apply to that matter--in which certainly he was very much mistaken, as
the strange somebody's next remark plainly showed.

"Try drawing pictures yourself?" said the voice.

"I can't draw," said Jimmieboy, peering over into the corner whence the
voice came, to see who it was that had spoken.

"You can't tell unless you try," said the voice.

  "A man might do a million things
    If he would be less shy,
  That all his life he never does,
    Because he will not try.

"Why don't you try?"

"Who are you, anyhow?" asked Jimmieboy. "Tell me that, and maybe I will
try."

"Why, you know me," said the voice. "I am the Quill-pen over here on
your mamma's table. Don't you remember how you nearly drowned me in the
ink yesterday?"

"I didn't want to drown you," said Jimmieboy, apologetically. "I wanted
you to write a letter for me to my Uncle Periwinkle, asking him to send
me everything he thought I'd like as soon as he could."

The Pen laughed. "I'll do it some time--along about Christmas, perhaps,"
he said. "But about this picture business. I think you could make
pictures."

"Can you make 'em?" queried Jimmieboy.

"I never tried, so I don't know," answered the Pen.

"Then you try, and let's see how trying works," suggested Jimmieboy.
"I'll get a piece of paper for you."

"I'm afraid we can't," said the Pen. "I'm very dry, and don't think I
could make a mark, unless you get me a glass of ink.

  "For just as skates are not much use
    Without a skating rink,
  So pens--of steel or quills of goose--
    Are worthless without ink."

"Oh, I'll get plenty of ink," returned Jimmieboy, "though I think water
would be saferer. Water would look pleasanter on the carpet if we upset
it."

"I can't make a mark with water," laughed the Pen.

"How do you know?" asked Jimmieboy. "Did you ever try?"

"No, I never tried. Because why? What's the use?" replied the Pen.

  "I do not try to touch the sky
    Or jump upon the stars;
  I do not try to make a pie
    Of rusty iron bars;
  I do not try to change into
    A baby elephant,
  Because I know--and always knew--
    'Tis useless, for I can't."

"That's all very good," retorted Jimmieboy; "but a minute ago you were
saying that

  "'A man might do a million things,
    If he would be less shy,
  That all his life he never does,
    Because he will not try.'"

"You've got me there," said the Pen, with a smile. "Perhaps we had
better use water. Now that I think of it, I have enough dried ink on me
to make a mark if I am moistened up a bit with water. You get the water
and the paper, and I'll see what I can do."

Jimmieboy ran into the dining-room and brought a glass brimming over
with water to the Pen, and in another minute he had a large pad of paper
ready.

[Illustration: "NOW," SAID THE PEN, "LET US BEGIN."]

"Now," said the Pen, "let us begin. What shall I draw first?"

"I don't know," Jimmieboy replied. "Why not make a--er--a zebra.'"

"What's a zebra?" asked the Pen, who had never been to the circus, as
Jimmieboy had, and who was therefore, of course, ignorant about some
things of very great importance. "Is it a piece of furniture?"

"The idea!" laughed Jimmieboy. "Of course not. It's a sort of a small
animal like a horse, and has--"

"Oh, I know," interrupted the Pen. "Here's one." Then he dipped his head
lightly into the water, and wiggled himself about on the pad for a
minute. "There," he said, "How's that for a zebra?"

[Illustration: ZEBRA.]

Jimmieboy laughed long and loud. "What on earth are those wiggle-waggles
all over him?" he asked.

"Those are the Zees," explained the Quill. "Isn't that right?"

"No!" roared Jimmieboy. "He hasn't a Z to his name."

"Oh yes, he has," replied the Quill. "I know that much, anyhow. I have
written many a zebra, though I never drew one before. They always begin
with a Z, and end with a bray--like a donkey."

"I don't mean it that way. I mean he hasn't any Zees printed on him,"
explained Jimmieboy. "He's striped like the American flag."

"Why didn't you say so in the beginning?" said the Quill.

"I was going to, but you interrupted me, and said you knew all about it,
and I supposed you did," said the boy.

"Well, let's try it again. He's a horse that looks like the American
flag, you say?"

"Yes," said Jimmieboy--a little dubiously, however. He thought perhaps
the zebra more closely resembled a piece of toast, but as he had
mentioned the flag, he thought it would be better to stick to it.

"How is this!" asked the Quill, presenting the following picture to
Jimmieboy. "Is that any more like a zebra?"

[Illustration: ZEBRA.]

"It's the most ridiculous thing I ever saw," said Jimmieboy. "I didn't
say he had stars on him."

"I know you didn't," retorted the Pen. "But that square might pass for a
chest-protector, if any body ever criticised it."

"Well, it isn't anything like a Zebra," said Jimmieboy, firmly. "You'd
better try making an elephant."

"That's easy," returned the Quill. "I never saw an elephant, but I've
heard what they look like. Sort, of like pigs, with two tails, big flop
ears, and paper-cutters for teeth, and great big huge large legs that
look like bolsters. Oh, I can draw an elephant with my eyes shut."

[Illustration: L-EPHANT.]

This the Pen proceeded to do at once, and here is his idea of the
L-ephant.

"That's more like an elephant than either of the two zebras was like a
zebra," said Jimmieboy, with a grin.

"Thank you," said the Pen, simply. "Which part have I done best, the L
or the 'ephant?"

"Well, it's hard to say," smiled Jimmieboy. "I think the hair on his
forehead is very much like that of the elephants I have seen, and then
you've got his eye just right. I've seen elephants look exactly like
that when they have caught sight of a peanut."

[Illustration: THE SWARM OF BEES.]

"How is this for a swarm of bees?" asked the Quill, gratified at his
success, and dashing off this little artistic gem in an instant.

"Ho!" ejaculated Jimmieboy. "What kind of bees are those? They aren't
the honey kind that sting."

"No, they are bees you can spell with, and don't sting," returned the
Pen. "I like 'em better than the other kind."

"Can you draw ostriches?" asked Jimmieboy.

[Illustration: THE OSTRICH.]

"I can try one," said the Pen. "How will this do?" he added, producing
the following. "The horse part is all right, but I'm afraid the strich
isn't so good," said the artist, as Jimmieboy threw himself on the floor
in a paroxysm of laughter. "I never saw a strich, so why should I make a
good one? I think it's real mean of you to laugh."

"Well, really, Penny," said Jimmieboy, "I don't want to hurt your
feelings, but that's the worst-looking animal I ever saw. But never
mind; it's a better-looking creature than most monkeys."

"I never saw a monkey," said the Pen. "How many legs has it?"

"Two legs, two arms, a tail, and a head," Jimmieboy answered.

[Illustration: THE MON-KEY.]

"Something like this?" queried the Quill, dashing off a picture
complacently--he felt so sure that this time he was right.

"Very much like that," Jimmieboy replied, smothering his mirth for fear
of offending the Quill, though if you will refer to the drawing you will
see that the Quill was quite as inaccurate in his picture of the monkey
as he was with his zebras.

"I thought I'd get you to admit that that was a good monkey," observed
the Quill, regarding his work with pride. "I've seen a good many keys,
and, of course, when you said the creature had two legs, two arms, a
tail, and a head, I knew that he was nothing but a key to whom had been
given those precious gifts of nature. To draw a key is easy, and to
provide it with the other features was not hard."

Jimmieboy was silent. He was too full of laughter even to open his
mouth, and so he kept it tightly closed.

"What'll I draw next?" asked the Quill, after a minute or two of
silence.

"Can you do mountains?" queried Jimmieboy.

"What are they?" asked the Quill.

"They're great big rocks that go up in the air and have trees on 'em,"
explained Jimmieboy.

The Quill looked puzzled, and then he glanced reproachfully at
Jimmieboy.

"I think you are making fun of me," he said, solemnly.

"No, I'm not," said Jimmieboy. "Why should you think such a thing as
that?"

"Well, I know some things, and what I know makes me believe what I
think. I think you are making fun of me when you talk of big rocks going
up in the air with trees on 'em. Rocks are too heavy to go up in the air
even when they haven't trees on 'em, and I don't think it's very nice of
you to try to fool me the way you have."

"I don't mean like a balloon," Jimmieboy hastened to explain. "It's a
big rock that sits on the ground and reaches up into the air and has
trees on it."

"I don't believe there ever was such a thing," returned the offended
Quill. "Here's what one would look like if it could ever be," he added,
sketching the following:

[Illustration: MOUNTAIN.]

"What on earth!" ejaculated Jimmieboy.

"What? Why, a mountain--that's what!" retorted the Quill. "Don't you
see, my dear boy, you've just proved you were trying to fool me. I've
put down the thing you said a mountain was, and you as much as say
yourself that it can't be."

"But--how do you make it out? That's what I can't see," remonstrated
Jimmieboy.

"It's perfectly simple," said the Quill. "You said a mountain was a
rock; there's the rock in the picture. You said it had trees on it;
those two things that look like pen-wipers on sticks are the trees."

"But that other thing?" interrupted Jimmieboy. "That arm? I never,
never, never said a mountain had one of those."

"Why, how you do talk!" cried the Quill, angrily. "You told me first
that the rocks went up in the air, and when I showed you why that
couldn't be, you corrected yourself, and said that they reached up into
the air."

"Well, so I did," said Jimmieboy.

"Will you kindly tell me how a rock could reach up in the air, or around
a corner, or do any reaching at all, in fact, unless it had an arm to do
it with?" snapped the Quill, triumphantly.

Again Jimmieboy found it best to keep silent. The Quill, thinking that
his silence was due to regret, immediately became amiable, and
volunteered the statement that if he knew the names of flowers he
thought he could draw some of them.

"Pansies, cowslips, and geraniums," suggested Jimmieboy.

"Good! Here you are," returned the Quill, rapidly sketching the
following:

[Illustration: A PANSY. A COWSLIP. A POTTED G-RANIUM.]

"That pansy," he said, as Jimmieboy gazed at his work, "is a
frying-pansy. How is this for a battle scene?" he added, drawing the
following singular-looking picture.

[Illustration]

"Very handsome!" said Jimmieboy. "But--er--just what are those things?
Snakes?"

"No, indeed," said the Quill. "The idea! Who ever saw a snake with
wings? One is a C gull and the other is a J bird."

"Can you draw a blue bird?" asked Jimmieboy.

"I think so," answered the Quill, as he carefully drew this strange
creature.

[Illustration: A BLUEBIRD.]

"You haven't given him any wings," said Jimmieboy, after carefully
examining the picture.

"No: that's the reason he is blue. He has to walk all the time. That's
enough to make anybody blue," explained the Quill. "Here's a puzzle for
you!" he added. "Guess what it is, and I'll write to your Uncle
Periwinkle and tell him if he'll come up here on Saturday with two
dollars in his pockets, you will show him where you and he can get the
best soda-water made."

[Illustration: STEEPLE-CHASING.]

This is the picture the Quill then presented to Jimmieboy's astonished
gaze.

"Humph!" said Jimmieboy. "It looks like two men on horseback running
after something, but what, I'm sure I don't know."

"What does it look like?" asked the Quill.

"Nothing that I ever saw."

"Nonsense!" returned the Pen. "Does it look like a fox, or a Chinese
laundry, or a what?"

"It doesn't look like any of 'em," insisted Jimmieboy.

"Dear me! How dull you are!" cried the Quill. "Why, boy, it's a church
steeple, that's what. Now what is the whole thing a picture of?"

"A steeple-chase!" cried Jimmieboy.

"Exactly," said the Quill, very much pleased that after all Jimmieboy
had guessed it. "And now I'll write that letter to Uncle Periwinkle."

And so he wrote;

     P. S.--DEAR UNCLE PERIWINKLE,

     Come up on Saturday. Bring all the money you've got, and the
     soda-water we'll have will sail a yacht. If you can't come, send
     the money, and I'll look after sailing the yacht.

  Yours affectionately,
  JIMMIEBOY.

"Will that do?" asked the Quill.

"Yes," said Jimmieboy. "And now put it in an envelope, and I'll put it
with the letters to be mailed."

"Now draw some more," he said, after this had been mailed.

But the Quill answered never a word. He had evidently fallen asleep.
Strange to say, Uncle Periwinkle never got his letter, and the pictures
the Quill made all faded from sight, and so were lost.




SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.[2]

BY KIRK MUNROE.


CHAPTER XXXIX.

INVADING A CAPTAIN'S CABIN.

An earthquake could hardly have caused greater consternation in the
village of Klukwan than did the boom of that heavy gun as it came
echoing up the palisaded valley of the Chilkat. Not many years before
the Indians of that section had defied the power of the United States,
and killed several American citizens. A gunboat, hurried to the scene of
trouble, shelled and destroyed one of their villages in retaliation.
From that time on no sound was so terrible to them as the roar of a big
gun.

While Phil and his companions were chafing at the delay imposed upon
them by the greed of the Chilkat Shaman a government vessel arrived in
the neighboring inlet of Chilkoot, bearing a party of scientific men who
were to cross the mountains at that point for an exploration of the
upper Yukon, and the locating of the boundary line between Alaska and
Canada.

The Princess, learning of its presence, and despairing of assisting her
white friends in any other way, secretly despatched a messenger to the
Captain of the ship with the information that some Americans were being
detained in Klukwan against their will. Upon receipt of this news the
Captain promptly steamed around into Chilkat Inlet and as near to its
head as the draught of his vessel would allow. As he dropped anchor,
there came such a sound of firing from up the river that he imagined a
fight to be in progress, and fired one of his own big guns to give
warning of his presence.

The effect of this dread message was instantaneous. Phil Ryder dropped
his uplifted arm. The Chilkat Shaman scuttled away, issued an order, and
within five minutes a new and perfectly equipped canoe was marvellously
produced from somewhere and tendered to Serge Belcofsky. Five minutes
later he and his companions had taken a grateful leave of the Princess,
and were embarked with all their effects, including the three dogs.

Phil stationed himself in the bow, Serge tended sheet, and Jalap Coombs
steered. As before the prevailing northerly wind their long-beaked canoe
shot out from the river into the wider waters of the inlet, and they
saw, at anchor, less than one mile away, a handsome cutter flying the
United States revenue flag, the three friends uttered a simultaneous cry
of, "The _Phoca_!"

"Hurrah!" yelled Phil.

"Hurrah!" echoed Serge.

"Bless her pretty picter!" roared Jalap Coombs, standing up and waving
the old tarpaulin hat that, though often eclipsed by a fur hood, had
been faithfully cherished during the entire journey.

At that moment one of the cutter's boats, in command of a strange
Lieutenant, with a howitzer mounted in its bow, and manned by a dozen
heavily armed sailors, hailed the canoe and shot alongside.

"What's the trouble up the river?" demanded the officer.

"There isn't any," answered Serge.

"What was all the firing about?"

"Celebrating some sort of native Fourth of July. Is Captain Matthews
still in command of the _Phoca_?"

"Yes. Does he know you?"

"I rather guess he does, and, with your permission, we'll report to him
in person."

"Pull up the hoods of your parkas," said Phil to his companions, "and
we'll give the Captain a surprise party."

A minute later one of the _Phoca_'s Quartermasters reported to the
Captain that a canoe-load of natives was almost alongside.

"Very well; let them come aboard, and I'll hear what they have to say."

In vain did the Quartermaster strive to direct the canoe to the port
gangway. The natives did not seem to understand, and insisted on
rounding up under the starboard quarter, reserved for officers and
distinguished guests. One of them sprang out the moment its bow touched
the side steps, clambered aboard, pushed aside the wrathful
Quartermaster, and started for the Captain's door with the sailor in hot
pursuit.

"Hold on, you blooming young savage! Ye can't go in there," he shouted,
but to heedless ears.

As Phil gained the door it was opened by the Commander himself, who was
about to come out for a look at the natives.

"How are you, Captain Matthews?" shouted the fur-clad intruder into the
sacred privacy of the cabin, at the same time raising a hand in salute.
"It is awfully good of you, sir, to come for us. I only hope you didn't
bother to wait very long at the Pribyloffs."

"Eh? What? Who are you, sir? What does this mean? Phil Ryder! You young
villain! You scamp! Bless my soul, but this is the most wonderful thing
I ever heard of!" cried the astonished Commander, staggering back into
the cabin, and pulling Phil after him. "May, daughter, look here!"

At that moment there came a yelping rush, and with a chorus of excited
barkings Musky, Luvtuk, and big Amook dashed pell-mell into the cabin.
After them came Serge, Jalap Coombs, and the horrified Quartermaster,
all striving in vain to capture and restrain the riotous dogs. As if any
one could prevent them from following and sharing the joy of the young
master who had fed them night after night for months by lonely
camp-fires of the Yukon Valley!

So they flung themselves into the cabin, and tore round and round, amid
such a babel of shouts, laughter, barkings, and crash of overturned
furniture as was never before heard in that orderly apartment.

Finally the terrible dogs were captured, one by one, and led away. May
Matthews emerged from a safe retreat, where, convulsed with laughter,
she had witnessed the whole uproarious proceeding. Her father, still
ejaculating "Bless my soul!" at intervals, gradually recovered
sufficient composure to recognize and welcome Serge and "Ipecac" Coombs,
as he persisted in calling poor Jalap. The upset chairs were placed to
rights, and all hands began to ask questions with such rapidity that no
one had time to pause for answers.

From the confusion Captain Matthews finally evolved an understanding
that the boys were still desirous of reaching Sitka, whereupon he
remarked:

"Sitka, Sitka. It never occurred to me that you had any desire to visit
Sitka. I thought your sole ambition was to attain the North Pole. If you
had only mentioned Sitka last summer I might have arranged the trip for
you, but now I fear--"

At this moment there came a knock at the door, and when it was opened
the Quartermaster began to say, "Excuse me, sir, but here's another--"
Before he could finish his sentence a small furry object jerked away
from him with such force, that it took a header into the room and landed
at the feet of the Commander on all fours, like a little bear.

"Bless my soul! What's this?" cried Captain Matthews, springing to one
side in dismay.

"It's a baby!" screamed Miss May, darting forward and snatching up the
child. "A darling little Indian in furs. Where did it come from?"

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Phil, remorsefully. "To think that we should
have forgotten Nel-te!"

"Are there any more yet to come?" demanded the Captain.

"No, sir; the whole ship's company is present _and_ accounted for,"
replied Jalap Coombs. "But with your leave, sir, I'll just step out and
take a look at our boat, for she's a ticklish craft to navigate, and
might come to grief in strange hands."

So saying, the honest fellow, who had made an excuse to escape from the
cabin, where he felt awkward and out of place, as well as uncomfortably
warm in his fur garments, pulled at the fringe of long wolf's hairs
surrounding his face, and shuffled away. A few minutes later saw him in
the forecastle, where, divested of his unsailorlike parka, puffing with
infinite zest at one of the blackest of pipes filled with the blackest
of tobacco, and the centre of an admiring group of seamen, he was
spinning incredible yarns of his recent and wonderful experiences with
snow-shoes and sledges.

In the mean time May Matthews was delightedly winning Nel-te's baby
affections, while Phil and Serge were still plying the Captain with
questions.

"Were you saying, sir, that you feared you couldn't take us to Sitka?"
inquired Serge, anxiously.

"Not at all, my lad," replied the Captain. "I was about to remark that I
feared you would not care to go there now, seeing that there is hardly
any one in Sitka whom you want to see, unless it is your mother and
sisters and Phil Ryder's father and Aunt Ruth."

"What!" cried Phil, "my Aunt Ruth! Are you certain, sir?"

"Certain I am," replied Captain Matthews, "that if both the individuals
I have just mentioned aren't already in Sitka, they will be there very
shortly, for I left them in San Francisco preparing to start at once.
Moreover, I have orders to carry your father to St. Michaels, where he
expects to find you. So now you see in what a complication your turning
up in this outlandish fashion involves me."

"But how did my Aunt Ruth ever happen to come out here?" inquired Phil.

"Came out to nurse your father while his leg was mending, and
incidentally to find out what had become of an undutiful nephew whom she
seems to fancy has an aptitude for getting into scrapes," laughed the
Captain.

"Has my father recovered from his accident?"

"So entirely that he fancies his leg is sounder and better than ever it
was."

"And are you bound for Sitka now, sir?"

"Certainly I am, and should have been half-way there by this time if I
hadn't been delayed by a report of some sort of a row between the
Chilkats and a party of whites. Now, having settled that difficulty by
capturing the entire force of aggressors, I propose to carry them to
Sitka as legitimate prisoners, and then turn them over to the
authorities. So, gentlemen, you will please consider yourselves as
prisoners of war, and under orders not to leave this ship until she
arrives at Sitka."

"With pleasure, sir," laughed Phil. "Only don't you think you'd better
place us under guard?"

"I expect it will be best," replied the Captain, gravely, "seeing that
you are charged with seal-poaching, piracy, defying government officers,
and escaping from arrest, as well as the present one of making war on
native Americans."


CHAPTER XL.

IN SITKA TOWN.

The long-beaked and wonderfully carved Chilkat canoe was taken on the
_Phoca_'s deck, the anchor was weighed, and, with the trim cutter headed
southward, the last stage of the adventurous journey, pursued amid such
strange vicissitudes, was begun. As the ship sped swiftly past the
overhanging ice-fields of Davidson Glacier, out of Chilkat Inlet into
the broad mountain-walled waters of Lynn Canal, and down that
thoroughfare into Chatham Strait, Captain Matthews listened with
absorbed interest to Phil's account of the remarkable adventures that he
and Serge had encountered from the time he had last seen them at the
Pribyloff islands down to the present moment.

"Well," said he, when the recital was finished, "I've done a good bit of
knocking about in queer places during thirty years of going to sea, and
had some experiences, but my life has been tame and monotonous compared
with the one you have led for the past year. Why, lad, if an account of
what you have gone through in attempting to take a quiet little trip
from New London to Sitka was written out and printed in a book, people
wouldn't believe it was true. They'd shake their heads and say it was
all made up, which only goes to prove, what I never believed before,
that truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, after all."

"Yes," replied Phil; "and the strangest part of it all is the way that
fur-seal's tooth has followed us and exerted its influence in our behalf
from the beginning to the very end. Why, sir, if it hadn't been for that
tooth you wouldn't have come to Chilkat, and we shouldn't be in the
happy position we are at this very moment."

"You don't mean to say," cried Captain Matthews, "that it turned up
again after your father lost it?"

"Oh yes, sir, and it's been with us, off and on, all the time."

"Then at last I can have the pleasure of showing it to my daughter.
Would you mind letting me have it for a few minutes?"

"Unfortunately, sir--"

"Now don't tell me that you have gone and lost it again."

"Not exactly lost it," replied Phil. "At the same time, I don't know
precisely where it is nor what has become of it, only it is somewhere
back in Klukwan, where it originally came from, and I have every reason
to believe that it is in possession of the principal Chilkat Shaman."

"I declare that is too bad!" exclaimed the Captain. "If I had known that
sooner I believe I should have kept right on and shelled the village
until they gave me the tooth, so strong is my desire to get hold of it."

"And so secured to yourself the ill luck of him who steals it," laughed
Phil.

That afternoon the _Phoca_ turned sharply to the right, and began to
thread the swift-rushing and rock-strewn waters of Peril Strait, the
narrow channel that washes the northern end of Baranoff Island, on which
Sitka is situated. Now Serge stood on the bridge beside his friend, so
nervous with excitement that he could hardly speak. Every roaring tide
rip and swirling eddy of those waters, every rock with its streamers of
brown kelp, every beach and wooded point were like familiar faces to the
young Russo-American, for just beyond them lay his home, that dear home
from which he had been more than three years absent.

Suddenly he clutched Phil's arm, and pointed to a lofty snow-crowned
peak looming high above the forest and bathed in rosy sunlight. "There's
Mount Edgecumbe!" he cried; and a few minutes afterward, "There's
Verstoroi." Phil felt the nervous fingers tremble as they gripped his
arm; and when, a little later the cutter swept from a narrow passage
into an island-studded bay, he could hardly hear the hoarse whisper of:
"There, Phil! There's Sitka! Dear, beautiful Sitka!"

And Phil was nearly as excited as Serge to think that, after twelve
months of ceaseless wanderings, the goal for which he had set forth was
at last reached.

The _Phoca_ had hardly dropped anchor before another ship appeared,
entering the bay from the same direction.

"The mail-steamer from Puget Sound," announced Captain Matthews.

This boat brought but few passengers, for the season was yet too early
for tourists; but on her upper deck stood a gentleman and a lady, the
former of whom was pointing out objects of interest almost as eagerly as
Serge had done a short time before.

"It is lovely," said his companion, enthusiastically, "but it seems
perfectly incredible that I should actually be here, and that this is
the place for which our Phil set out with such high hopes a year ago. Do
you realize, John, that it is just one year ago to-day since he left New
London? Oh, if we only knew where the dear boy was at this minute! And
to think that I should have got here before him!"

"Now he will probably never get here," replied Mr. Ryder. "For, on
account of that California offer, I shall be obliged to return directly
to San Francisco from St. Michaels without even a chance of going up the
Yukon, which I know will be a great disappointment to Phil. But look
there, Ruth. You have been wanting to see a canoe-load of Indians, and
here comes as typical a one as I ever saw. A perfect specimen of an
Alaskan dugout, natives in full winter costume, Eskimo dogs, and a
sledge."

"And, oh!" cried Miss Ruth, "there is a tiny bit of a child, all in
furs, just like its father. See? Nestled among the dogs, with a pair of
wee snow-shoes on his back too? Isn't he a darling? How I should love to
hug him! Oh, John, we must find them when we get ashore; for that child
is the very cutest thing I have seen in all Alaska:"

By this time the steamer was made fast, and the passengers were already
going ashore. When Mr. Ryder and his sister gained the wharf they were
surprised to see that the canoe in which they were interested had come
to the landing-stage, where its occupants were already disembarking.

The next moment she uttered a shriek of horror, for one of them had
thrown his arms around her neck and kissed her.

[Illustration: "AUNT RUTH, YOU'RE A BRICK! A PERFECT BRICK!"]

"Aunt Ruth, you're a brick! a perfect brick!" he cried. "To think of you
coming away out here to see me!" Then turning to Mr. Ryder, and
embracing that bewildered gentleman in his furry arms, the excited boy
exclaimed: "And pop! You dear old pop! If you only knew how distressed I
have been about you. If you hadn't turned up, just as you have, I should
have dropped everything and gone in search of you."

"Oh, Phil! How could you?" gasped Aunt Ruth. "You frightened me almost
to death, and have crushed me all out of shape. You are a regular
polar-bear in all those furs and things. What do you mean, sir? Oh you
dear, dear boy!" At this point Miss Ruth's feelings so completely
overcame her that she sank down on a convenient log and burst into
hysterical weeping.

"There, you young scamp!" cried Mr. Ryder, whose own eyes were full of
joyful tears at that moment. "See what you have done! Aren't you ashamed
of yourself, sir?"

"Yes, pop, awfully. But I've got something that will cheer her up and
amuse her. And here's Serge and-- No he isn't, either. What has become
of Serge? Oh, I suppose he has gone home. Don't see why he needs to be
in such a hurry, though. No matter; here's Jalap Coombs. You remember
Jalap, father? And here, Aunt Ruth, is the curio I promised to bring
you. Look out; it's alive!"

With this the crazy lad snatched Nel-te from the arms of Jalap Coombs,
who had just brought him up the steps, and laid him in Miss Ruth's lap,
saying, "He's a little orphan kid I found in the wilderness, and adopted
for you to love."

Miss Ruth gave such a start as the small bundle of fur was so
unexpectedly thrust at her that poor Nel-te rolled to the ground. From
there he lifted such a pitifully frightened little face, with such
tear-filled eyes and quivering lip, that Miss Ruth snatched him up and
hugged him. Then she kissed and petted him to such an extent that by the
time he was again smiling he had won a place in her loving heart second
only to that occupied by Phil himself.

With this journey's end also came the partings that always form so sad a
feature of all journeys' ends. Even the three dogs that had travelled
together for so long were separated, Musky being given to Serge, Luvtuk
to May Matthews, to become the pet of the _Phoca_'s crew, and big Amook
going with Phil, Aunt Ruth, Nel-te, the sledge, the snow-shoes, and the
beautiful white thick-furred skin of a mountain goat to distant New
London.

Mr. Ryder and Jalap Coombs accompanied them as far as San Francisco.
Dear old Serge was reluctantly left behind, busily making preparations
to carry out his cherished scheme of returning to Anvik as a teacher.

In San Francisco Mr. Ryder secured for Jalap Coombs the command of a
trading schooner plying between that port and Honolulu. When it was
announced to him that he was at last actually a captain, the honest
fellow's voice trembled with emotion as he answered:

"Mr. Ryder, sir, _and_ Phil, I never did wholly look to be a full-rigged
cap'n, though I've striv and waited for the berth nigh on to forty year.
Now I know that it's just as my old friend Kite Roberson useter say; for
he allers said, old Kite did, 'That them as waits the patientest is
bound to see things happen.'"


THE END.


FOOTNOTES:

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




OAKLEIGH.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.


CHAPTER IV.

Mr. Franklin's announcement at first almost stunned his children. They
could not believe it. Jack and Cynthia were somewhat prepared for it, it
is true, but when they heard the news from their father's own lips it
was none the less startling.

To Edith it came like a thunderbolt. She had never had the smallest
suspicion that her father would marry again. She had always supposed
that she would be sufficient for him. She would never marry herself, she
thought, but would stay at home and be the comfort of his declining
years. It had never occurred to her that her father, still a young and
good-looking man of barely forty, would be exceedingly likely to marry a
second time.

And now what was to happen? A stranger was coming to rule over them.
Edith would never endure it, never! She would go away and live with Aunt
Betsey. Anything would be better than a step-mother.

When she spoke her voice was hard and unnatural.

"Haven't I done right, papa? Weren't you satisfied with me? I have
tried."

"My dear child, you have done your best, but you are too young. No one
can expect a girl of sixteen to take entire charge of a house and
family. And it is not only that. Hester is a charming woman. She reminds
me something of your mother, Edith. It was that which first attracted
me. She will be a companion to you--a sister."

"Thank you, but I don't need either. Cynthia is all the sister I want.
Oh, papa, papa, why are you going to do it!"

She went to her own room and shut the door. After this one outbreak she
said no more. Small things made Edith storm and even cry, dignified
though she was. This great shock stunned her. She did not shed a tear,
and she bore it in silence; but a hard feeling came into her heart, and
she determined that she would never forgive this Miss Gordon who had
entrapped her father (so she put it), and was coming to rule over them
and order them about. She, for one, would never submit to it.

Jack did not mind it in the least, and Cynthia, who idolized her father,
was sure from what he said that he was doing what he considered was for
his happiness. Of course it was terrible for them, but they must make
the best of it.

They passed a dreary Sunday, but Monday was expected to be an exciting
day, for on that date the chickens were to appear. But when the children
returned from school there were but small signs of the anticipated hatch
in the incubator; one shell only had a little crack on the end.

Cynthia took up her position in front of the machine with a book, and
waited patiently hour after hour. Nothing came. The next morning there
was another crack in the next egg, and the first had spread a little,
but that was all. The children all went to school but Edith, and she
felt too low-spirited to go down to the cellar to watch.

Janet and Willy were forbidden to go near the place. As punishment for
their conduct on Saturday, they were not to be present at the hatching.
It was thought that owing to what they had done the chickens were not
forth-coming, and indeed it had been most disastrous.

When Jack and Cynthia returned from school they found that two little
chicks--probably the only two which had escaped the cold bath--had
emerged from their shells, and were hopping dismally about in the gravel
beneath the trays. One hundred and ninety-eight hoped-for companions
failed to appear.

Jack's first hatch was anything but a success. He bore it bravely, but
it was a bitter disappointment. After waiting many hours in the vain
hope of seeing another shell crack, he removed the two little comrades
to the large brooder built to hold a hundred, and then, nothing daunted,
sent for more eggs. He still had some of Aunt Betsey's money left.

Jack was plucky, and his pride would not permit him to give up. He would
profit by his experience, and next time he would be victorious. He
feared that, besides the mischief done by the children, he had been
overfussy in his care of the eggs, and he determined to act more wisely
in every respect.

In after-years Cynthia looked back upon the first hatch as one of the
most depressing events in her life. The children in disgrace, Edith
silent and woe-begone in her own room, she and Jack watching hour after
hour in the big cellar for the chickens that never came, and, above all,
the impending arrival of the second Mrs. Franklin.

Aunt Betsey journeyed down from Wayborough as soon as she heard the
news. They did not know she was coming until they saw one of the station
carriages slowly approaching the house, with Miss Trinkett's well-known
bonnet inside of it. She waved her hand gayly, and opened the subject at
once.

"Well, well," she cried, "this is news indeed! I want to know! Nephew
John going to be married again! Just what I always thought he had best
do for the good of you children. Have you seen the bride, and what is
she like?"

It was a warm June day, and the Franklins were on the piazza when this
was shouted to them from the carriage in their aunt's shrill voice.
Edith writhed. Though the news was all over Brenton by now, this would
be a fine bit for the driver to take back.

Jack and Cynthia offered to help Aunt Betsey to alight, but she waved
them aside.

"Don't think you must help me, my dears. This good news has put new life
into me. How do you all do?" giving each one of her birdlike kisses, and
settling herself in a favorite rocking-chair.

The younger children ran to her, hoping for treasures from the
carpet-bag.

"I do declare," exclaimed she, "if I didn't forget all about you in the
news of the bride! Never mind; wait till next time, and I'll bring you
something extry nice when I come to see the bride."

"What's a bride?" asked Willy.

"La, child, don't you know? They haven't been kept in ignorance, I
hope?"

"Oh no, but they haven't heard her called that," explained Cynthia.

"Do you mean the lady that is coming here to live?" asked Janet. "Well,
we don't like her, me and Willy. She's made Edith cross and sobby, and
she's made you forget our presents, and she's made a lot of fuss. We
don't want her here at all."

Miss Trinkett looked shocked. "My dear children!" she exclaimed, too
much aghast to say more. Then she turned to Edith.

"But now tell me all about it. Have you seen her, and is she young?"

"I have not seen her, Aunt Betsey, and I don't wish to. I don't know
whether she is young or old, and I don't care. Won't you take me home
with you, Aunt Betsey? Can't I live with you now? I'm not needed here."

Miss Betsey stared at her in amazement.

"Edith Franklin," she said, folding her hands in her lap, "I _am_
astonished at the state of things I find in this household! Rebelling
against circumstances in this way, and wishing to run away from your
duties! No, indeed, my dear. Much as I'd admire to have you live with
me--and there's a nice little chamber over the living-room that would
suit you to a T--I'd never be the one to encourage your leaving your
family. You are setting them a bad example as it is, teaching these
young things to look with disfavor on their new mother that is to be.
No, indeed. Far be it from me to encourage you. And, indeed, I should
have no right, when my own mother was a second wife. Why, in the early
days of the colonies it was thought nothing at all for a man to marry
three or four times, as you'd know if you had read Judge Sewall's
_Diary_ as much as I have, or other valuable works."

Miss Trinkett rocked violently when she had finished this harangue.
Edith did not reply. She had looked for sympathy from Aunt Betsey; but
she, like all the rest of the world, seemed to think it the best thing
that could happen.

As for Miss Betsey, she too was somewhat disappointed. She had hoped for
some interesting items, and none seemed to be forth-coming.

"Where's your father?" she asked, presently.

Edith did not reply.

"He has gone to Albany," said Cynthia.

"Well, well! And when is the wedding to be?"

Edith rose and went into the house. Cynthia glanced after her
regretfully, and then answered her aunt's question.

"It is to be in a week. It is to be very quiet, because--because Miss
Gordon is in deep mourning."

"Do tell! I want to know!" ejaculated Miss Trinkett. "And are none of
you going?"

"No; papa did not think it was best. Hardly any one will be there. Only
her brother and one or two others."

"So she has a brother. Any other relatives?"

"I think not. She lost her father and mother when she was very young,
and her grandmother died rather lately."

"I want to know! And when are they coming home?"

"Very soon," said Cynthia, almost inaudibly.

"Do tell!"

Miss Betsey said no more at present, but her mind was busy.

"Where is Jackie?" she next asked.

"I don't know. Gone to see about the chickens, I suppose."

"Oh, those little orphans. Well, I haven't time to ask about them now,
for I think, Cynthia, I would like to call upon my friend, Mrs. Parker.
It is a long time since I was there."

"Oh, Aunt Betsey!" exclaimed Cynthia. It would never do for her aunt to
see Mrs. Parker. The secret of her escapade at that good lady's house
would surely be found out. "Why do you go there this afternoon?"

"Because, my dear, I am here only for a night, and I must see Mrs.
Parker."

Cynthia groaned inwardly.

"And hear all the village gossip about papa," she thought.

It must be prevented.

But Miss Trinkett was not to be turned from her purpose. Go she would.
Every available excuse in the world was brought up to deter her, but the
end of it was that Jack drove around in the buggy, and Miss Betsey
departed triumphantly.

Cynthia awaited her return in suspense. She wished that she could run
away. Her impersonation of her aunt did not seem such a joke as it had
at the time, and then she had heard the dreadful news there.

Miss Trinkett came back before very long in high dudgeon. Cynthia was
alone on the piazza, for Edith had not appeared again. She noticed that
Jack was apparently enjoying a huge joke, and instead of taking the
horse to the barn, he remained to hear what Aunt Betsey had to say.

Miss Trinkett sank into a chair and untied her bonnet strings with a
jerk.

"Maria Parker is losing her mind," she announced. "As for me, I shall
never go there again."

"Why not, Aunt Betsey?" murmured Cynthia, preparing herself for the
worst.

"She declares that I was there two weeks ago, and that she--_she_ told
me the news of my own nephew's engagement! She actually had the
effrontery to say, 'I told you so!' My own nephew! When his letter the
other day was the first I heard of it, and I said to Silas, said I,
'Silas, nephew John Franklin is going to marry again, and give a mother
to those children, and I'm glad of it, and I've just heard the news.'
And now for Maria Parker to tell me that she told me, and that I was
there two weeks ago! Is the woman crazy, or am I the one that has lost
my mind? Why don't you say something, Cynthy? Is it possible you agree
with Mrs. Parker? Come, now, answer a question. Was I here two weeks
ago, and did I go and see Maria Parker?"

"No," murmured Cynthia, her face crimson, her voice almost inaudible.
But Aunt Betsey was too much excited to notice.

"Jackie," she said, turning to him, "will you answer me a question? Did
I visit you two weeks ago, and did I call upon Mrs. Parker?"

Jack gave one look at Cynthia, and then, dropping on the grass, rolled
over and over in an ecstasy of mirth.

"You're in for it now, Miss Cynthia!" he chuckled.

Miss Betsey drew herself up.

"You have not answered my questions. Was I here two weeks ago, and did I
call upon Mrs. Parker?"

"No, no, Aunt Betsey!" shouted Jack. "You weren't! You didn't! Go ahead,
Cynth! Out with it! My eye, I'm glad I'm here and nowhere else! I've
been waiting for this happy day. Now you'll get paid up for fooling me."

And again he rolled, his long legs beating the air.

"I think you are mean, Jack, when you were the one that made me go!"
exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly. Then she relapsed into silence. How
could she ever confess to Aunt Betsey?

Miss Trinkett hastened the climax.

"I don't know why Jack finds this so amusing. It is not so to my mind;
but if you are quite sure that I was not here, and that I did not call
upon Mrs. Parker, I must ask you to drive down with me at once and state
the facts to her. I cannot have it insinuated that I am no longer
capable of judging for myself, and of knowing what I do and what I don't
do. She actually told me to my face that I was getting childish. What
_would_ Silas say? But I'll never tell him that. I would like to go at
once."

Alas, there was no help for it. Cynthia must confess. If only Jack had
not been there!

She rose from the step where she had been sitting, and standing in front
of her little grandaunt she spoke very rapidly.

"You are right, and so is Mrs. Parker. You weren't here, but I dressed
up and went to see her. I pretended I was you. I found your other
false--I mean your new hair. You left it in the drawer. I looked just
like you, and we thought it would be such fun. I'm awfully sorry, Aunt
Betsey, indeed I am. It wasn't such great fun, after all."

At first Miss Betsey was speechless. Then she rose in extreme wrath.

[Illustration: "CYNTHY FRANKLIN, IT IS MORE THAN TIME YOU HAD A
MOTHER."]

"Cynthy Franklin, it is more than time you had a mother. I never
supposed you could be so--impertinent; yes, impertinent! Made yourself
look like me, indeed, and going to my most intimate friend! Poor Mrs.
Parker. There's no knowing what she might have said, thinking it was I.
And I telling her to-day she was out of her mind, and various other
things I'm distressed to think of. Why, _Cynthy_!"

"Oh, I'm _so_ sorry," cried Cynthia, bursting into tears. "Do forgive
me, Aunt Betsey."

"I am not ready to forgive you just yet, and whether I ever will or not
remains to be proved. I am disappointed in you all. Edith going and
shutting herself up when I come, because she doesn't want a step-mother,
and you making fun of an aged aunt--not so very aged either. Why, when
Silas hears this I just dread to think what he'll say. I am going home
at once, Jack. You are the only well-behaved one among them. You may
drive me to the train."

"Oh, Aunt Betsey, not to-day! Please don't go."

"I couldn't answer for my tongue if I staid here to-night. I had best go
home and think it out. When I remember all I said to Maria Parker, and
all she said to me, I'm about crazy, just as she said I was."

And presently she drove away, sitting very stiff and very erect in the
old buggy that had held her prototype two weeks before, and Cynthia was
left in tears, with one more calamity added to her already burdened
soul.

Why had she ever played a practical joke? If she lived a hundred years
she never would again.

Edith heard the news of Aunt Betsey's sudden departure in silence, and
Cynthia received no sympathy from her. And very soon it was temporarily
forgotten in preparations for the advent of the bride.

The day came at last, a beautiful one in June. The house was filled with
lovely flowers which Cynthia had arranged--Edith would have nothing to
do with it--and the supper-table was decked with the finest China and
the old silver service and candelabra of their great-grandmother.

The servants, who had lived with them so long, could scarcely do their
work. They peered from the kitchen windows for a first sight of their
new mistress, and wondered what she would be like.

"These are sorry times," said Mary Ann, the old cook, as she wiped her
eyes with the corner of her apron.

Outside the place had never looked so peacefully lovely. It was late,
and the afternoon sun cast long shadows from the few trees on the lawn.
In the distance the cows were heard lowing at milking-time. At one spot
the river could be seen glinting through the trees, and June roses
filled the air with fragrance.

All was to the outward eye just as it had always been, summer after
summer, since the Franklins could remember, and yet how different it
really was.

Jack had gone to the station to meet the travellers. Edith, Cynthia,
Janet, and Willy were waiting on the porch, all in their nicest clothes.
The children had been bribed to keep their hands clean, and up to this
moment they were immaculate. Ben and Chester lay at full length on the
banking in front of the house; they alone did not share the excitement.

The sound of wheels was heard.

"They are coming," whispered Cynthia.

As for Edith, she was voiceless.

And then the carriage emerged from the trees.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




STORIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE.

BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.


In the old seaport town of Salem, with its quaint houses with their
carved doorways and many windows, with its pretty rose gardens, its
beautiful overshadowing elms, its dingy court-house and celebrated town
pump, Hawthorne passed his early life, his picturesque surroundings
forming a suitable setting to the picture we may call up of the handsome
imaginative boy whose early impressions were afterward to crystallize
into the most beautiful art that America has yet known. Behind the town
stood old Witch Hill, grim and ghastly with the memories of the witches
who had been hanged there in colonial times. In front spread the sea, a
golden argosy of promise, whose wharves and store-rooms held priceless
stores of merchandise.

[Illustration: ONE OF THE BOY'S FAVORITE OCCUPATIONS.]

Hawthorne's boyhood was much like that of any other boy in Salem town.
He went to school and to church, loved the sea, and prophesied that he
would go away on it some day and never return, was fond of reading, and
was not averse to a good fight with any of his school-fellows who had,
as he expressed it, "a quarrelsome disposition." He was a healthy,
robust lad, and life seemed a very good thing to him, whether he was
roaming the streets of Salem, sitting idly on the wharves, or at home
stretched on the floor reading one of his favorite authors. As a rule
all boys who have become writers have liked the same books, and
Hawthorne was no exception. When reading, he was living in the magic
world of Shakespeare and Milton, Spenser, Froissart, and _Pilgrim's
Progress_. This last was a great and special favorite with him, its
lofty and beautiful spirit carrying his soul with it into those
spiritual regions which the child mind reverences without understanding.

For one year of his boyhood he was supremely happy in the life of the
wild regions of Sebago Lake, Maine, where the family moved for a time.
Here, he says, he lived the life of a bird of the air, with no
restraint, and in absolute supreme freedom. In the summer he would take
his gun and spend days in the forest, shooting, fishing, and doing
whatever prompted his vagabond spirit at the moment. In the winter he
would follow the hunters through the snow, or skate till midnight alone
upon the frozen lake, with only the shadows of the hills to keep him
company, and sometimes passing the remainder of the night in a solitary
log cabin, whose hearth would blaze with the burning trunks of the
fallen evergreens.

He entered Bowdoin in 1821, and had among his fellow-students Henry
Wadsworth Longfellow, Franklin Pierce, afterward President of the United
States, and several others who distinguished themselves in later life.
Long afterward Hawthorne recalls his days at Bowdoin as among the
happiest of his life, and in writing to one of his old college friends
speaks of the charm that lingers around the memory of the place, where
he gathered blueberries in study hours; watched the great logs drifting
down from the lumbering districts above along the current of the
Androscoggin, fished in the forest streams, and shot pigeons and
squirrels at odd hours which ought to have been devoted to the classics.

[Illustration: NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.]

After leaving Bowdoin, Hawthorne returned to Salem, where he passed the
next twelve years of his life, and during which he must have marked out
authorship as his profession, as he attempted nothing else. Here he
produced, from time to time, stories and sketches which found their way
to the periodicals of the day, and which won for him a reputation among
other American writers. But it is remarkable that the years which a man
devotes usually to the best work of his life were spent by Hawthorne in
a contented half-dream of what he meant to accomplish later on; for
exquisite as is some of the work produced at this time, it never would
have won for the author the highest place in American literature. These
stories and sketches were collected later on, and published under the
titles _Twice-Told Tales_ and _Snow Image_. They are full of the grace
and beauty of Hawthorne's style, but in speaking of them Hawthorne
himself says that there is in this result of twelve years little to show
for its thought and industry. But whatever may have been the cause of
delay, the promise of his genius was fulfilled at last. In 1850, when
Hawthorne was forty-six years old, appeared his first great romance. In
writing this book Hawthorne had chosen for his subject a picture of old
Puritan times in New England, and out of the tarnished records of the
past he created a work of art of marvellous and imperishable beauty.

In the days of which he wrote a Puritan town or village was exactly like
a large family bound together by mutual interests, in which the acts of
each life were regarded as affecting the whole community. In this novel
Hawthorne imprisoned forever the spirit of colonial New England, with
all its struggles, hopes, and fears; and the conscience-driven Puritan,
who lived in the new generation only in public records and church
histories, was lifted into the realm of art.

In Hawthorne's day this grim figure, stalking in the midst of Indian
fights, village pillories, town meetings, witch-burnings, and church
councils, was already a memory. He had drifted into the past with his
steeple-crowned hat and his matchlock. He had left the pleasant New
England farm-lands with their pastures and meadows, hills and valleys
and wild-pine groves, and lurked like a ghost among the old church-yards
and court-houses where his deeds were recorded.

Hawthorne brought him back to life, rehabilitated him in his old
garments, set him in the midst of his fellow-elders in the church, and
gave him a perfect carnival of trials and worries for conscience' sake.
He made the old Puritan live anew, and never again can his memory become
dim. It is embalmed for all time by the cunning art of this master-hand.

This first romance, published under the title _The Scarlet Letter_,
revealed both to Hawthorne himself and the world outside the
transcendent power of his genius.

Hawthorne, when the work was first finished, was in a desperate frame of
mind, because of the little popularity his other books had acquired, and
told his publisher, who saw the first germ of the work, that he did not
know whether the story was very good or very bad. The publisher,
however, perceived at once the unusual quality of the work, prevailed
upon Hawthorne to finish it immediately, and brought it out one year
from that time, and the public, which had become familiar with Hawthorne
as a writer of short stories, now saw that it had been entertaining a
genius unawares.

Hawthorne's next work, _The House of the Seven Gables_, is a story of
the New England of his own day. Through its pages flit the contrasting
figures that one might find there and nowhere else. The old spinster of
ancient family who is obliged in her latter years to open a toy and
ginger-bread shop, and who never forgets the time when the house with
seven gables was a mansion whose hospitality was honored by all, is a
pathetic picture of disappointed hope and broken-down fortune. So also
her brother, who was imprisoned under a false charge for twenty years,
and who is obliged in his old age to lean upon his sister for support.
The other characters are alike true to life--a life that has almost
disappeared now in the changes of the half-century since its scenes were
made the inspiration of Hawthorne's romance.

The _House of the Seven Gables_ was followed by two beautiful volumes
for children: _The Wonder-Book_, in which the stories of the Greek myths
are retold, and _Tanglewood Tales_.

In _The Wonder-Book_ Hawthorne writes as if he were a child himself, so
delicious is the charm that he weaves around these old, old tales. Not
content with the myths, he created little incidents and impossible
characters, which glance in and out with elfin fascination. He feels
that these were the very stories that were told by the centaurs,
fairies, and satyrs themselves in the shadows of those old Grecian
forests. Here we learn that King Midas not only had his palace turned to
gold, but that his own little daughter Marigold, a fancy of Hawthorne's
own, was also converted into the same shilling metal. We are told, too,
the secrets of many a hero and god of this realm of fancy which had been
unsuspected by any other historian of their deeds. No child in reading
_The Wonder-Book_ would doubt for a moment that Hawthorne had obtained
the stories first hand from the living characters, and would easily
believe that he had hobnobbed many a moonlit night with Pan and Bacchus
and other sylvan deities in their vine-covered grottos by the famed
rivers of Greece. This dainty ethereal touch of Hawthorne appears
especially in all his work for children. It is as if he understood and
entered into that mystery which ever surrounds child life and sets it
sacredly apart. It is the same quality, nearly, which gives distinction
to his fourth great novel, in which he is called upon to deal with the
elusive character of a man who is supposed to be a descendant of the old
fauns. We feel that this creation, which is named Donatello, from his
resemblance to the celebrated statue of the Marble Faun by that
sculptor, is not wholly human, and although he has human interests and
feelings, Hawthorne is always a master in treating such a subject as
this. He makes Donatello ashamed of his pointed ears, though his spirit
is as wild and untamed as that of his crude ancestors. In this
book--which takes its name from the statue--_The Marble Faun_, there is
a description of a scene where Donatello, who is by title an Italian
count, joins in a peasant dance around one of the public fountains. And
so vividly is his half-human nature brought out that one feels as if
Hawthorne must have witnessed somewhere the mad revels of the veritable
fauns and satyrs in the days of their life upon the earth. In the whole
development of this story Hawthorne shows the same subtle sympathy with
natures so far out of the commonplace that they seem to belong to
another world. The mystery of such souls having the same charm for him
as the secrets of the earth and air have for the scientist and
philosopher.

[Illustration: AT BROOK FARM.]

The book coming between _The House of the Seven Gables_ and _The Marble
Faun_ is called The _Blithedale Romance_. It is founded partly upon a
period of Hawthorne's life when he became a member of a community which
hoped to improve the world by showing that to live healthily, manual
labor must be combined with intellectual pursuits, and that
self-interest and all differences in rank could only be injurious to a
country. This little society of reformers lived in a suburb of Boston,
and called their association Brook Farm. Each member was supposed to
perform some manual labor on the farm or in the house each day, although
hours were set aside for study and intellectual work. Here Hawthorne
ploughed the fields like a farmer boy in the daytime, and in the evening
joined in the amusements, or sat apart while the other members talked
about art and literature and science, danced, sang, or read Shakespeare
aloud.

Some of the cleverest men and women of New England became members of
this community, the rules of which obliged the men to wear plaid blouses
and rough straw hats, and the women to content themselves with plain
calico gowns.

This company of serious-minded men and women, who tried to solve a great
problem by leading the lives of Acadian shepherds, at length dispersed,
each one going back into the world and working on as bravely as if the
experiment had been a great success. The record of the life and
experiences of Brook Farm are shadowed forth in _The Blithedale
Romance_, although it is not by any means a literal narrative of its
existence.

[Illustration: THE OLD MANSE.]

Hawthorne's early married life was spent at Concord, near Boston, in a
quaint old dwelling called the Manse, and as all his work partakes of
the personal flavor of his own life, so his existence here is recorded
in a delightful series of essays called _Mosses from an Old Manse_. Here
we have a description of the old house itself and of the author's family
life, of the kitchen-garden and apple orchards, of the meadows and
woods, and of his friendship with that lover of nature, Henry Thoreau,
whose writings form a valuable contribution to American literature. The
_Mosses from an Old Manse_ must ever be famous as the history of the
quiet hours of the greatest American man of letters. They are full of
Hawthorne's own personality, and reveal more than any other of his
books, the depth and purity of his poetic and rarely gifted nature.

In 1853 Hawthorne was appointed American Consul at Liverpool by his old
friend and school-mate Franklin Pierce, then President of the United
States. He remained abroad seven years, spending the last four on the
continent. The results of this experience are found in the celebrated
_Marble Faun_, published in Europe under the title _Transformation_. It
was written in Rome, and it is interesting to know that the story was
partly suggested to Hawthorne by an old villa near Florence which he
occupied with his family. This old villa possessed a moss-covered tower,
"haunted," as Hawthorne said in a letter to a friend, "by owls and by
the ghost of a monk who was confined there in the thirteenth century,
previous to being burnt at the stake in the principal square of
Florence." He also states in the same letter that he meant to put the
old castle bodily in a romance that was then in his head, and he carried
out this threat by making the villa the old family castle of Donatello.

After Hawthorne returned to America he began two other novels, one
founded upon the old legend of the elixir of life. This story was
probably suggested to him by Thoreau, who spoke of the house in which
Hawthorne lived at Concord, after leaving the old Manse, as having been
the abode, a century or two before, of a man who believed that he should
never die. This subject was a charming one for Hawthorne's peculiar
genius, but the story, with another--the _Dolliver Romance_--was never
completed, the death of Hawthorne in 1864 leaving the work unfinished.




[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

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


HOW TO DEVELOP CLOUD PICTURES.

Pictures taken simply of clouds, without special attention to the
landscape, should be developed very slowly in order to bring out all the
soft shadows, which are lost if the development is hurried.

Where clouds and landscape have been taken in one picture, the printing
quality of the negative may be made uniform by careful development of
the plate.

Place the plate in a rather weak developer, and as soon as the outlines
of the landscape begin to appear take it out and place in a dish of
clean water so as to arrest the development. Pour off the developer, put
the plate back in the tray, and finish the plate with brush development.
To do this take a soft camel's-hair brush or a small wad of surgeon's
cotton, dip into the developer, and brush over the part of the plate
which develops more slowly, which will be the landscape. As soon as this
part is nearly developed flood the plate with a weak solution of
developer, increasing it in strength till the sky is fully developed.
Brush development requires a careful hand, but, like any other part of
photography, becomes easy by repeated trials.

Another way of developing one part of the plate at a time is to take the
plate from the tray as soon as the outlines appear; turn off the
developer, and wash the plate. Put it back in the tray, and tip the tray
so that the sky will be out of the developer, turn in the developer, and
rock the tray gently to and fro, but do not allow any of the developer
to touch the sky until the shadows in the landscape are well out.

When the shadows are nearly or quite developed flood the whole plate
with the developer. The sky will develop very quickly, and if the
process is carefully watched a fine even-printing negative will be the
result. This plan of development is most successful where the
horizon-line is not too much broken.

Having once succeeded in catching the clouds, one will never be quite
satisfied with a landscape picture which has a perfectly clear sky.

We devote a little of our space this week to tell the Camera Club
something about two publications which have been sent to the editor for
inspection, and which are the work of some of the members of our club.

The first is entitled the _Focus_, a magazine issued by the Niepce
Corresponding Club, and published by Sir Knight Arthur F. Atkinson, of
Sacramento, California.

The literary matter is typewritten, and the illustrations are, with one
exception, original photographs by members of the Chapter. The first
illustration is a fine platinum print of the first-prize landscape
picture which was published in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, March 26, 1895.
The first article, entitled "Rural Photography," is a most amusing
account of one J. Focus Snapschotte's attempt to take pictures in the
country. The pen and-ink sketch of "Silas" does great credit to the
artist, who we suspect is the publisher of the magazine, as the initials
A. F. A. are the same.

The other articles are part of a continued story, a description of the
prize landscape, an account of the capital of California, and matters
connected with the club. The photographs do great credit to the members,
and the whole magazine is very nicely arranged and embellished.

The second magazine is entitled _Hints_, and is published by Sir Knight
George D. Galloway and Sir Knight George Johnson, Jun., of Eau Claire,
Wisconsin.

As its name indicates, it is intended to help the amateur to do better
work. Its object is stated at the beginning: "This is a practical
periodical, and we know all who see it will say so too. From all the
prints that are here exhibited you will get _hints_, and you will notice
that your work will improve steadily in all respects."

This magazine is also illustrated with original photographs, among which
we notice one which also appeared in the Camera Club Department a short
time ago. It is by Sir Knight Andrew Phillips, of Nunda, New York, and
is entitled "Knights and Ladies of the Camera Club."

Both of these publications cannot fail to be helpful to those members
who have the privilege of examining them, for one is sure to learn
something by "exchanging experiences." The Chapters which issue these
magazines have reason to feel very proud of them.

     A correspondent who signs herself "Sweet Marie" asks: 1. How to
     prepare the best and cheapest developer. 2. How to make sensitive
     paper. 3. How to prepare a polishing solution for ferrotype
     plates. 4. How to make a ruby lamp. 5. What is stronger water of
     ammonia. 6. What is bromide of ammonia.

     As there are almost as many formulas for developers as there are
     amateur photographers, it would be quite impossible to say which
     one is the cheapest and best. Sir Knight William C. Davids, of
     Rutherford, New Jersey, sends the following formula, which he
     recommends very highly. We shall publish in our papers for
     beginners several formulas for developing solutions, with prices
     of chemicals.

     _Hydroquinon Developer._--Sodium sulphite, 460 grains; sodium
     carbonate, 960 grains; hydroquinon, 96 grains; water, 16 ounces.

     1. Mix and filter before using. In No. 786 will be found a simple
     developer for instantaneous pictures. 2. Directions for preparing
     sensitive paper will be found in Nos. 786 and 803. 3. Directions
     for polishing ferrotype plates will be found in Nos. 797 and 805.
     4. A ruby light for dark-room work may be made by taking a wooden
     starch-box, cutting a square hole in the cover, and pasting two
     thicknesses of red fabric over the opening. A hole must be made in
     one end of the box--which answers for the top of the lantern--to
     allow for ventilation. This must be shielded so as to prevent the
     escape of actinic rays. This may be done by pieces of tin bent so
     that air can enter, but no white light escape. A candle should be
     used with this style of lantern. 5. Ammonia in its pure state is a
     gas which combines readily with water, water taking up of the gas
     five hundred times its own volume. This is liquid ammonia, or
     stronger water of ammonia. By diluting it with water it becomes
     the spirits of hartshorn, or ammonia water. 6. Bromide of ammonia
     is formed in the simplest manner by the addition of bromine to
     water of ammonia. It is very useful in photographic work. It gives
     great sensitiveness to gelatine and collodion emulsions--combined
     with pyro for a developer it prevents fog--and is employed in the
     preparation of sensitive papers.




[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.


Lillie M---- came to see me yesterday, and after she had gone, Maria
G----, who was putting a new braid on my second-best gown, said:

"That Miss Lillie uses very nice perfumery. It's so faint and fine, not
anything you can smell a long way off, but something which makes you
think of roses or violets when she passes you on the street. How does
she manage it?"

Maria G---- likes perfumes, but does not know how to use them.

"Not by putting cologne on her handkerchief," I answered, decidedly.
"Nobody should carry about scents poured on their garments." I had to
say this.

Perfumes are used sparingly by elegant people, yet a touch, a vague
sense of fragrance, does add something of daintiness to a girl's
toilette. It is right for you to have perfumes about you if you love
them.

Fresh rose-leaves thrown into your bureau drawers and scattered in the
boxes where you keep your laces and handkerchiefs, and sprigs of
lavender or lemon verbena left there to dry will impart a pleasant
sweetness to whatever lies among them. Orris-root powder in little
sachet bags of China silk, or strewn lightly between folds of
tissue-paper, will give to your clothing in closet or wardrobe a
delightful faint odor of violet. If you use delicate soap with a sweet
clean perfume, not of musk or anything strong and pronounced, and put a
few drops of alcohol or ammonia in the water when you bathe, you need
not be afraid of any unfavorable comment on your daintiness. Perfect
cleanliness is always dainty. Soil and stain, dust and dirt, are never
anything but repulsive.

Rose-leaves pulled from the perfect flower and laid in your box of
note-paper when they are fresh will dry there, and insure your sending
to your friends notes which will associate you with fragrance. There is
an exquisite perfume in dried roses.

How do you seal your letters, by-the-way? I hope you have at hand a bit
of sponge and a tiny glass of water with which to moisten the mucilage
on the flap of your envelope. Better still is a little glass cylinder in
a glass jar, a very ornamental and thoroughly clean affair, which can be
procured at any stationer's. The glass jar holds water. You turn the
cylinder, and on its wet surface place your envelope. Postage stamps may
be moistened in the same way.

When friends call, on these very sultry days, you offer them fans, do
you not, and, if they wish it, a glass of cold water or lemonade?
Palm-leaf or Japanese fans should be in every room in profusion during
the summer solstice. When fans are broken at the edges renew them by a
ribbon binding, and tie a jaunty bow on the handle. Very few things
should be thrown aside as useless. While an article can be mended or
renovated it is worth keeping, and a thrifty person never discards a
household implement of any kind until she is convinced that it is worn
out.

Ribbon plays an important part in decoration. A bow on the corner of
mamma's sewing-chair, on the dressing-glass which hangs over the table,
on the little birthday package you send your friend, gives each a sort
of gala look. The plainest furniture in the plainest bedroom may be
brightened and made attractive by good taste, a few yards of cheap
netting or lace, and the judicious use of ribbon. Clever fingers can
accomplish wonders with very little money.

A girl showed me one day a beautiful sewing-chair, white and gold as to
frame-work, and cushioned with a lovely chintz, a white ground thickly
sprinkled with daisies.

"There!" she said. "Mamma gave me permission to use anything I could
find in our attic, and I hunted around till I came across this chair.
Such a fright! It was dingy and broken, and fit for nothing but
firewood. Look at it now. Two coats of white paint, some gilding, and
this lovely cushion, and then this ravishing frill and box of yellow
satin ribbon! Isn't it a triumph?"

I said, very sincerely, that I thought it was.

Bertha wishes me to tell her why lemonade is not always the rich
refreshing drink it should be. Well, Bertha, everybody does not know how
to make lemonade. I squeeze my lemons in a glass lemon-squeezer, mix in
my granulated sugar with a lavish hand, and add the thinly pared rind of
a lemon, dropping it in in circular strips. On this I pour boiling
water, setting it by to cool, and, when cold, putting it away in the
refrigerator. Then when served I add a strawberry, or a bit of sliced
orange or banana, and some pounded ice, and the lemonade is delicious.

[Illustration: Signature]




WHIPPOORWILL.


  Unseen in the thicket a lone little bird
  Cries over and over the sorrowful word,
  Till the children, whose sweet lisping prayers have been said,
  Turn over, half waking, and call from their bed,
  "Do make that bird stop calling down from the hill
  His mournful old story, Whip, whip, oh! poor Will."

  What could Will have done in the days long ago
  That this bird's great-grandfather hated him so?
  Did he rifle a nest, did he climb up a tree,
  Did he meddle where he had no business to be?--
  When we find out, dear children, what 'twas Katy did,
  The secret with those funny wood gossips hid,
  We are likely, and not before then, to discover
  The rune that the poor little songster runs over,
  Who, hour by hour, up there on the hill,
  Calls mournfully, urgently, Oh! whip poor Will.




MODERN WHALING.


It is natural enough that the Norwegians should be the most expert
people in capturing whales. They live in their cold country up near the
best whaling-grounds in the world, except, perhaps, the regions about
the northern part of Alaska. For centuries the old Norsemen have been
good whalers and famous at throwing the harpoon, but it was left for a
famous, perhaps the most famous, whaler the world has known to discover
a weapon which made the old hand-thrown harpoon a back number. The man
was a Norwegian called Svend Foyn, and an account of his life would make
an interesting and exciting story of adventures, escapes, dangers, and
finally riches.

Old Svend, who died not long ago at an advanced age, was a cabin-boy
when he was eleven years old, and did not have enough money to keep him
ashore a month. He used to sail in different kinds of vessels in his
early days, keeping his eyes open, and watching to learn what there was
for a cabin-boy to learn. This was in 1820. Gradually, as he grew older,
he began to save a few krone here and there, and when he came ashore
after a long trip he would take as much of his wages as he could
possibly spare and put them in the bank at home in Jönsberg. But it was
slow work, and he was little more than a cabin-boy in 1845, except that
he was thirty-six years old and had a neat little sum in the bank. Then
the idea came to him to buy a little vessel of his own, and try to make
for himself the profits he saw others making out of his own and other
men's services.

He scraped together all he had or could raise, and bought a brig, and in
a very short time he had made a big catch of seals in the north, and had
$20,000 in the bank, besides the brig in the water. Svend seems to have
had all the shrewdness for which Norwegians have long been famous, and
much of the daring and self-reliance of the same great race. For he
started in 1863, with a little steamer which he had bought, to the
whaling-grounds, and tried to harpoon whales.

This did not seem to succeed very well, and he made up his mind that
spearing whales with a harpoon thrown by the hand of man was a doubtful
thing. He went to work, therefore, to think of something more powerful
and more certain in its aim than a man's arm, with the result that he
invented a harpoon which was fired from a gun, and which carried along
with it a shell that exploded inside the whale's vitals and almost
invariably killed it at once. This harpoon-gun is now used all over the
world, and has made whaling a wonderfully profitable business.

[Illustration: THE MODERN HARPOON AND WHALE BOAT]

The gun is placed in the bows of small steamers built especially for the
purpose, and is aimed and fired much as any other gun. When a whale is
sighted the craft is steered in its direction, and moves silently up
behind the big monster as he lies on the water taking long breaths or
resting. When the bow is within about twenty or thirty yards of the
whale the gunner takes careful aim at his most vital parts, and fires
the harpoon and shell combination, which is, of course, attached to the
vessel by a long line, just as in the case of the old harpoon. The spear
goes deep into the whale, but the moment he rushes forward or turns
flukes he tightens the line, and the end of the spear is therefore
pulled out behind. This acts on the flukes of the harpoon in such a way
that they are pulled out and catch in the flesh of the whale, as shown
in the accompanying illustration, and he cannot therefore get away.

But besides this, the flukes, in thrusting themselves out, break a
little glass tube inside a shell, which can be seen in the illustration
just ahead of the flukes. In this tube there is an acid, and outside the
tube but still inside the shell is another acid. When the glass is
broken and the acid inside mingles with the other, they chemically form
a third substance, which is a remarkably explosive gas that expands so
very quickly and to such enormous proportions that the shell bursts and
explodes inside the whale. If the poor beast is not killed at once, he
is so severely wounded that he is soon captured and hauled alongside the
steamer.

Sometimes, however, the harpoon does not penetrate far enough or fails
to hit a vital part, and then the explosion only wounds the whale
slightly and angers him. At such times there is a long and a hard chase
in which the steamer is hauled through the water at thirty miles an hour
for different lengths of time. Svend tells a story of being so towed by
an enormous whale for ten hours at more than twenty-eight miles an hour
up against a hard gale of wind. At the end of that time, as the whale
did not seem to get tired, and as the steamer still held together, the
cable attached to the harpoon broke, and the whale disappeared.

There is a good deal of danger connected with this modern harpooning
other than the usual danger of the dying "flurry" of the whale and the
long tows that may result if he is not killed at once. This danger has
proved very real in several instances. Occasionally, for one of a
thousand reasons, the shell does not explode in the whale. Perhaps the
harpoon does not pull back and break the little glass tube, or there may
not be sufficient strain put on the rope to break the glass, or the
whale may be killed by the force of the harpoon alone, and not live long
enough to struggle and explode it. In such cases, and they have occurred
occasionally, when the whale is hauled alongside, the harpoon, in being
withdrawn, may cause the shell to explode, when a great deal of havoc
results. On more than one occasion the side for many feet of the
steamer's length has been blown out, and the steamer, of course, sunk.
So that whaling in modern days, while it may be more paying, is not by
any means less dangerous than formerly.

This kind of harpooning, or something on the same general plan, is
coming into general use, and the result is that the whale is fast being
killed off, for the big fish are being demolished in enormous quantities
compared with what men were able to do with the hand harpoon before its
introduction.

Svend Foyn made an immense fortune out of his invention, for he patented
it in many countries, and fitted out a fleet of small steamers himself;
and then, when he had become rich, he did what most men would not have
done. He founded many asylums, hospitals, education and charitable
institutions, and used his fortune to help mankind in general and his
own countrymen in particular.




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


At last I have the much-needed space to answer the many questions that
have been pouring in for some time past, and also the discussion of a
number of interesting subjects that are unfortunately shut out during
the season of active interscholastic contests. These will resume in
August with the tennis tournament at Newport, followed by the opening of
the football season everywhere.

What I want to speak of principally this week is 'cross-country running.
It is a branch of sport that receives far too little attention from
school and college athletes in this country, yet is one of the oldest,
simplest, and healthiest pastimes on the calendar. In England it has
been popular for years, where there are a number of 'cross-country
running clubs of long standing, but in America we have known the sport
scarcely twenty years, and not very intimately at that. It was first
introduced to us in 1878 by some members of the old Harlem Athletic
Club, their first paper-chase being held on Thanksgiving day of that
year. The American Athletic Club then took it up, and later, in 1883,
the New York Athletic Club held a race for the individual championship
of the United States. The sport became firmly established in 1887 with
the organization of the National 'Cross-Country Association of America.
This is a very brief history of the sport; but it is brief of necessity,
for 'cross-country running is still in its youth.

There are two kinds of 'cross-country running--the paper-chase,
sometimes called hare and hounds, and the club run over a fixed course.
In the former there should be two "hares," a "master of the hounds," and
two "whips." The hares carry a bag of paper torn up into small bits, and
it is their duty with this paper to lay a fair and continuous trail from
start to finish, except in the case of the break for home. The master of
the hounds runs with the pack, and has full control of it. In other
words, he is the captain. He sets the pace, or, if he chooses, he can
appoint any other hound to do so. It is usual to travel no faster than
the slowest runner in the pack. The whips are chosen from among the
strongest runners, because it is their duty to run with the hounds, and
to keep laggards up with the bunch, or assist those who become seized
with the idea that they cannot move another step. These five men are, so
to speak, the officers of the chase. There may be any number of hounds.

The hares are usually allowed from five to ten minutes' start of the
pack, and as soon as they get out of sight they begin to lay the trail.
They choose their own course, but they are not allowed to double on
their track, and they must themselves surmount all obstacles over which
they lay the trail. They may cross fordable streams only, and must
always run within hailing distance of each other. With the hounds the
master takes the lead, following the trail, and the pack is supposed to
keep back of him until the break for home is ordered. The break is
usually made about a mile from home. It should never be started at a
greater distance than that, because it is generally a hard sprint all
the way. The point from which the break begins is indicated, as a rule,
by the hares' dropping the bag in which they have been carrying the
paper, or by scattering several handfuls of paper different in color
from that which has been used to lay the trail. As soon as the break is
ordered the pack gives up all formation, and each man runs at his best
speed. If at any time during a chase the pack catches sight of the
hares, it may not make directly for them, but must follow the trail,
thus covering the same ground gone over by the hares. It frequently
happens in an open country that the hounds are actually within a few
hundred yards of the hares, but perhaps half a mile behind them along
the trail. Such an occurrence always adds excitement to a run.

It is advisable for the hares, the day before a run is to be held, to
get together and lay out in a general way the course they intend to
follow. A great deal of the pleasure and interest, as well as the
benefit in a run, depends upon this. The more varied the course the less
tiresome will be the chase. Try to select one that will pass over hills
and through woods, with occasionally a short run along a flat road for a
rest. To add to the excitement, lay your course across a few streams
that have to be jumped or waded. If a runner falls into the water, his
ducking will do him no harm if he keeps on exercising and gets a good
rub-down when he reaches home. The pace going up hill should never be
more rapid than a slow jog-trot; but running down, take advantage of the
incline and hit the pace up as fast as you choose. This will make up for
all the time lost in the ascent.

The length of the course should be determined by the strength and
proficiency of the runners. It is bad to attempt to indulge in long runs
at first. I would advise those who intend to take up 'cross-country
running this fall--for the autumn is the prime season for that sport--to
practise trotting a mile or two once or twice a week between now and
then, just to get the muscles hardened. Don't do too much running in the
summer, because the air is not so bracing then and the heat causes evil
results. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, after the football season,
when there is nothing particular going on, before the snow has come, and
while the roads are hard and the hills at their best, then is the time
for 'cross-country running. Then, if you are in good condition, you can
have a chase of five or eight miles that will make you feel like a
fighting-cock, and will not stiffen you up the next day. It is far
better to make two or three short runs in various sections each week,
rather than to make one long run once a week--a long run that leaves you
aching and sore.

The club run is very much like the paper-chase, except that no scent is
laid. It is more of a race among individuals. A course is laid out
across country by means of stakes with flags nailed to them, and the
runners must follow this as faithfully as they would a paper trail. The
rules for this kind of run are the same as for the chase. There are, of
course, a great many minor regulations which it is impossible to set
down here; but, after all, unless you want to go into the sport
scientifically, or to get up contests for prizes, the fewer rules you
have the better. Let common-sense be your guide, and you will be pretty
sure to come out all right in the end.

As to the outfit required for 'cross-country running, little needs to be
said. Every runner has his own views about what suits him best. In runs
for exercise, knicker-bockers, stout shoes, heavy woollen stockings, and
a flannel shirt are usually worn. The stockings should be heavy, so as
to resist being torn by thorns and briars, and the sleeves of the shirt
ought to be of a good length for the same reason. In club runs, experts
who are in for making the greatest possible speed sometimes wear light
shirts with no sleeves, and regular running shoes without any stockings.
They reach home with their arms and legs scratched and torn from contact
with bushes and twigs, and their knees bruised from climbing over stone
walls. This sort of thing may be all very well for those who make labor
of their recreation, but it does not pay for the amateur sportsman. Be
contented with getting exercise, and let others look after the records.

While speaking of 'cross-country running, it is interesting to recall
the greatest race of the kind that ever occurred in this country. It was
in the early days of the sport, at the time when those athletic clubs
which had teams of 'cross-country runners each wanted to be regarded as
the best exponent of the sport. The race was a club run over a marked
course, and was held at Fleetwood Park. The Suburban Harriers had made
quite a reputation for themselves as 'cross-country runners, their star
man being E. C. Carter. The Manhattan Athletic Club also had a team of
'cross-country men, and felt jealous of their rival's fame. They
therefore brought over from Ireland a famous 'cross-country runner, who
has since become well known in American sport, Thomas P. Conneff, and
challenged the Suburban Harriers. They felt all the more confident of
victory because their imported runner had defeated Carter in a four-mile
race in Dublin a few months before.

The race started with about seventy competitors, but Carter and Conneff
soon drew out of the bunch, and pulled rapidly away from the others. The
spectators paid little attention to this crowd; their interest was
centred in the duel between the two cracks. Conneff let Carter take the
lead and set the pace, and he followed along at his heels. It was plain
that he had made up his mind to dog his rival, and to depend upon a
burst of speed at the finish to win. Carter, on the other hand, seems to
have determined to outrun his opponent all the way, if possible--to lead
him such a hard chase that there would be no speed left in him at the
finish. Over the entire course the two men retained their respective
distances and positions. The field was soon left far in the rear. At
last they entered on the final mile around the Fleetwood track. Both men
looked wearied by their hard run, but it was impossible to judge even
then which must win in the end. They travelled half-way around the
track, and then had to pass behind a low hillock, which hid them from
the sight of the spectators. All were watching with the greatest
excitement the spot where the track again came into view. Carter came
out from behind the elevation trotting doggedly on. All looked for
Conneff, but Conneff was not to be seen. The gap behind Carter widened,
and Conneff came not. Ho had done his best; but he was not strong
enough, and he had gone to pieces. He had dropped to the ground back of
the hill, unable to move another step.

A big race, such as that, is most exciting; but just as much sport can
be had by less able runners. Several of the colleges, notably Harvard
and Yale, have hare and hounds in the fall--although I do not believe
there were ever any inter-collegiate contests in that branch of sport.
If the schools should take it up in New York or Boston, the men would
soon find that these runs out into the country are worth the trouble,
and full of living interest. Fancy trotting across Long Island, or
through Westchester, or up the Hudson, or out beyond Cambridge, if you
live in Boston, and through all that delightful Massachusetts country
where the British first introduced 'cross-country running about 120
years ago.

Since writing about the scoring of games and the arrangement of tennis
tournaments last week, I have been asked to tell of a good system of
drawings. The easiest and fairest way is to write the name of every
player on a separate slip of paper, and drop these into a hat. Shake the
slips well, so that they will get thoroughly mixed, then draw them out
one by one, writing down each name as it appears. The names, of course,
are written down the page in a column, one under the other. If there are
several men from the same club entered for the tournament, it is best to
make the drawing from several hats, placing all the names of players
from one club in the same hat. This prevents them from coming together
in the early rounds of the tournament. The idea is to arrange the
players in the first round so that they will form a group of 2, 4, 8,
16, or any power of 2. When there is an odd number of entries a
preliminary round must be introduced, in which the extra players contest
for a place in the first round.

This arranges matters so that in the preliminary round the number of
matches played will always equal the number of extra entries. Perhaps
the following diagram, which was gotten up by Dr. James Dwight, will
make the question a little more clear:

  A   bye  } ____
  B   bye  }      }
                  }
  C } ____ }      } ____
  D } ____ }      }      }
           }      }      }
  E } ____ } ____ }      }
  F } ____ }             } Winner.
                         }
  G } ____ }             }
  H }      } ____        }
  I   bye  }      }      }
                  } ____ }
  J   bye  } ____ }
  K   bye  }

The byes, or positions in the first round, are usually given to those
whose names come out of the hat first and last. If the number of byes is
uneven, the odd one goes to the first.

The Interscholastic Tennis Tournament will no doubt be held this year
during the first week of the single championships at Newport. This
begins Tuesday, August 20th, and so the school-players will no doubt get
on to the courts about Friday or Saturday following. From present
indications the Interscholastics this year will be one of the important
features of tournament week, and better players will represent the
schools than ever before. More men have already entered than for any
previous Newport interscholastic tournament, and several cracks have not
yet been heard from.

As in matters of this kind generally, I believe that players should
always be well supported by their adherents. As many scholars as
possible should make it a point to be at Newport when the tournament is
going on to cheer the scholastic players. If the tennis men feel that
their own friends and classmates are as much interested in their
individual work as if they were a football team or a baseball team, they
will surely strive harder and accomplish more.

In spite of the fact that we are in the middle of the summer, with the
track-athletic season several weeks behind us, the interest in the
formation of a general interscholastic athletic association seems to be
just as lively as ever. I judge this from the number of letters I
receive every week. Some of these letters are short, approving the
scheme, and hoping for its fulfilment; others are long, suggesting new
ideas, or taking exception to theories that have already been advanced.
All are interesting, and many have offered valuable suggestions. I
should like to print some of these communications, and, no doubt, some
time during the coming month the Department will be able to devote some
space to that purpose.

The summer-time is not the best for a discussion of this kind, and for
that reason I have felt somewhat inclined to let the matter drop for the
present. It is not desirable that it should drop out of sight
altogether, however--although there is scant danger of that--and so,
even without any hope of achieving an immediate result, I shall now and
then take up the subject. A number of readers in various localities have
sent me pictures of the tracks in their neighborhood, and descriptions
of the good points of each. It will be interesting when all counties are
heard from to compare notes, and see what suggestions can be made to the
committee that will have the question of locality to decide. There seems
to be a growing opinion that New York would be the best city in which to
hold the meeting, not only on account of the good tracks available here,
but because there are better facilities for transportation to and from
and within the city, and also because there are more well-known athletes
and officials here whose services could be availed of. To my great
surprise, few of the distant leagues find any objection to travelling
any number of hours, in view of the great meet there would be after they
reached their destination.

  THE GRADUATE.




PRIZE-STORY COMPETITION.

THIRD-PRIZE STORY.

The Beverley Ghost. By Jenny Mae Blakeslee.


I.

The old Beverley place was haunted. At least that is what everybody
said, and when "everybody" says a thing is so of course it _is_ so,
especially in a little town like Elliston.

There certainly was a singular melancholy air brooding over this old
mansion, although it had been deserted only for about five years. The
heir to the property, young Henry Beverley, had gone abroad on the death
of his father, leaving the place unoccupied, and his stay had been
unexpectedly prolonged.

The house was a stately structure of stone, and would seem a safe place
in which to store the valuables that, according to rumor, had been left
there--old family plate, rich mahogany furniture, and costly
bric-à-brac. Reports of all this had aroused the spirit of covetousness
in the breasts of at least the less scrupulous of the neighboring
villagers. A rumor, however, that the late Mr. Beverley's shade made
nightly visitations to guard his son's possessions had probably so far
kept away these would-be burglars, if such existed.

Farmer Bagstock stood, one August afternoon, in the doorway of Mr.
Smythe's little store--one of the kind that keeps the whole range of
necessities from muslin to mowing-machines. His thin sawlike features
wore an expectant expression, and his eyes were lightened by a look of
cunning and greed as he occasionally glanced down the road. Farmer
Bagstock was not rich in this world's goods, and the nature of his
efforts to become so might, it is feared, damage his prospects in the
next. His patient waiting was at last rewarded, for a long lank figure
presently appeared far down the street, evidently making for Mr.
Smythe's establishment.

When this individual, known as Hoke Simpkins, mounted the steps the
farmer greeted him in a rather surly way.

"Ben waitin' long enough, I should think."

"Couldn't git here no sooner, 'pon my word," responded Hoke,
apologetically.

After a word or two with the talkative storekeeper, Bagstock bestowed a
wink upon his friend, and suggested that they "walk down the road a
piece." Hoke complied, and presently they left the highway and entered a
small piece of woodland. Following the course of a brook for some
distance, they reached an immense oak-tree and seated themselves
underneath it. The surrounding underbrush and the oak's thick trunk
concealed them from the view of any one who might chance to pass along
by the stream.


II.

A short time before this, James Stokes, one of the village boys, came
down to the brook to try his luck at trout-fishing. The afternoon was
sultry and rather cloudy, and it was probable that the fish would bite,
if there were any there. But these contrary trout evidently turned up
their noses at his tempting flies, and at last he gave up in despair.
But Jimmy would not relinquish all hope of a "catch" yet, so he wandered
further up the stream. He walked quite noiselessly for fear of scaring
the fish, and at last halted just back of a large oak-tree. Before he
had had time to cast his fly Jimmy heard the sound of men's voices
speaking in low and cautious tones. Now he was a typical small boy, and
of a shrewd and inquiring turn of mind, so he dropped quietly down on
the bank and listened, screening himself from possible observation by
getting behind a large stump. Soon he caught a sentence which made him
hold his breath to hear more.

"Waal," slowly said a voice which he could not at first recognize, "the
only thing is, we'll haf ter break a winder. I found everythin' fastened
when I skirmished round t'other night."

"It 'ud make an awful racket, breakin' the glass. 'Twould be better to
take a pane out, I reckon," answered the other man.

Jimmy was quite certain that this speaker was Hoke Simpkins.

"Yaas, it might," said the other, meditatively; "that big winder at the
end of the hall."

"Folks say there's piles o' silver and things worth a heap o' money. How
I'd like to get holt on it!"

And Jimmy knew that Farmer Bagstock had spoken.

"Don't see why we can't cut out a pane right under the ketch. Then we
c'n raise the winder in a jiffy."

"Waal, it might do that way," answered Bagstock. "What d'ye say to next
Monday night? That ain't too soon, be it?"

Hoke said he thought not.

"Then," went on the farmer, "we want dark lanterns, and," with a
chuckle, "I don't think an old meal-bag or flour-sack 'u'd be onhandy.
We could git there about nine, cut the pane aout, then go off fur a
spell, fur if any one was a-lookin' it 'u'd throw 'em off the scent.
After a consid'able space we could sneak back and git in. Thar, how's
that for a scheme?" he finished, triumphantly.

"Fine," said Hoke, admiringly. But he added, rather slowly, "Folks say
old Beverley's spook's around there, y'know, but I ain't afraid, be
you?"

"Spooks!" laughed Bagstock, scornfully. "They ain't no sech thing. Ef
there was, they couldn't hurt _us_."

Both were rather silent for a moment, however, after this brave speech,
and soon the farmer suggested that they had said enough for the present,
and might as well move on. They rose to leave their retreat, and Jimmy
made himself as small as possible back of the stump. As he was on the
other side of the brook from the men, they passed by without seeing him,
and were presently lost to his view.

Then Jimmy rose to his feet, shook himself, looked around, and gave vent
to his feelings by a long whistle and the exclamation, "Jiminy Chrismus,
if I could only--"

He stopped short, seeming to remember that "discretion is the better
part of valor," and that some one might be listening to hear what _he_
was going to say. So he only walked away very slowly, almost forgetting
to pick up his fishing-tackle in his absorption. On arriving home he
laid his rod on the front porch, and without lingering a moment, dashed
across the lawn, got through a hole in the fence, and then raced across
lots to the village store. He encountered his bosom friend Will Smythe
in front of his father's establishment, and greeted him excitedly.

"Hullo, Bill! I've got something to tell you. Quick! Come over to the
orchard; I can't wait a minute."

Full of curiosity Bill followed Jimmy's lead, and they were soon in
their favorite haunt, an old apple-tree.

"Now," said Jiminy, "wait till you hear what I have to tell you. Whew!
It's immense!"

Billy was breathless with interest, and Jim unfolded the plot he had
heard. Will became as excited as his friend could wish, and exclaimed:

"The scoundrels! Can't we head them off?"

"If we could only hit on something without letting any one know. That
miserly Bagstock! Father always said he wouldn't trust him with a dime,
and Hoke Simpkins would do anything Bagstock told him to. He's a coward,
anyway."

Billy was lost, in thought. Suddenly he exclaimed: "Hurrah! I have it.
Just the thing." In his eagerness he nearly fell out of the tree. When
he had managed to tell his plan it met with tremendous applause from
Jimmy. What came of Will's bold inspiration remains to be seen.


III.

Monday evening was moonless, just the night for a reckless deed. The
conspirators thought that they were especially favored. By nine both
were at the meeting-place, and repaired in silence to the old house. The
night was one of the kind that ghosts usually select for a promenade,
and this thought may have occurred to the minds of the farmer and Hoke.
Each assured himself that such an idea was nonsense, but just the same
this delicate subject was not mentioned.

The window being found, Bagstock proceeded to pry out the pane. Then
both, after glancing cautiously about, stole away to Simpkins's house,
which was not far distant. It was fully an hour before they returned and
viewed the window. All was as they had left it, and Bagstock said, in a
hoarse whisper,

"Now, then, you climb in first."

Hoke drew back a little. The house, somehow, looked unusually dismal.

"What, you ain't afraid, be you?" ejaculated the farmer.

Hoke said. "Of course not," but for some unaccountable reason his voice
shook slightly. He consented to be boosted up, and inserting his hand in
the opening, easily undid the catch and raised the lower sash. Both of
them would have been seized with consternation had they imagined that
but a short time before other hands than their own had made the same use
of this very window.

Now, Hoke was an awkward youth, and in climbing over the sill his foot
caught, which very shortly deposited him on the floor. This mishap added
to his misgivings, but he picked himself up and helped in the impatient
Bagstock. They were now inside the walls which sheltered the coveted
treasure. What to do next?

With the aid of their dark lanterns they groped along the hall, which
ran from front to back, as in most old houses built in the colonial
style. Poor Hoke found his knees beginning to shake in a distressing
manner. Any corner might suddenly reveal something to strike them with
terror. If he had not discarded his hat before entering it would have
been at present resting on the ends of his abundant crop of hair. He was
obliged to catch hold of the farmer to steady himself, which called
forth a growl from that quarter, for Bagstock was having all he could do
to stifle some little misgivings of his own.

"Where the dickens," he muttered, "can the things--"

He stopped suddenly. The hall was wide as well as long, and they had now
nearly reached the front end. At one side stood a large heavy chest,
suggestive of riches stored, perhaps, in its depths. Near it was a heap
of furniture and rubbish. Bagstock had taken a step forward, and almost
had his hand on the chest, when his lantern flashed on something. This
"something" made his knees shake more, his hair rise higher, and his
eyes bulge out further than Hoke's ever thought of doing. Seated on that
very chest was an object in white, perfectly motionless, its head
evidently turned toward the men. The farmer was transfixed with horror,
and what Hoke was undergoing at that moment may be imagined but not
described. He only gave vent to a kind of howl and dropped with a thud
on the floor. Bagstock looked as though his shaky knees would oblige him
to follow Hoke's example, when suddenly the figure moved. It rose
slowly, slowly, to its full height, raised one long arm, and pointing to
the chest, said, in low, blood-curdling tones:

"_Yonder lies the treasure. Beware! Touch it not, or ye die!_"

They waited to hear no more. Somehow they reached that window by a
succession of bumpings and scrapings, and finally, with a particularly
heavy and emphatic thump, Hoke found himself on the ground. Before he
could struggle up the farmer was on top of him. After they had
extricated themselves it did not take long for both to put a good
half-mile between themselves and the haunted house.

A rumor that two men had attempted to burglarize the Beverley house, but
had been nearly frightened out of their wits by the famous ghost, and
taken themselves off in terror, caused much excitement in the village.
The names of the two men no one seemed able to find out, but Bill Smythe
and James Stokes had many a laugh in private over the sheepish look
which the faces of Farmer Bagstock and Hoke Simpkins always wore when
the subject of the burglary was mentioned.

       *       *       *       *       *

YOUNG MOTHERS

should early learn the necessity of keeping on hand a supply of Gail
Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk for nursing babies as well as for
general cooking. It has stood the test for 30 years, and its value is
recognized.--[_Adv._]




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]




HARPER'S NEW CATALOGUE,

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




[Illustration: BICYCLING]

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


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

In No. 812 we published a map of Staten Island, showing the run across
the Island to Tottenville. It was a route which we then called attention
to as a good short ride within the reach of any New-Yorker for a Sunday
afternoon or a holiday spin. This bicycle route from St. George's to
Tottenville is also, however, the first stage in a run to Philadelphia,
which in many ways is as pleasant a tour as any one in the vicinity of
New York city or Philadelphia could well take.

The Map this week takes up the route from Tottenville and carries it on
to Trenton, New Jersey, a distance of thirty-five or thirty-six miles.
As a matter of fact, if you are planning to take the Philadelphia tour,
it is wise to make a night stop at New Brunswick instead of Tottenville.
Then, by stopping at Trenton the next night, the third day will bring
you into Philadelphia. As has often been said in this Department, these
distances are not for "scorchers" or old and long-distance riders. They
are for people--young people especially--who are riding for the fun of
riding, and who will find much more amusement if they take the runs
which have been proved to be the best in their vicinity. And,
by-the-way, no readers need be angry because the maps so far have been
all in the vicinity of New York. As time goes on it is our purpose to
treat the neighborhood of Philadelphia and Boston as we have treated New
York, and then to cover territory in the vicinity of other cities also.

This run to Philadelphia can be made in one day by a good man. It can be
done in two days with less than fifty miles each day; but if you are
wise, and if you want to see the country, and get some pleasure out of
the ride, do it slowly and take three days. Crossing the ferry at
Tottenville, Staten Island, you run out of Perth Amboy direct, bearing
right in a diagonal fashion one block. This will bring you in a short
time to the Metuchen road, and this should be kept to for about four
miles beyond Perth Amboy. Here, instead of keeping on into Metuchen, you
will save distance and get a better road by turning to the left to
Woodville, and then running through Bonhamton, Piscataway, into New
Brunswick. This is about twenty-six miles from St. George's, and a good
place to stop for the night is the Palmer House. Running out of New
Brunswick you cross the bridge, and, passing out Albany Street, turn to
the left and go through Franklin Park, Bunker Hill, into Kingston;
thence, crossing the bridge, keep to the left, and run on into
Princeton, where a pleasant stop may be made at the Princeton Inn. From
New Brunswick to Kingston is largely down hill and is thirteen miles,
and from thence to Princeton is three miles further.

From Princeton to Trenton is thirteen miles, the road being of clay and
shale, and pretty good if not too wet. Keeping to the road running along
in front of the Princeton Inn the rider runs into Lawrenceville, about
five miles out, and from here he makes direct for the old Trenton
Turnpike. Turning left into this his road is straight to Trenton, a
distance of six miles from Lawrenceville and twenty-nine miles from New
Brunswick, the road being on the whole a gentle decline all the way,
with occasional small but no bad hills.

     NOTE.--Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of
     route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford,
     Connecticut, in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New
     Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814.
     Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816.
     Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in
     No. 818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




Arnold

Constable & Co

       *       *       *       *       *

HOSIERY

Ladies' Knit

Bicycle Jackets

       *       *       *       *       *

Men's Golf Hose

       *       *       *       *       *

Broadway & 19th st.

NEW YORK.




Walter Baker & Co. Limited,

[Illustration]

The Largest Manufacturers of

PURE, HIGH GRADE

COCOAS and CHOCOLATES

On this Continent, have received

HIGHEST AWARDS

from the great

Industrial and Food

EXPOSITIONS

IN EUROPE AND AMERICA.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Caution:= In view of the many imitations of the labels and wrappers on
our goods, consumers should make sure that our place of manufacture,
namely, =Dorchester, Mass.= is printed on each package.

       *       *       *       *       *

SOLD BY GROCERS EVERYWHERE.

       *       *       *       *       *

WALTER BAKER & CO. LTD. DORCHESTER, MASS.




=OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT= of the award on

=GILLOTT'S PENS= at the CHICAGO EXPOSITION.

=AWARD:= "For excellence of steel used in their manufacture, it being
fine grained and elastic; superior workmanship, especially shown by the
careful grinding which leaves the pens free from defects. The tempering
is excellent and the action of the finished pens perfect."

  (Signed) FRANZ VOGT, _Individual Judge_.

  Approved: { H. I. KIMBALL, _Pres't Departmental Committee_.
            { JOHN BOYD THACHER, _Chairman Exec. Com. on Awards_.




Postage Stamps, &c.




[Illustration]

=STAMPS!= =300= fine mixed Victoria, Cape of G. H., India, Japan, etc.,
with fine Stamp Album, only =10c.= New 80-p. Price-list =free=. _Agents
wanted_ at =50%= commission. STANDARD STAMP CO., 4 Nicholson Place, St.
Louis, Mo. Old U. S. and Confederate Stamps bought.




[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.




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




[Illustration]

Old and New.

Franklin Square Song Collection.

The "Franklin Square Library" has given many valuable numbers, but none
so universally attractive as this. Nowhere do we know of an equally
useful collection of School, Home, Nursery, and Fireside Songs and Hymns
which everybody ought to be able to preserve, and which everybody will
be able to enjoy.--_Springfield Journal._

Price, 50 cents: Cloth, $1.00. Full contents of the Eight Numbers, with
Specimen Pages of favorite Songs and Hymns sent by Harper & Brothers,
New York, to any address.

[Illustration]




Suggestions for that Gala Night.


So many want to know how to have that "Gala Evening" that we print the
directions.

It is intended for out-of-doors--a lawn or vacant lot. If need be, build
a platform 16 by 20 feet, but where the grass is smooth this may not be
necessary. Get evergreens from the woods for "scenery," and use two
pairs of portières sewed together for a curtain. For music use an
upright piano, if nothing better offers; for lights use lanterns--head
lights, if you can get them; and for seats borrow benches from a church
or hall, or they may easily be made from some borrowed lumber.

A capital programme will be a pantomime and a farce. Nobody has anything
to learn in the former, so if you want to get it all up in two nights'
practice select two pantomimes. Here are some good ones: "The Mistletoe
Bough," to be had of French & Son, 28 West 23d Street, New York, price
15 cents; and "Aunt Betsy," "Priscilla," and "Dresden China," Harper &
Brothers, New York, price 5 cents each. If you can try a farce, get "A
Ticket to the Circus" or "The Tables Turned," Harper & Brothers, price 5
cents each, or "Who's Who?" "Turn Him Out," "The Delegate," "Quiet
Family," or "Beautiful Forever," price 15 cents each, to be had of
French.

An ideal programme is "The Mistletoe Bough," followed by either "A
Ticket to the Circus" or "Who's Who?" The former takes eighteen or
twenty; the latter four. A good way is to send for one copy of several
farces and pantomimes, then read and select what is best suited to your
needs.

Sell your tickets in advance at 25 cents each. When they are presented,
give a small blue or red check, which you explain is good for a plate of
cream after the performance. Let the ice-cream man attend to all
details, and you cash all his checks next day at 5 cents each. He will
do this, and your guests will be satisfied.

Do not fear an element of discord from the neighborhood small boy
because the performance is out-of-doors, nor need you fear people will
come in without paying if you have no rope stretched. You will have no
trouble from these sources. The thing is novel, being out-of-doors.
There is no rent to pay. The ice-cream to be had free will draw if you
advertise it. And, by confining your programme to pantomimes, you can
learn all in two evenings. Even farces take little longer, and you
cannot fail in rendering them.

One member asks if Chapters _have_ to help the School Fund. Our Order
has no "have tos." A company of young persons might give the "Gala
Evening," present a small sum to the Fund or some other charity, and
with the balance get each one taking part HARPER'S ROUND TABLE for one
year. But of course you do as you please with your own. The gala evening
or gala afternoon is the thing.




Making Small Journals.


The Table is much interested in amateur journalism, and is able to print
herewith two morsels that may be of benefit to all. Ralph T. Hale is
co-editor with F. W. Beale, of the _Amateur Collector_, 11-1/2 Spring
Street, Newburyport, Mass., and Edward Lind edits the _Jug_, Box 633,
East Oakland, Cal., and is greatly interested in the National Press
Association. Both papers are models, the Table thinks, of what play
journals should be. Of course Sir Ralph may send us that natural history
morsel. He writes:

     "When a person has decided to publish an amateur paper, he first
     prepares a 'dummy' showing the size of his pages and their number,
     the number of columns on a page, the place where he intends to
     print his sub-heading and editorials, and the amount of space he
     intends to give to advertisements. Then he goes round among his
     friends and asks their subscriptions, and likewise solicits
     advertisements from his business acquaintances. Having established
     his paper on a comparatively firm financial basis, he next
     proceeds to prepare copy for his first issue, first consulting a
     printer as to prices which he should pay for a good job. After he
     has published his first number it is much easier to secure
     subscriptions and advertisements, as he has a paper to show to
     doubtful persons.

     "The prices for printing depend largely on the quality of work and
     the size and number of papers printed. Printers will generally
     print five hundred papers at about the same price as that asked
     for one hundred. Remember that it is the amount of type which a
     printer has to set which decides the price. Sometimes the price is
     as high as seven or eight dollars per hundred, and again it is as
     low as two dollars and a half for five hundred.

     "Of course, if you are lucky enough to have a press of your own,
     the cost of an amateur paper is not so large, but for a boy busy
     with school-work it pays better in the end to hire the greater
     part of his printing done. The size of an amateur paper is one of
     the most important points to be considered. It should not be too
     large, for then it has an overgrown appearance, nor yet too small.
     A medium size is preferable. Good sizes are 8 by 5-1/2 inches, and
     7 by 10 for each page. I am very much interested in botany, and
     would like to correspond on that subject. May I write again on
     natural history?

  "RALPH T. HALE."

       *       *       *       *       *

     As there are amateur papers, there are also amateur printers. As a
     rule, these printers do good work for a much less price than
     professional printers charge. Perhaps the cheapest amateur printer
     is M. R. King, of Cobleskill, N. Y. Mr. King will print 500 copies
     of a paper, size page of HARPER'S MAGAZINE, for $1 per page. The
     National Amateur Press Association convenes at Chicago July 16-18.
     The ticket below is the one favored most by the Pacific coast: For
     President, David L. Hollub, of San Francisco; for First
     Vice-President, C. W. Kissinger, of Reading, Pa.; for Recording
     Secretary, A. E. Barnard, of Chicago, Ill.; for Corresponding
     Secretary, E. A. Hering, of Seattle, Wash.; for Treasurer, Alson
     Brubaker, of Fargo, N. D.; for Official Editor, Will Hancock, of
     Fargo, N. D.; for Executive Judges, C. R. Burger, Miss E. L.
     Hauck, and J. F. Morton, Jun.

     The Pacific coast is the most active amateur centre in the world.
     There are thirty-four amateur papers in San Francisco. Seattle has
     a live amateur press club of thirty members. I shall be glad to
     send sample copies of amateur papers and to give further
     information.

  EDWARD LIND.




Kinks.


No. 89.--AN ARBORET FROM THE POETS.

FOR SPRING-TIME.

1.

  "Swelled with new life the darkening ---- on high
  Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky."

2.

  "On all her boughs the stately ---- cleaves
  The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves."

3.

  "Far away from their native air
  The ---- ---- their green dress wear;
  And ---- swing their long, loose hair."

4.

  "The ---- spread their palms like holy men in prayer."

5.

  "The wild ---- ---- waste their fragrant stores
  In leafy islands walled with madrepores
    And lapped in Orient seas,
  When all their feathery palms toss, plume-like, in the breeze."

6.

  "Give to Northern winds the ---- ---- on our banner's tattered field."

7.

  "The ---- dreamy Titans roused from sleep--
  Answer with mighty voices, deep on deep
  Of wakened foliage surging like a sea."

8.

  "The ---- ----, tall and bland,
  The ancient ----, austere and grand."

9.

  "The ----'s whistling lashes, wrung
    By the wild winds of gusty March."

10.

  "Take what she gives, her ----'s tall stem,
      Her ---- with hanging spray;
  She wears her mountain diadem
    Still in her own proud way."

11.

  "Look on the forests' ancient kings,
  The ----'s towering pride."

12.

  "O ---- ----. O ---- ----!
  How faithful are thy branches!
  Green not alone in summer-time,
  But in the winter's frost and rime!"

Fill blanks with names of trees, and give the authors.




Answers to Kinks.

No. 87.--Book-worm--Bookworm.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 88.--A Study in Cats: 1. Cat-alogue. 2. Cat-aclysm. 3. Cat-amaran.
4. Cat-fall. 5. Cat-block. 6. Cat-salt. 7. Cat-achresis. 8.
Cat-erpillar. 9. Cat-aract. 10. Cat-ling. 11. Cat-aplasm. 12.
Cat-echism. 13. Cat-afalque. 14. Cat-acomb. 15. Cat-o'-nine-tails. 16.
Cat-adupe. 17. Cat-alepsy. 18. Cat-sup. 19. Cat-tle. 20. Cat's-foot. 21.
Cat-acoustics. 22. Cat-aphonics. 23. Cat-aphrect. 24. Cat-echumen. 25.
Cat-silver. 26. Cat-nip. 27. Cat-apult. 28. Cat-agmatic, 29.
Cat-enation. 30. Cat-egory. 31. Cat-gut. 32. Cat-kin.




The Helping Hand.


The Harry Harper Chapter, of Newtown, Conn., gave an entertainment the
other evening in aid of the School Fund. It scored a success, of course,
though at this writing it is too early to have a report of the proceeds.
The Table thanks the Chapter and gives the programme, that others may
adapt it to their purposes. The Chapter had the help of an older person
in Mr. Andrews, who gave many hints, decided hard questions, and on the
programme gave a talk on "Mother Hubbard." There was an introduction by
Curtis Morris, who told about Good Will, the Order, and the Chapter. A
solo followed, "Ten Little Nigger Boys," by Charlie Jonas, and Katie
Houlihan gave a recitation. Arthur Platt rendered well a violin solo,
and the entertainment concluded with a very funny farce, _The Frog
Hollow Lyceum_.




The Order's New Patents.


Late applicants for Patents in the Round Table Order are asked to wait a
few days for responses. Patents of the new design are being prepared and
will, of course, be sent as soon as possible.




More About Young Journalists.


Two of the most creditable specimens of amateur journals that have come
to the Table in a long time are the _Club Register_, 51 Third Ave., Long
Branch, N. J., and the _Markletonian_, Markleton, Pa. The latter,
published by Fred G. Patterson, is about as neat in appearance as any
amateur paper we ever saw. He wants contributors, and will send a sample
free. Harris Reed, Jun., president of the Nineteenth Century Club
(Chapter 604), of Philadelphia, is much interested in the _Register_.
This paper wants contributors, and the Club wants members. Sir Harris's
address is 1119 Mt. Vernon St.




Questions and Answers.


W. H. LEGGETT.--What you have made is a truss, not slings at all. Slings
are chains running from a mast-head cap down through the hounds, and are
used to support a lower yard which is fastened to the mast by a truss,
and is not intended to be raised or lowered. A yard which is to be
hoisted and lowered should be secured to the mast by a parral of
leather, and should be raised by lifts and halyards. (2.) Clew-lines
lead from the deck through a clew-block under the yard, and through the
clewline block in the sail, the standing part being taken between the
head of the sail and the yard, and made fast to the arm of the truss.
(3.) Lead the braces to the main-top. (4.) Your dimensions are not good,
unless your draught is to be increased by a heavy lead keel. Your
proportion of more than five beams to the length is bad. She ought to
have more beam--say, sixteen inches. The capstan ought to be on the
forecastle-deck. The dimensions of spars are good.

FRANK J. SMYTH.--Such a set of rules as you ask for would occupy too
much space in this paper. The racing rules of the American Model Yacht
Club were printed in _Forest and Stream_ for November 24, 1894. Send ten
cents and postage to the office of that paper, 318 Broadway, and get a
copy.

HERBERT ARNOLD.--Dimensions of a good dory would be sixteen feet long on
the bottom, seventeen feet over all, three feet six inches wide on the
bottom amidships, four feet eight inches wide at the gunwale amidships,
and two feet deep. You could not have a safer boat in any waters.




[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.


[Illustration]

Quite a number of inquiries have come to me as to what is "embossing" or
"grilling." Both words mean the same thing in philately. Above are two
illustrations from the 1867-68 stamps. It seems at one time the
government feared that cancelled postage-stamps could be used a second
time. They therefore adopted (in 1867) a method of impressing or
embossing on the backs of the stamps after they had been gummed a series
of small squares, each square having a sharp point. The idea was that
these points or squares would break the fibre of the paper, so that the
gum and cancellation ink would go right through the stamp, and thus make
a second use impossible. At first the entire stamp was grilled, and
these are now quite rare, and the 3c.-stamps are worth about $20 used,
or $25 unused. This was soon given up, and a grill measuring 13 x 16
millimeters was used. These stamps were in turn soon discontinued, and
are now scarce, this 3c.-stamp is worth $5 used, $20 unused. The grills
were then reduced to 11 x 13 mm. and 9 x 13 mm. Of the first variety of
grills the 1, 2, 3, 10, 12, and 15c. are found. Of the latter all values
from 1 to 90c. are found. In 1869 the new issue of stamps brought a
still smaller grill into use, 9-1/2 x 9-1/2 mm. Then in 1870 the new
issue had a grill 9 x 11-1/2 mm. The 1, 2, and 3c. of this issue are
common, but all the other values are rare, especially the 12c. and 24c.,
which are worth from $25 to $35 each. In 1871 a grill, 8-1/2 x 10-1/2,
was used on the 1, 2, and 3c. only, but soon discontinued, and since
then no U. S. stamps have been so made. Peru used the same grills on
some stamps, but has also discontinued the practice. A number of double
grills and odd-sized grills are known, and are much sought after by
specialists.

     H. M. POYNTER.--The 5-franc piece 1809, France, is sold by dealers
     at $1.

     L. A. D.--The 1861 and 1868 U. S. stamps are printed from the same
     dies in the same colors, but the 1868 are "grilled." An early
     number of the ROUND TABLE will contain illustrations of these
     grills. The Costa Rica, Honduras, Salvador, etc., unused, are
     probably remainders.

     F. EDGERTON.--Postmarks have no value.

     J. G.--The quotation was on one million assorted, and the value
     depends altogether on the number of varieties in each lot. Apply
     to any dealer.

     HAROLD SIMONDS.--The stamps are part of the "Jubilee" issue of New
     South Wales, all of which bear the inscription, "One Hundred
     Years." They were issued in 1888 to commemorate the one-hundredth
     anniversary of the first settlement made in 1788.

     F. M. L.--The half-dollar without rays is the scarce one. The
     coins mentioned do not command a premium.




[Illustration: Ivory Soap]

At all grocery stores east of the Rocky Mountains two sizes of Ivory
Soap are sold; one that costs five cents a cake, and a larger size. The
larger cake is the more convenient and economical for laundry and
general household use. If your Grocer is out of it, insist on his
getting it for you.

THE PROCTER & GAMBLE CO., CIN'TI.




[Illustration]

EARN A TRICYCLE!

We wish to introduce our Teas, Spices, and Baking Powder. Sell 30 lbs.
and we will give you a Fairy Tricycle: sell 25 lbs. for a Solid Silver
Watch and Chain; 50 lbs. for a Gold Watch and Chain; 75 lbs. for a
Bicycle; 10 lbs. for a Beautiful Gold Ring. Express prepaid if cash is
sent for goods. Write for catalog and order sheet.

W. G. BAKER,

Springfield, Mass.




[Illustration]

=SEND for Catalogue of= the =Musical Instrument= you think of buying.
=Violins repaired= by the Cremona System. C. STORY, 26 Central St.,
Boston. Mass.




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




[Illustration]

CARD PRINTER =FREE=

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

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




[Illustration]

Harper's Catalogue,

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




Reading for the Vacation

By THOMAS W. KNOX

       *       *       *       *       *

_THE "BOY TRAVELLERS" SERIES_

Copiously Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $3.00 per volume.

ADVENTURES OF TWO YOUTHS--

  IN THE LEVANT.
  IN SOUTHERN EUROPE.
  IN CENTRAL EUROPE.
  IN NORTHERN EUROPE.
  IN GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND.
  IN MEXICO.
  IN AUSTRALASIA.
  ON THE CONGO.
  IN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE.
  IN SOUTH AMERICA.
  IN CENTRAL AFRICA.
  IN EGYPT AND PALESTINE.
  IN CEYLON AND INDIA.
  IN SIAM AND JAVA.
  IN JAPAN AND CHINA.

       *       *       *       *       *

OTHER BOOKS BY COLONEL KNOX:

_HUNTING ADVENTURES ON LAND AND SEA_

2 vols. Copiously Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2.50
each.

  THE YOUNG NIMRODS IN NORTH AMERICA.
  THE YOUNG NIMRODS AROUND THE WORLD.

       *       *       *       *       *

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York

_The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be mailed by
the publishers, postage prepaid, on receipt of the price._




[Illustration: TWO OF A KIND.]




AN APPEAL.


  I wish you would buy me a wheel, daddy dear,
    Oh, really and truly I do.
  It's worth quite a million of dollars to me,
    And costs but twelve dollars for you.

  And nothing I know of in all of this world,
    No matter how hard I may think,
  So easily keeps me from mischief at home,
    Like cutting up pranks with your ink.

  So buy me a bicycle, papa, I pray,
    A wheel that will spin like a breeze,
  And keep me from getting in trouble in-doors;
    I am truly so anxious to please.




Patrick had a nice little trade in ice in the small town of B----, and
everything progressed smoothly, until one day a rival set up business,
and by degrees took Pat's customers away. Patrick was very mad and swore
vengeance, but was at a loss how to accomplish the matter. At last he
hit upon a plan, and immediately proceeded to put it into execution.

He visited each of the customers he had lost, and solemnly assured them
that his rival only sold warm ice.




A theatrical manager had considerable trouble with his star actor, who
was constantly meeting with accidents or falling sick. One day, as the
story goes, the star was hurt in a boiler explosion. When the manager
heard of it he remarked to his agent, "I am sick of this sort of thing.
Advertise him, as usual, and add that we intend bringing out a new
piece, in which the great star Mr. D---- will appear in _several_
parts."




BOBBY. "I wish the Lord had made the world in two days."

JACK. "Why?"

BOBBY. "Then we'd have had three Sundays a week."




AT THE CAT SHOW.


MRS. S. "What is the name of your cat?"

MRS. W. "Claude."

MRS. S. "Why do you call it Claude?"

MRS. W. "Because it scratched me."




An old darky lived in the South who was a great barterer, and it was
very hard to beat him on a trade. It seems he had sold a mule,
guaranteeing him faultless. The purchaser shortly after came back in a
great rage, and said,

"Look here, you rascal, that mule you sold me is blind in one eye; you
assured me he had no faults."

"Dat's right, sah; dat mule habe no faults. If he am blind in one eye,
dat am his misfortune, not his fault."




"I think I ought to stay home from school to-day," said Bobbie.

"Why so, Bobbie?" asked his father. "You aren't ill, are you?"

"No, poppy; but I dreamed I was in school answering questions all last
night, and I think I've had enough for one day," said Bobbie.




"Do you know your letters, Jack?"

"No, sir; but the postman does, and he always tells. I don't need to
know 'em."




"Have you tried the ROUND TABLE bicycle maps, Wilbur?" asked Wilbur's
father.

"Yes, I have," said Wilbur; "but the trouble is, daddy, sometimes I get
'em upside down, and sort of have trouble finding my way home."




BABY ELEPHANT AND BUBBLES.


[Illustration: "OH!"]

[Illustration: "AH!"]

[Illustration: "MY!"]

[Illustration: "EYE!"]






End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, July 16, 1895, by Various