Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 878. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

AT THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.


Jack Howard looked with some perplexity at the letter which he had just
received from his chum Fred March. The latter had been spending a month
of the long vacation at his uncle's, on the northern sea-coast, and that
good-natured relative had been kind enough to suggest that the house was
quite large enough to entertain Jack also. Hence the letter embodying
the invitation, together with an earnest request that Jack should come
by the earliest train on Monday morning. That was plain enough, besides
being entirely satisfactory; but there was something else, a postscript,
and this was the puzzle over which Jack was knitting his brows:

"I'm not to bring my bicycle, since the country roads are too sandy for
good riding; but I must send on at once the three bicycle wheels stored
in the loft of the machine-shop, together with half a dozen heavy coil
springs, as per the enclosed specifications of the foreman of the shop.
Well, what on earth--for it can't be a flying-machine--is Fred up to
now?"

But the letter vouchsafed no further information upon the mystery, and
Jack's duty was clearly to obey and ask no questions. Evidently Fred had
some new idea, and that meant fun ahead--possibly an adventure. And so
the commission was executed upon the spot, and Jack saw that the box
was shipped early on Friday morning by the fast freight. It should be
delivered to Fred at Agawam Beach by Monday, and Jack would be there
himself that evening.

"It's a rattling good place for sailing and blue-fishing, and all that
sort of thing," said Fred, on that Monday night, as the two boys left
the house for a stroll down to the beach. "Uncle Win has let me knock
about the bay in his little sloop--there she is at the pier, the white
one, with the red at her water-line--and he says that I've picked it up
as though I had been christened with salt-water. Sailing is nailing good
fun. But look there!"

The ten-mile stretch of Agawam Beach lay before their eyes, just around
the point that jutted out to form Half-Moon Bay. It was dead low tide,
and the beach sloped so gradually that the receding water had left a
wide floor of hard glistening sand, smooth and firm as a macadam road.

"I should think you could wheel along that easily enough," said Jack.

"So you can, and people often drive up to Cape Fear, ten miles off; they
even have trotting matches when the county fair is on. I don't believe
there's another beach like it in the world. But my idea will beat
bicycling and sulky driving out of sight if it works, and I think it
will. We'll go on now and take a look at the 'Jolly Sandboy'."

"The what?" began Jack; but Fred only laughed, and led the way to the
boat-house.

It was a mysterious-looking creation that occupied the centre of the
floor. The body of the machine was a skeleton frame-work of hard-wood
strongly braced and bolted together, with a shallow-floored box at the
acute angle. The centre timber bisected this acute angle and the base,
and projected a few feet beyond. The bicycle wheels were attached to and
supported the frame-work at the three corners, the one at the apex being
pivoted so that it could be turned by a tiller in any direction. Just
forward of the base-line, or what corresponds to the runner-plank in an
ice-yacht, was a chock that was evidently intended for the reception of
a mast, the end of the centre timber serving as a bowsprit, steadied by
wire guys that ran to either extremity of the runner-plank. It was
certainly original in design and appearance, and Jack Howard examined it
with respectful curiosity.

"And what do you call it?" he inquired again.

"A 'beach-comber,'" said Fred. "The principle of an ice-yacht, you know,
but with wheels instead of runners, for use on the hard sand at low
tide. There was just one thing that bothered me in the way of practical
detail, and that was how to provide for the heeling over in a strong
breeze or a sudden flaw. You know that when the sails fill, as an
ordinary boat, she lies over, and it is her keel or centreboard that
keeps her from drifting to leeward. In an ice-yacht the sharp runners
keep her up, but there must be some sideways yielding to the force of
the wind, and so an ice-boat rears--that is, one runner lifts free of
the ice, and thereby takes off the strain. Otherwise you must either
luff or be capsized. But with beach-sailing this rearing would probably
throw too much weight on the leeward wheel, causing it to sink into the
sand, and perhaps stop her way altogether. The sand is fairly hard when
wet, but it can't be so unyielding as ice. I was just about to give it
up, when I happened to recollect a wrinkle that the Dutchmen use in
their ice-yachts on the Zuyder Zee. In their boats the mast is pivoted
in the chocks, and consequently the sail and all lie over under the
strain. When a squall strikes a fleet of Dutch ice-yachts it looks
exactly as though you had winged a whole covey of partridges. It must be
safer than our American plan, but of course you lose in speed. The
difficulty in my mind was to understand how the mast would come up again
to its proper position; but that's always the way with the people who
write books--they never tell you clearly the one little thing that is
absolutely necessary for a fellow to know to understand what they are
describing. So I had to work it out for myself."

"This must be where the coil springs come in," said Jack, with sudden
perception.

"Exactly. The mast is to be stayed by wire guys, each one ending in a
coil spring attached to the extremities of the runner-plank. Of course
we'll have to experiment to see just how many are needed on each side to
give her the best results in the way of stiffness. We don't want her
lying down at every little puff, or we would never go ahead at all.
Neither must she stand up like a church, for something has got to give
way when a squall hits her. We'll set up the mast and give the 'Jolly
Sandboy' a trial trip the first thing to-morrow morning."

There is little to add to Fred's description, except to say that the
wheels were rather different from the ordinary bicycle type. They had
been built by Mr. March while he was experimenting on the "Happy
Thought," and the two forward ones were twenty-four inches in diameter,
while the rear wheel was but twenty inches. Moreover, the spokes were of
hickory, and the tires were enormous--four inches in diameter, and of
very heavy material. Even in soft sand they would cut in but little, and
the spokes, being of hard-wood covered with water-proof varnish, would
not be subject to rust and corrosion from the salt air and water. Of
course the hubs were fitted with the usual ball-bearing. The sail plan
of the "beach-comber" was that of a sloop, as being the easiest to
handle, and the pivoted rear wheel acted as the rudder.

The boys, after a little experimenting with the coil springs of the
standing rigging, were delighted to find that the "Jolly Sandboy" would
really go. Of course there was no such thing as tacking; and, indeed,
the "beach-comber's" best point of sailing was with the wind on the beam
or on the quarter. As we all know from our physical geographies, the
prevailing wind at the sea-shore is off the ocean during the daytime,
and consequently favorable to the "Jolly Sandboy." Moreover, the gentle
downward slope of the beach, as opposed to the direction of the wind,
helped to keep her on an even keel. The speed was not very high, but it
was nevertheless great sport to race along the edge of the breakers, and
an occasional ducking from an extra big comber only gave the true salt
flavor. It was hardly practicable to sail except when the tide was going
out or on the half flood, and the best time was when it was dead low, as
so much more of the level beach was then available. Fred generally
occupied the cockpit and did the steering, while Jack stood on the
weather runner-plank and held on to the shrouds, as is the custom in
ice-yachting.

The "Jolly Sandboy" had been in commission for a week, and the boys had
become fairly expert in her management. On this particular afternoon
they had made the ten-mile run up to Cape Fear, and the conditions were
so favorable for "beach-combing" that Jack proposed that they should go
on past the cape for a mile or two before beginning the homeward
journey. Now between Cape Fear and Cape Thunder, a mile further on, was
a peculiar formation of the coast-line known as Shut-in Bay. It was
surrounded on all sides by precipitous cliffs, unscalable from below,
and at high water it was entirely cut off from the rest of the beach by
the rocky projections of Capes Fear and Thunder. It was a dangerous trap
in which to be caught by the tide, for at ordinary high water there were
only two or three small ledges to which one might climb for safety, and
even then the thoughtless adventurer would have to remain a prisoner
until the ebb. At the time of the spring tides, twice in the month, even
these precarious places of refuge were under water, and the only chance
of a rescue was in being seen by a passing fishing-smack and taken off
by boat. Fred was well acquainted with the dangerous character of the
place, and he looked a trifle dubious when Jack proposed going on.

"But it's only a mile across to Cape Thunder, and it's not low water yet
for an hour," insisted Jack. "I've got the table here in my pocket; I
cut it out of last week's _Guardian_."

The table, compiled from the government observations, gave low water for
four o'clock at Agawam, which would make it half past four at Cape
Thunder. Fred looked at his watch and saw that it was just half past
three. Certainly there was a plenty of time to run on for two or three
miles, and then get back beyond the danger-point before the tide was
fairly on the flood. Fred hauled in the sheet, and the "Jolly Sandboy"
plunged forward.

Well, perhaps they had gone a little further than they intended, and the
tide had certainly turned when they started homeward. But the wind was
fresh, and Fred kept the "Jolly Sandboy" close to the water's edge,
where the sand was the firmest. Every now and then a big wave would
break ahead of them, and shoot a wide tongue of white crackling foam
athwart the bows of the "beach-comber." But there was no time to make
détours, and it was glorious fun, these short, sharp dashes through an
acre of shallow water, with the wash filling the cockpit, and the salt
spray flying over the head of the mainsail. Finally Cape Thunder loomed
up ahead, and ten minutes later the "Jolly Sandboy" had swept around the
point, and was ploughing across the treacherous Tom Tiddler's ground of
Shut-in Bay.

It must have been a piece of broken bottle, but whatever the cause, the
tire of the lee bearing-wheel had suddenly gone flat. It was impossible
to proceed; but was there time to repair the damage and yet get around
Cape Fear? Fred glanced at his watch. The tide looked as though it were
coming in very fast; but the tide-table was authoritative, and the water
would not be up to the cape until about half past five o'clock. It was
now exactly five by Fred's watch, which would give a margin of at least
twenty minutes. If they could repair the puncture in ten they could
easily get clear. Otherwise they might be obliged to desert the "Jolly
Sandboy," and save themselves by running. Fred shoved his watch back
into his pocket, seized the repair kit, and went to work at the injured
tire.

It was a good job and quickly done. Certainly not more than five minutes
had elapsed when Jack took the pump to blow her up. But surely the water
was rising faster than ever. And what was that? A sparkle of foam on the
black rocks at the base of Cape Fear! It could not be more than ten
minutes past the hour; they still had fifteen minutes to spare, and Fred
pulled out his watch again.

_The hands still pointed to exactly five o'clock._

With one jump Fred was at Jack's side, and had snatched the pump from
his slower hands. How many of the lost minutes had there been since his
watch had stopped? Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, or was it but a question
of seconds? They were midway between the capes, and it was half a mile
to safety. An instant later and the tire was full again. But beyond a
doubt there could be but little time to spare. Already the big racers
were tossing their white manes against the dark background of the cruel
black rocks that formed Cape Fear; and now, too late, Fred recollected
that it was a spring tide that was coming to the flood, and one of the
highest of the year. Faster and faster the "Jolly Sandboy" drove along,
but now it was certainly a question of seconds. A hundred yards away and
there was still a narrow strip uncovered at the base of the cape. If
they could reach it just after a third wave had gone back they might
squeeze through. There came the first breaker, and the "Jolly Sandboy"
had gained another twenty yards. The second broke close under the reef,
sending a fountain of spray over the rocks and high into the air. The
third and largest was slow in coming, and the "Jolly Sandboy" was close
to the gap. Fred had made a slight miscalculation in timing his speed,
and it was now a question of whether to stop and wait for the backwater
or to race the third wave for the one chance of going clear. There was
no time to weigh the odds, and on tore the "Jolly Sandboy." For an
instant it looked as though they would make it; and then with a sudden
roar the long smooth green wall of water seemed to fall forward at
double its former speed, and took the ground just this side of the cape.
The "Jolly Sandboy," quivering at every rivet, came to a stop as the
surge swept over her. The mainsail caught the full force of a ton of
salt water, and the mast went over the side, snapping the weather
ratlines as though they had been made of tow. It was a matter of hardly
two seconds, and the "Jolly Sandboy" was a wreck.

It was a hard pull to get clear, but Fred and Jack finally managed to
drag the "beach-comber" back to safer ground. Safer, but for how long?
Already the strip of sand had entirely disappeared at the foot of Cape
Fear, and a full fathom of salt water was boiling and eddying among the
jagged rocks. It would take some ten or twelve minutes for the water to
finally cover the beach of Shut-in Bay, and then what? The ledges to
which they might climb could only save them at ordinary high water, and
at this the highest of the spring tides they would be covered six feet
deep. The overhanging cliff offered no way of escape, and not a boat was
in sight. Like drowned rats in a trap. But no! the thought was too
horrible. There must be some way. There was the mast! Could it not be
set up again, and its broken guys spliced with the mainsheet? It was a
stout stick, some eleven feet in length, and the rise of the water would
be less than ten. The jaws of the gaff would afford a foothold--a
precarious one, it is true, but still a chance to keep their heads above
water.

With desperate eagerness the "Jolly Sandboy" was run up close to the
cliff and the sail unbent. With the water already boiling about their
knees the boys worked on. And then Fred did a peculiar thing. With a
rapid cut of his knife he severed the stay which had just been spliced,
and the mast fell over again. Seizing a hatchet, he knocked out the pin
that pivoted the stick in the chocks, and let the mast drift away. Jack
looked at him in speechless dismay.

"Too much dead weight," said Fred, coolly. "Don't you see that those big
tires filled with air are really life-preservers, and with the wooden
frame-work they make a very decent raft?"

And so it turned out. The raft, though deep in the water, still
supported them; and a quarter of an hour later the steam-trawler _Alice_
came along and took them on board.

"Well," said Fred, as they walked up to Uncle Win's, wet and weary but
safe, "you can't deny that the 'Jolly Sandboy' is a good all-around
machine. She carried us on land and saved us in the water; what more do
you want?"

"I think," said Jack, softly, as he snuffed up the grateful odors from
the kitchen, "that I should like a piece of that fried bluefish."




AMERICAN CAGE BIRDS.

BY JAMES STEELE.


The rules for keeping cage birds well and happy are few. Cleanliness is
the first requisite; then temperance in feeding, fresh air, and
exercise, in the order mentioned. But these rules should be followed
with care and intelligence if you would keep your birds in good
condition.

Some people have an idea that all that you have to do is to get a bird,
put it into a cage, and give it food and water as directed. This is very
far from being enough. The habits of your bird must be studied; the
climate of the room in which it lives, the amount of daylight which it
should enjoy, the atmosphere which it breathes, its freedom from sudden
alarms, all have to be considered if you wish your bird to be happy, and
without happiness there is little chance of its being a pleasant
companion.

Canaries are not included in this article, because they are bred in
captivity, and have inherited the capacity for living in cages.

In a state of nature small birds flit about and sing only during
daylight, and they always retire to rest at sundown. You must look out
for this if you keep your birds in cages. They do not understand that
they had better keep silent after the lamps are lighted. They
instinctively keep on singing, as if it were still daylight. The
immediate effect of this is that the birds become over-fatigued; they
are apt to moult, grow thin, suffer from exhaustion, and quickly perish.
The cage should be removed to a darkened room at nightfall; or, if this
is not convenient, cover up the cage with a dark cloth before lighting
the lamps. In covering the cage care should be taken so to arrange the
cloth that the bird can have plenty of air. In removing birds from one
room to another it is important to see that there is no change in
temperature. If removed to a different temperature there is a strong
chance that they will begin to moult, which generally leads to something
serious. Remember that Nature supplies a coat to suit heat or cold in
which her creatures are placed, and that sudden and frequent changes in
temperature are a severe tax upon a bird's vitality.

The object in the construction of a bird's cage should be to furnish
plenty of light and air, and the cage should always be kept perfectly
clean. It is well to have a night covering of dark cloth, which should
cover the top of the cage and extend half-way down the sides, as many
birds are likely to take cold.

It is almost impossible to rear woodpeckers and fly-catchers, for they
live on a special kind of food, such as grubs and other insects, seldom
touching seeds and fruit; and there are some birds that it is
exceedingly difficult to keep in a small confined space.

Birds of the thrush variety--and this of course includes robins and
blackbirds--are hardy and docile pets, and will live in a cage with
_varied_ food from seven to ten years. The principal disease to which
they are subject is consumption, and this should be guarded against with
care. Of the thrushes, the robin finds it most difficult to accustom
himself to cage life, and in the spring, at pairing-time, he usually
pines for freedom. I cannot bear to see robins caged, although many
people have succeeded in keeping them happy and contented.

All of the finches, birds of the mocking-bird type, which includes the
cat-bird, will thrive well in cages.

Birds should not be taken when too young, as they are likely to sicken
and die; but if caught about the time the pin-feathers begin to show
they will generally live. At this time it is necessary to feed them
almost constantly, and they will devour more than their own weight in
food every day.

The mocking-bird is by all odds the best American cage bird. The best
food for a young mocking-bird is thickened meal and water, or meal and
milk, mixed occasionally with tender fresh meat, minced fine. Young and
old birds require berries of various kinds, such as cherries,
strawberries, etc. Any kind of wild fruit of which they are fond is good
for them, but this should not be given too freely. A few grasshoppers,
beetles, and other insects, which may easily be obtained, as well as
gravel, are also necessary.

The mocking-bird can easily be taught a tune, as can the cat-bird,
which, despite his cat-call--generally a cry of warning or distress--is
one of the sweetest singers among our common birds.

Finches are very bright and animated, and make very desirable pets. They
may be taught many amusing tricks. They will learn to fire small cannons
and imitate death. They may be taught to draw up their food and water in
a little bucket by means of a fine chain.

Of the finches, the bullfinch is probably the best cage bird. It can be
taught to whistle a tune. This is done by keeping it in a dark room, and
admitting light only at intervals. Every time the light is let into the
room you should whistle one air to it, over and over again. Soon it will
pick up a few notes, and often will be able to whistle the whole tune in
a very short time. The bullfinch is not indigenous to America, although
we have many varieties of finches, and some that closely approach those
native to England; but bullfinches can be purchased at any bird-store.

Finches should be fed chiefly on poppy and hemp seed--the first to be
given as its usual food. Now and then some unflavored biscuit may be
given them, but they should never be fed on sweetened cake.

Game-birds and birds that build their nests on the ground almost never
breed in captivity. Birds that are enemies when in their natural state
will live together contentedly in a cage.

In regard to the feeding of birds, it may be stated in a general way
that birds with short triangular bills, like the finches, live on seeds
or some form of vegetable food entirely, and never require any meat.
Birds with long slender bills, like the thrushes, mocking-birds, crows,
etc., require animal as well as vegetable food, while birds with long
hooked bills, like hawks or gulls, live on a diet entirely of meat. The
reason that the birds in the bird-stores are always in such good health
is because the bird-fancier understands how to feed them, and varies
their diet as their condition demands.

The importance of giving a bird plenty of water, both to drink and in
which to bathe, cannot be overestimated. Birds suffer frightfully from
thirst when neglected, and as they have no power to express their wants,
they often go for hours unheeded, when a little thoughtful attention
would give them relief. Care should always be taken to see to it that
their water-cup is filled, and that it does not become twisted to one
side or the other so that the bird cannot reach it.




MORRO CASTLE.

BY T. R. DAWLEY, JR.


After Columbus discovered Cuba the island seems to have been forgotten
by the Spaniards, who bent all their efforts to explore and colonize the
neighboring island of Haiti, to which they gave the name of Hispaniola,
meaning pertaining to Spain or "Spanish land." Although the rising
promontory of Cape Mayzi could be discerned on a clear day from the
coast of Hispaniola, it was not until nearly twenty years after Columbus
had made his memorable discovery that Diego, his son, determined to
conquer and settle the island of Cuba. Diego Columbus was then Governor
of Hispaniola, and under his orders Captain Valazquez disembarked with
300 men on the eastern coast of Cuba and founded the city of Baracoa.
Then the Spaniards crawled around to the south and founded Santiago,
which they made their capital, and then followed in quick succession the
cities of Trinidad, Bayamo, Puerto Principe, Sancti Spiritus, and
Remedios.

In 1515 the colonists founded a city near the present site of Batabanó,
to which they gave the name of Habana, but the marshy land of the
southern coast proved a very undesirable place for such a city as they
intended to build. Proceeding to the north about thirty miles, they
crossed the island and came to a beautiful little bay, surrounded by
hills on one side and a stretch of flat land on the other. The bay
resembled a huge bowl, with only just one narrow outlet into the sea
where the two points of land almost met--the ridge of rock on one side
and the flat land on the other. A more delightful nook for a city could
not have been hit upon, so the new city of Havana was transplanted from
its original site on the south coast to the shore of the bowl-like bay
on the north.

[Illustration: A SPANISH TRIAL IN MORRO CASTLE.]

Captain Velazquez was enthusiastic over his new city, and cutting loose
from the Governor of Hispaniola he set up a government of his own. He
made rapid strides in subjugating the peaceful inhabitants, whom he
allowed to be treated with great cruelty, and Habana soon rose to be a
city of importance. To protect it from any probable invasion from the
sea, a fort was built on each of the points of land which nearly met,
forming the narrow entrance to the bay. The one constructed on the city
side of the bay was called La Punta. Upon the rocks on the opposite side
was built the famous El Morro, which, in the Spanish language, is called
a castle.

In 1762 the English sailed into the bay in spite of these forts, and
took possession of Havana, which they held for nearly a year. After the
English went away the Spanish government ordered the forts to be
rebuilt, and neither money nor labor was spared to make them
impregnable. By the construction of the forts an immense amount of money
was put into circulation, which necessarily contributed to the
development of many industries.

As the traveller approaches Havana to-day the old castle walls are the
most curious thing which greets him, for within those walls has
originated many a story of suffering, cruelty, and barbarism. As you
gaze upon those walls a ship's officer may stand by your side and tell
you, as he points to the towering light-house, a sad story of how the
builder of that light--an Englishman, I believe he was--so pleased his
Spanish masters that they, jealous that he might impart the secret of
his work to his countrymen or build for them another such light,
confined him in one of the dungeons and put out his eyes.

When I sailed by that huge fortress for the first time, and a
fellow-passenger jokingly pointed out a little square window which he
designated as opening into my future cell, I did not think how near his
prophecy would be realized. But El Morro is not designed to hold
criminals. By criminals I mean men who have sinned against their
fellow-beings, men who have robbed and murdered--in fact, have not lived
up to the golden rule to do unto others as they would have others do
unto them. But men, and even boys, who are suspected of not being in
favor of Spain's rule in the island of Cuba, these are called political
prisoners, and Morro awaits them. And so I became a political prisoner
too. And not till I was finally bound by the arms and marched before
soldiers, who held me by a rope as though I was some sort of
domesticated animal, did I remember that little window in Morro's walls,
and wonder if that really was going to be the prison-barred window from
which I could watch the ships bound home. But no; they put me in a cell
with sixteen Cubans, who one and all greeted me as though I were a
friend come to bring them news and consolation. I did see the other side
of that little window, however, and that was when they took me before
the judge and gave me a trial.

[Illustration: MORRO CASTLE.]

The Spanish have a queer way of trying folks, according to our notion.
They do not take you into a big court-room full of people, where there
is a judge and a jury and a prosecuting attorney, and where your
accusers are brought before you and made to tell all they know, and if
they tell something they don't know, you have the right to question them
and prove that they are not telling the truth. But they send you into a
little room, where a prosecuting officer examines you all by himself,
and a soldier writes down what you say. And then your trial becomes
something like a simple sum in arithmetic. Some one must swear that you
have done wrong, and then if you get one witness besides yourself who
swears that you did not commit the wrong, then your two statements count
against the government's one, and so it goes. If the government produces
six witnesses you must produce seven; and then again the officer who
takes you into the little room is very powerful, for a great deal
depends upon just how he makes out the papers in your case, and he has a
hand very susceptible to Spanish gold. So it becomes very easy for a
suspect to get off (if he is given a trial), and the government knows
this; so instead of giving their political prisoners a trial, unless
they are sure of convicting them, they keep them shut up in Morro
Castle. They gave me a trial because our government at Washington
demanded it, and as by their simple methods they were unable to find out
what I had been doing, they were obliged to let me go.




ODD INDIAN SPORTS.

BY M. W. GIBSON.


It is not of bows and arrows that I wish to tell in this paper, nor of
lacrosse and shinny--games of Indian origin with which most boys are
familiar--but of other sports with which our copper-colored friends
amuse themselves, and which, I presume, few readers have witnessed.

_Spinning Stones._--This is a sport that, as a youth, I often watched
the boys of the Winnebago tribe play upon the frozen surface of
Wisconsin lakes and rivers. A number of smooth stones, usually three, as
round as could be found, and about the size of hens' eggs, were placed
in a bunch on the smooth ice. A whip, made of two or three buckskin
thongs fastened to a handle three feet long, was swung slowly and
brought down upon the ice with a gentle swish, so that the lashes might
curl round the stones.

Then a swift, deft jerk, so delicately applied as not to scatter the
stones, sent them spinning. When once the stones commenced to rotate,
the swing and the jerk were gradually quickened, growing faster and
faster, until the two motions became merged in one, and the player
settled down to a steady stroke that made the stones hum like so many
tops. These Indian lads could keep a bunch of stones spinning like this
for ten minutes at a time, without allowing one of them to get away. I
used to think they must have inherited their skill in this sport, for I
could never acquire the art, though I tried a hundred times.

I could start the stones spinning easily enough, but before they fairly
began to hum one or two, if not the whole three, would whiz off, each in
its own direction, beyond the reach of my whip.

The sport seems to require a peculiar drawing stroke of the whip that I
could never acquire.

_The Snow-dart._--Another sport, in which I approached a little nearer
to the skill of these same Indian boys, was that of throwing the
snow-dart. The dart was a perfectly straight piece of hickory about five
feet long, made three-cornered, and rounded up at one end. It was about
an inch wide and half as thick, and was thrown with the flat side up. It
had to be made with the greatest care and polished as smooth as glass.
It was always a marvel to me how the Indians, with no other tools than a
hatchet and knife, could make these little hickory flyers so perfectly.
It was wonderful, too, to see how far these Winnebago youths could send
one of them. Selecting a level stretch of snow, as upon a frozen river
or lake, and where the surface was somewhat hardened by thawing and
freezing, the players would stand at a great distance apart. One of them
would take the dart by its middle, lightly balance it between his thumb
and the two first fingers, and with a strong underhand throw launch the
shaft toward his opponent.

If the snow was just soft enough to allow the sharp under edge of the
dart to sink slightly into its surface, and thus hold it straight upon
its course, then the sport was at its best.

_The Grass Game of the Digger Indians of California._--I first saw it
played in the Russian River Valley, a great hop-growing region, where,
at the close of the picking season, these Indians, to the number of two
or three hundred, gather to feast upon watermelons and other good
things, and to indulge in pony-races, foot-races, wrestling-matches,
shinny, and other games for several days in succession. I had hard work
to make my way through the crowd that pressed around a large circular
enclosure made of tall willow bushes stuck in the ground where the game
was going on. The players, four in number, were men grown, and squatted
on their knees, two on one side of the enclosure, facing the other two
on the opposite side. On a third side, and equally distant from both
sets of players, sat the umpire. Each player had a little pile of dry
grass in front of him; but only the two on one side made use of the
grass at the same time, for the game is but an elaborate form of "hide
the pencil" that every school-boy is quite familiar with, and while the
players on one side did the hiding those on the other did the guessing.

To begin the game the player takes a little round stick about
three-quarters of an inch in diameter, sharpened at each end, and about
two inches and a half long. This he holds up in plain view of his
opponent on the opposite side of the enclosure, whose keen eyes follow
every movement as the player takes up handful after handful of the grass
in front of him and winds it about the stick until he has formed a ball
perhaps as large as his head. During this performance the player works
himself into a frenzy of excitement, and makes all manner of frantic
endeavors to "rattle" his adversary. Twisting and squirming about, he
bends his body in all sorts of contortions. Time and again he pretends
to pluck the little stick out of the ball he is forming, and hide it
under a knee or a foot. He tosses the ball high in the air, then from
hand to hand, then into the air again, and catches it behind his back.
Now his chant is low and soft, his movements slow and measured; then
higher and higher he pitches his voice, and faster and faster become his
motions, until one can scarcely see his hands as they dart about in a
cloud of flying grass.

Presently, at a signal from the umpire, he drops the ball of grass in
front of him, and holds his closed hands behind his back.

Slowly his adversary extends his left arm as if grasping a bow, and
raising his bent right arm to the level of his eye, as if drawing an
arrow upon an imaginary enemy, with the forefinger of his left hand he
points to the exact spot in which he expects to find the little stick.
Every breath is hushed, and a deathlike silence prevails as he points
steadily for a moment, then lets his right hand fly back against his
chest with a hollow thud, as if he had let fly an arrow.

With a wild yell, in which every spectator joins, the player then
produces the little stick--from the ball of grass, from under a knee or
a foot, or from one of his closed palms, as the case may be. If he has
been cunning enough to deceive the sharp eye of his opponent, the stakes
are his; but if the guesser correctly locates the stick, the umpire
throws to him the string of wampum, or whatever the stake may be. The
sticks are then thrown across to the opposite players, and the game goes
on.




THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

III.


Our first night in the Rattletrap passed without further incident--that
is, the greater part of it passed, though Ollie declared that it lacked
a good deal of being all passed when we got up. The chief reason for our
early rise was Old Blacky, a member of our household (or perhaps
wagonhold) not yet introduced in this history. Old Blacky was the mate
of Old Browny, and the two made up our team of horses. Old Browny was a
very well behaved, respectable old nag, extremely fond of quiet and
oats. He invariably slept all night, and usually much of the day; he was
a fit companion for our dog. It was the firm belief of all on board that
Old Browny could sleep anywhere on a fairly level stretch of road
without stopping.

But Old Blacky was another sort of beast. He didn't seem to require any
sleep at all. What Old Blacky wanted was food. He loved to sit up all
night and eat, and keep us awake. He seldom ever lay down at night, but
would moon about the camp and blunder against things, fall over the
wagon-tongue, and otherwise misbehave. Sometimes when we camped where
the grass was not just to his liking, he would put his head into the
wagon and help himself to a mouthful of bed-quilt or a bite of pillow.
He was little but an appetite mounted on four legs, and next to food he
loved a fight. Besides the name of Old Blacky, we also knew him as the
Blacksmith's Pet; but this will have to be explained later on.

On this first morning, just as it was becoming light in the east, Old
Blacky began to make his toilet by rubbing his shoulder against one
corner of the wagon. As he was large and heavy, and rubbed as hard as he
could, he soon had the wagon tossing about like a boat; and as the
easiest way out of it, we decided to get up. It was cool and dewy, with
the larger stars still shining faintly. We found Jack under the wagon.
Ollie stirred him up, and said,

[Illustration: "SEE ANY VARMINTS IN THE NIGHT, UNCLE JACK?"]

"See any varmints in the night, Uncle Jack?"

"Yes," answered Jack, as he unrolled himself from his blanket. "Or at
least I felt one. That disgraceful Old Blacky nibbled at my ear twice.
The first time I thought it was nothing less than a bear."

"Did he disturb Snoozer?"

"I guess nothing ever disturbs Snoozer. He never moved all night. How's
the firewood department, Ollie?"

"All right," replied Ollie. "Got up enough last night. Nothing to do
this morning but rest."

"Then build the fire while I get breakfast."

This pleased Ollie, and he soon had a good fire going. I caught Old
Blacky, who had started off to walk around the lake, woke up Old Browny,
who was sleeping peacefully with his nose resting on the ground, quieted
the pony, who was still suspicious, with a few pats on the neck, and
gave them all their oats. Soon the rest of us also had our breakfast,
including Snoozer, who seemed to wake up by instinct, and after waiting
a little for somebody to come and stretch him, stretched himself, and
began waving his tail to attract our attention to his urgent need of
food.

"Before we get back home that dog will want us to feed him with a
spoon," said Jack.

It was only a little while after sunrise when we were off for another
day's voyage. We were headed almost due south, and all that day and the
three or four following (including Sunday, when we staid in camp), we
did not change our general direction. We were aiming to reach the town
of Yankton, where we intended to cross the Missouri River and turn to
the west in Nebraska. The country through which we travelled was much of
it prairie, but more was under cultivation, and the houses of settlers
were numerous. The land on which wheat or other small grains had been
grown was bare, but as we got further south we passed great fields of
corn, some of it standing almost as high as the top of our wagon-cover.

For much of the way we were far from railroads and towns, and got most
of our supplies of food from the settlers whose houses we passed or,
indeed, sighted, since the pony proved as convenient for making landings
as Jack had predicted she would. Ollie usually went on these excursions
after milk and eggs and such like foods. The different languages which
he encountered among the settlers somewhat bewildered him, and he often
had hard work in making the people he found at the houses understand
what he wanted. There were many Norwegians among the settlers, and the
third day we passed through a large colony of Russians, saw a few Finns,
and heard of some Icelanders who lived around on the other side of a
lake.

"It wouldn't surprise me," said Ollie one day, "to find the man in the
moon living here in a sod house."

Perhaps a majority--certainly a great many--of all these people lived in
houses of this kind. Ollie had never seen anything of the sort before,
and he became greatly interested in them. The second day we camped near
one for dinner.

"You see," said Jack, "a man gets a farm, takes half his front yard and
builds a house with it. He gains space, though, because the place he
peels in the yard will do for flower-beds, and the roof and sides of his
house are excellent places to grow radishes, beets, and similar
vegetables."

"Why not other things besides radishes and beets?" asked Ollie.

"Oh, other things would grow all right, but radishes and beets seem to
be the natural things for sod-house growing. You can take hold of the
lower end and pull 'em from the inside, you know, Ollie."

"I don't believe it, Uncle Jack," said Ollie, stoutly.

"Ask the rancher," answered Jack. "If you're ever at dinner in a sod
house, and want another radish, just reach up and pull one down through
the roof, tops and all. Then you're sure they're fresh. I'd like to keep
a summer boarding-house in a sod house. I'd advertise 'fresh vegetables
pulled at the table.'"

"I'm going to ask the man about sod houses," returned Ollie. He went up
to where the owner of the house was sitting outside, and said,

"Will you please tell me how you make a sod house?"

"Yes," said the man, smiling. "Thinking of making one?"

"Well, not just now," replied Ollie. "But I'd like to know about them. I
might want to build one--sometime," he added, doubtfully.

"Well," said the man, "it's this way: First we plough up a lot of the
tough prairie sod with a large plough called a breaking-plough, intended
especially for ploughing the prairie the first time. This turns it over
in a long, even, unbroken strip, some fourteen or sixteen inches wide
and three or four inches thick. We cut this up into pieces two or three
feet long, take them to the place where we are building the house, on a
stone-boat or a sled, and use them in laying up the walls in just about
the same way that bricks are used in making a brick house. Openings are
left for the doors and windows, and either a shingle or a sod roof put
on. If it's sod, rough boards are first laid on poles, and then sods put
on them like shingles. I've got a sod roof on mine, you see."

Ollie was looking at the grass and weeds growing on the top and sides of
the house. They must have made a pretty sight when they were green and
thrifty earlier in the season, but they were dry and withered now.

"Do you ever have prairie fires on your roofs?" asked Ollie, with a
smile.

"Oh, they do burn off sometimes," answered the man. "Catch from the
chimney, you know. Did you ever see a hay fire?"

"No."

"Come inside and I'll show you one."

In the house, which consisted of one large room divided across one end
by a curtain, Ollie noticed a few chairs and a table, and opposite the
door a stove which looked very much like an ordinary cook-stove, except
that the place for the fire was rather larger. Back of it stood a box
full of what seemed to be big hay rope. The man's wife was cooking
dinner on the stove.

"Here's a young tenderfoot," said the man, "who's never seen a hay
fire."

"Wish I never had," answered the woman.

[Illustration: "I'LL SHOW YOU HOW TO TWIST IT."]

The man laughed. "They're hardly as good as a wood fire or a coal fire,"
he said to Ollie, "but when you're five hundred miles, more or less,
from either wood or coal they do very well." The man took off one of the
griddles and put in another "stick" of hay. Then he handed one to Ollie,
who was surprised to find it almost as heavy as a stick of wood. "It
makes a fairly good fire," said the man. "Come outside and I'll show you
how to twist it."

They went out to a haystack near by, and the man twisted a rope three or
four inches in diameter, and about four feet long. He kept hold of both
ends till it was wound up tight, then he brought the ends together, and
it twisted itself into a hard two-strand rope in the same way that a bit
of string will do when similarly treated. There was quite a pile of such
twisted sticks on the ground. "You see," said the man, "in this country,
instead of splitting up a pile of fuel we just twist up one." Ollie bade
the man good-by, took another look at the queer house, and came down to
the wagon.

"So you saw a hay-stove, did you?" said Jack. "I could have told you all
about 'em. I once staid all night with a man who depended on a hay-stove
for warmth. It was in the winter. Talk about appetites! I never saw such
an appetite as that stove had for hay. Why, that stove had a worse
appetite than Old Blacky. It devoured hay all the time, just as Old
Blacky would if he could; and even then its stomach always seemed empty.
The man twisted all of the time, and I fed it constantly, and still it
was never satisfied."

"How did you sleep?" asked Ollie.

"Worked right along in our sleep--like Old Browny," answered Jack.

The last day before reaching Yankton was hot and sultry. The best place
we could find to camp that night was beside a deserted sod house on the
prairie. There was a well and a tumble-down sod stable. There were dark
bands of clouds low down on the southeastern horizon, and faint flashes
of lightning.

"It's going to rain before morning," I said. "Wonder if it wouldn't be
better in the sod house?"

We examined it, but found it in poor condition, so decided not to give
up the wagon. "The man that lived there pulled too many radishes and
parsnips and carrots and such things into it, and then neglected to hoe
his roof and fill up the holes," said Jack. "Besides, Old Blacky will
have it rubbed down before morning. When I sleep in anything that Old
Blacky can get at, I want it to be on wheels so it can roll out of the
way."

We went to bed as usual, but at about one o'clock we were awakened by a
long rolling peal of thunder. Already big drops of rain were beginning
to fall. Ollie and I looked out, and found Jack creeping from under the
wagon.

"That's a dry-weather bedroom of mine," he observed, "and I think I'll
come upstairs."

The flashes of lightning followed each other rapidly, and by them we
could see the horses. Old Browny was sleeping, and Old Blacky eating,
but the pony stood with head erect, very much interested in the storm.
Jack helped Snoozer into the wagon, and came in himself. We drew both
ends of the cover as close as possible, lit the lantern, and made
ourselves comfortable, while Jack took down his banjo and tried to play.
Jack always tried to play, but never quite succeeded. But he made a
considerable noise, and that was better than nothing.

The wind soon began to blow pretty fresh, and shake the cover rather
more than was pleasant. But nothing gave way, and after, as it seemed,
fifty of the loudest claps of thunder we had ever heard, the rain began
to fall in torrents.

"That is what I've been waiting for," said Jack. "Now we'll see if
there's a good cover on this wagon, or if we've got to put a sod roof on
it, like that man's house."

The rain kept coming down harder and harder, but though there seemed to
be a sort of a light spray in the air of the wagon, the water did not
beat through. In some places along the bows it ran down on the inside of
the cover in little clinging streams, but as a household we remained
dry. Jack was still experimenting on the banjo and the dog had gone to
sleep. Suddenly a flash of lightning dazzled our eyes as if there were
no cover at all over and around us, with a crash of thunder which struck
our ears like a blow from a fist. Jack dropped the banjo, and the dog
shook his head as if his ears tingled. We all felt dizzy, and the wagon
seemed to be swaying around.

"That struck pretty close," I said. "I hope it didn't hit one of the
horses."

"If it hit Old Blacky, I'll bet a cooky it got the worst of it,"
answered Jack, taking up his banjo again. "Look out, Ollie, and maybe
you'll see the lightning going off limping."

It was still raining, though not so hard. Soon we began to hear a
peculiar noise, which seemed to come from behind the wagon. It was a
breaking, splintering sort of noise, as if a board was being smashed and
split up very gradually.

"Sounds as if a slow and lazy kind of lightning was striking our wagon,"
said Jack.

Ollie's face was still white from the scare at the stroke of lightning,
and his eyes now opened very wide as he listened to the mysterious
noise. Jack pulled open the back cover an inch and peeped out. Then he
said,

"I guess Old Blacky's tussle with the lightning left him hungry; he's
eating up one side of the feed-box."

Then we laughed at the strange noise, and in a few minutes, the rain
having almost ceased, we put on our rubber boots and went out to look
after the other horses. Old Browny we found in the lee of the sod house,
not exactly asleep, but evidently about to take a nap. The pony had
pulled up her picket-pin and retreated to a little hollow a hundred
yards away. We caught her and brought her back. By the light of the
lantern we found that the great stroke of lightning had struck the curb
of the well, shattering it, and making a hole in the ground beside it.
The storm had gone muttering off to the north, and the stars were again
shining overhead.

"What a stroke of lightning that must have been to do that!" said Ollie,
as he looked at the curb with some awe.

[Illustration: "THAT'S WHERE OLD BLACKY KICKED AT THE LIGHTNING AND
MISSED IT."]

"It wasn't the lightning that did that," returned his truthful Uncle
Jack. "That's where Old Blacky kicked at the lightning and missed it."

Then we returned to the wagon and went to bed. The next morning at ten
o'clock we drove into Yankton. We found the ferry-boat disabled, and
that we would have to go forty miles up the river to Running Water
before we could cross. We drove a mile out of town, and went into camp
on a high bank overlooking the milky, eddying current of the Missouri.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XI.


One night, some days after this, George was awakened in the middle of
the night by hearing persons stirring in the house. He rose, and
slipping on his clothes, softly opened his door. Laurence Washington,
fully dressed, was standing in the hall.

"What is the matter, brother?" asked George.

"The child Mildred is ill," answered Laurence, in much agitation. "It
seems to be written that no child of mine shall live. Dr. Craik has been
sent for, but he is so long in coming that I am afraid she will die
before he reaches here."

"I will fetch him, brother," said George, in a resolute manner. "I will
go for Dr. Craik, and if I cannot get him I will go to Alexandria for
another doctor."

He ran down stairs and to the stable, and in five minutes he had saddled
the best horse in the stable and was off for Dr. Craik's, five miles
away. As he galloped on through the darkness, plunging through the snow,
and taking all the short-cuts he could find, his heart stood still for
fear the little girl might die. He loved her dearly--all her baby ways
and childish fondness for himself coming back to him with the sharpest
pain--and his brother and sister, whose hopes were bound up in her.
George thought, if the child's life could be spared, he would give more
than he could tell.

He reached Dr. Craik's after a hard ride. The barking of the dogs, as he
rode into the yard, wakened the doctor, and he came to the door with a
candle in his hand, and in his dressing-gown. In a few words George told
his business, and begged the doctor to start at once for Mount Vernon.
No message had been received, and at that very time the negro messenger,
who had mistaken the road, was at least five miles off, going in the
opposite direction.

"How am I to get to Mount Vernon?" asked the doctor. "As you know, I
keep only two horses. One I lent to a neighbor yesterday, and to-night,
when I got home from my round, my other horse was dead lame."

"Ride this horse back!" cried George. "I can walk easily enough; but
there must be a doctor at Mount Vernon to-night. If you could have seen
my brother's face--I did not see my poor sister, but--"

"Very well," answered the doctor, coolly. "I never delay a moment when
it is possible to get to a patient; and if you will trudge the five
miles home I will be at Mount Vernon as soon as this horse can take me
there."

Dr. Craik went into the house to get his saddle-bags, and in a few
minutes he appeared, fully prepared, and mounting the horse, started for
Mount Vernon at a sharp canter.

George set out on his long and disagreeable tramp. He was a good walker,
but the snow troubled him, and it was nearly daylight before he found
himself in sight of the house. Lights were moving about, and, with a
sinking heart, George felt a presentiment that his little playmate was
hovering between life and death. When he entered the hall he found a
fire burning, and William Fairfax standing by it. No one had slept at
Mount Vernon that night. George was weary, and wet up to his knees, but
his first thought was for little Mildred.

"She is still very ill, I believe," said William. "Dr. Craik came, and
Cousin Anne met him at the door, and she burst into tears. The doctor
said you were walking back, and Cousin Anne said, 'I will always love
George the better for this night.'"

George went softly up the stairs and listened at the nursery door. He
tapped, and Betty opened the door a little. He could see the child's
crib drawn up to the fire, the doctor hanging over it, while the poor
father and mother clung together a little way off.

"She is no worse," whispered Betty.

With this sorry comfort George went to his room and changed his clothes.
As he came down stairs he saw his brother and sister go down before him
for a little respite after their long watch; but on reaching the hall no
one was there but William Fairfax, standing in the same place before
the hearth. George went up and began to warm his chilled limbs. Then
William made the most indiscreet speech of his life--one of those things
which, uninspired by malice, and the mere outspoken word of a heedless
person, are yet capable of doing infinite harm and causing extreme pain.

"George," said he, "you know if Mildred dies you will get Mount Vernon
and all your brother's fortune."

George literally glared at William. His temper, naturally violent,
blazed within him, and his nerves, through fatigue and anxiety and his
long walk, not being under his usual control, he felt capable of
throttling William where he stood.

"Do you mean to say--do you think that I want my brother's child to
die?--that I--"

George spoke in a voice of concentrated rage that frightened William,
who could only stammer, "I thought--perhaps--I--I--"

The next word was lost, for George, hitting out from the shoulder,
struck William full in the chest, who fell over as if he had been shot.

The blow brought back George's reason. He stood amazed and ashamed at
his own violence and folly. William rose without a word, and looked him
squarely in the eye; he was conscious that his words, though foolish,
did not deserve a blow. He was no match physically for George, but he
was not in the least afraid of him. Some one else, however, besides the
two boys had witnessed the scene. Laurence Washington, quietly opening
wide a door that had been ajar, walked into the hall, followed by his
wife, and said, calmly:

"George, did I not see you strike a most unmanly blow just now--a blow
upon a boy smaller than yourself, a guest in this house, and at a time
when such things are particularly shocking?"

George, his face as pale as death, and unable to raise his eyes from the
floor, replied, in a low voice, "Yes, brother, and I think I was crazy
for a moment. I ask William's pardon, and yours, and my sister's--"

Laurence continued to look at him with stern and, as George felt, just
displeasure; but Mrs. Washington came forward, and, laying her hand on
his shoulder, said, sweetly:

"You were very wrong, George; but I heard it all, and I do not believe
that anything could make you wish our child to die. Your giving up your
horse to the doctor shows how much you love her, and I, for one, forgive
you for what you have done."

"Thank you, sister," answered George; but he could not raise his eyes.
He had never in all his life felt so ashamed of himself. In a minute or
two he recovered himself, and held out his hand to William.

"I was wrong too, George," said William; "I ought not to have said what
I did, and I am willing to be friends again."

The two boys shook hands, and without one word each knew that he had a
friend forever in the other one. And presently Dr. Craik came down
stairs, saying cheerfully to Mrs. Washington,

"Madam, your little one is asleep, and I think the worst is past."

For some days the child continued ill, and George's anxiety about her,
his wish to do something for her in spite of his boyish incapacity to do
so, showed how fond he was of her. She began to mend, however, and
George was delighted to find that she was never better satisfied than
when carried about in his strong young arms. William Fairfax, who was
far from being a foolish fellow, in spite of his silly speech, grew to
be heartily ashamed of the suspicion that George would be glad to profit
by the little girl's death when he saw how patiently George would amuse
her hour after hour, and how willingly he would give up his beloved
hunting and shooting to stay with her.

In the early part of January the time came when George and Betty must
return to Ferry Farm. George went the more cheerfully, as he imagined it
would be his last visit to his mother before joining his ship. Laurence
was also of this opinion, and George's warrant as midshipman had been
duly received. He had written to Madam Washington of Admiral Vernon's
offer, but he had received no letter from her in reply. This, however,
he supposed was due to Madam Washington's expectation of soon seeing
George, and he thought her consent absolutely certain.

On a mild January morning George and Betty left Mount Vernon for home in
a two-wheeled chaise, which Laurence Washington sent as a present to his
step-mother. In the box under the seat were packed Betty's white
sarcenet silk and George's clothes, including three smart uniforms. The
possession of these made George feel several years older than William
Fairfax, who started for school the same day. The rapier which Lord
Fairfax had given him, and his midshipman's dirk, which he considered
his most valuable belongings, were rather conspicuously displayed
against the side of the chaise; for George was but a boy, after all, and
delighted in these evidences of his approaching manhood. His precious
commission was in his breast pocket. Billy was to travel on the
trunk-rack behind the chaise, and was quite content to dangle his legs
from Mount Vernon to Ferry Farm, while Rattler trotted along beside
them. Usually it was a good day's journey, but in winter, when the roads
were bad, it was necessary to stop over a night on the way. It had been
determined to make this stop at the home of Colonel Fielding Lewis, an
old friend of both Madam Washington and Laurence Washington.

All of the Mount Vernon family, white and black, were assembled on the
porch, directly after breakfast, to say good-by to the young travellers.
William Fairfax, on horseback, was to start in another direction. Little
Mildred, in her black mammy's arms, was kept in the hall, away from the
raw winter air. Betty kissed her a dozen times, and cried a little; but
when George took her in his arms, and, after holding her silently to his
breast, handed her back to her mammy, the little girl clung to him and
cried so piteously, that George had to unlock her baby arms from around
his neck and run away.

On the porch his brother and sister waited for him, and Laurence said:

"I desire you, George, to deliver the chaise to your mother, from me,
with my respectful compliments, and to hope that she will soon make use
of it to visit us at Mount Vernon. For yourself, let me hear from you by
the first hand. The _Bellona_ will be in the Chesapeake within a month,
and probably up this river, and you are now prepared to join at a
moment's notice."

George's heart was too full for many words, but his flushed and beaming
face showed how pleased he was at the prospect. Laurence, however, could
read George's boyish heart very well, and smiled at the boy's delight.
Both Betty and himself kissed and thanked their sister for her kindness,
and, after they had said good-by to William, and shook hands with all
the house-servants, the chaise rattled off.

Betty had by nature one of the sunniest tempers in the world, and,
instead of going back glumly and unwillingly to her modest home after
the gayeties and splendors of Mount Vernon, congratulated herself on
having had so merry a time, and was full of gratitude to her mother for
allowing her to come. And then she was alone with George, and had a
chance to ask him dozens of things that she had not thought of in the
bustle at Mount Vernon; so the two drove along merrily. Betty chattering
a good deal, and George talking much more than he usually did.

They reached Barn Elms before sunset, and met with a cordial welcome
from Colonel Lewis and the large family of children and guests that
could always be found in the Virginia country-houses of those days. At
supper a long table was filled, mostly with merry young people. Among
them was young Fielding Lewis, a handsome fellow a little older than
George, and there was also Miss Martha Dandridge, the handsome young
lady with whom George had danced Sir Roger de Coverley on Christmas
night at Mount Vernon. In the evening the drawing-room floor was
cleared, and everybody danced, Colonel Lewis himself, a portly gentleman
of sixty, leading off the rigadoon with Betty, which George again danced
with Martha Dandridge. They had so merry a time that they were sorry to
leave next morning. Colonel Lewis urged them to stay, but George felt
they must return home, more particularly as it was the first time that
he and Betty had been trusted to make a journey alone.

All that day they travelled, and about sunset, when within five miles of
home, a tire came off one of the wheels of the new chaise, and they had
to stop at a blacksmith's shop on the road-side to have it mended.
Billy, however, was sent ahead to tell their mother that they were
coming, and George was in hopes that Billy's sins would be overlooked,
considering the news he brought, and the delightful excitement of the
meeting.

The blacksmith was slow, and the wheel was in a bad condition, so it was
nearly eight o'clock of a January night before they were in the gate at
Ferry Farm. It was wide open, the house was lighted up, and in the
doorway stood Madam Washington and the three little boys. Every negro,
big and little, on the place was assembled, and shouts of "Howdy, Marse
George! Howdy, Miss Betty!" resounded. The dogs barked with pleasure at
recognizing George and Betty, and the commotion was great.

As soon as they reached the door Betty jumped out, before the chaise
came to a standstill, and rushed into her mother's arms. She was quickly
followed by George, who, much taller than his mother, folded her in a
close embrace, and then the boys were hugged and kissed. Madam
Washington led him into the house, and looked him all over with pride
and delight, he was so grown, so manly; his very walk had acquired a new
grace, such as comes from association with graceful and polished
society. She was brimming with pride, but she only allowed herself to
say,

"How much you have grown, my son!"

"And the chaise is yours, mother," struck in Betty. "Brother Laurence
sent it to you--all lined inside with green damask, and a stuffed seat,
and room for a trunk behind, and a box under the seat."

George rather resented this on Betty's part, as he thought he had the
first right to make so important an announcement as the gift of a
chaise, and said, with a severe look at Betty:

"My brother sent it you, mother, with his respectful compliments, and
hopes that the first use you will make of it will be to visit him and my
sister at Mount Vernon."

Betty, however, was in no mood to be set back by a trifling snub like
that, so she at once plunged into a description of the gayeties at Mount
Vernon. This was interrupted by supper, which had been kept for them,
and then it was nine o'clock, and Betty was nearly falling asleep, and
George, too, was tired, and it was the hour for family prayers. For the
first time in months George read prayers at his mother's request, and
she added a special thanksgiving for the return of her two children in
health and happiness, and then it was bedtime. Madam Washington had not
once mentioned his midshipman's warrant to George. This did not occur to
him until he was in bed, and then, with the light heart of youth, he
dismissed it as a mere accident. No doubt she was as proud as he,
although the parting would be hard on both, but it must come in some
form or other, and no matter how long or how far, they could never love
each other any less--and George fell asleep to dream that he was
carrying the _Bellona_ into action in the most gallant style possible.

Next morning he was up and on horseback early, riding over the place,
and thinking with half regret and half joy that he would soon be far
away from the simple plantation life. At breakfast Betty talked so
incessantly and the little boys were so full of questions that Madam
Washington had no opportunity for serious talk, but as soon as it was
over she said,

"Will you come to my room, George?"

"In a minute, mother," answered George, rising and darting up stairs.

He would show himself to her in his uniform. He had the natural pride in
it that might have been expected, and, as he slipped quickly into it,
and put the dashing cap on his fair hair, and stuck his dirk into his
belt, he could not help a thrill of boyish vanity. He went straight to
his mother's room, where she stood awaiting him.

The first glance at her face struck a chill to his heart. There was a
look of pale and quiet determination upon it that was far from
encouraging. Nevertheless, George spoke up promptly.

"My warrant, mother, is upstairs, sent me, as my brother wrote you, by
Admiral Vernon. And my brother, out of his kindness, had all my outfit
made for me in Alexandria. I am to join the _Bellona_ frigate within the
month."

"Will you read this letter, my son?" was Madam Washington's answer,
handing him a letter.

George took it from her. He recognized the handwriting of his uncle,
Joseph Ball, in England. It ran, after the beginning: "'I understand you
are advised and have some thoughts of putting your son George to sea.'"
George stopped in surprise, and looked at his mother.

"I suppose," she said, quietly, "that he has heard that your brother
Laurence mentioned to me months ago that you wished to join the King's
land or sea service, but my brother's words are singularly apt now."

George continued to read.

"'I think he had better be put apprentice to a tinker, for a common
sailor before the mast has by no means the common liberty of the
subject, for they will press him from ship to ship, where he has fifty
shillings a month, and make him take twenty-three, and cut and slash and
use him like a dog.'"

George read this with amazement.

"My uncle evidently does not understand that I never had any intention
of going to sea as a common sailor," he said, his face flushing, "and I
am astonished that he should think such a thing."

"Read on," said his mother, quietly.

"'And as to any considerable preferment in the navy, it is not to be
expected, as there are so many gaping for it here who have interest, and
he has none.'"

George folded the letter, and handed it back to his mother respectfully.

"Forgive me, mother," said he, "but I think my uncle Joseph a very
ignorant man, and especially ignorant of my prospects in life!"

"George!" cried his mother, reproachfully.

George remained silent. He saw coming an impending conflict, the first
of their lives, between his mother and himself.

"My brother," said Madam Washington, after a pause, "is a man of the
world. He knows much more than I, a woman who has seen but little of it,
and much more than a youth like you, George."

"He does not know better than my brother, who has been the best and
kindest of brothers, who thought he was doing me the greatest service in
getting me this warrant, and who, at his own expense, prepared me for
it."

Both mother and son spoke calmly, and even quietly, but two red spots
burned in Madam Washington's face, while George felt himself growing
whiter every moment.

"Your brother, doubtless, meant kindly towards you, and for that I shall
be ever grateful; but I never gave my consent--I shall never give it,"
she said.

"I am sorry to hear you say that, mother," answered George,
presently--"more sorry than I know how to say. For, although you are my
dear and honored mother, you cannot choose my life for me, provided the
life I choose is respectable, and I live honestly and like a gentleman,
as I always shall, I hope."

The mother and son faced each other, pale and determined. It struck home
to Madam Washington that she could not now clip her eaglet's wings. She
asked, in a low voice,

"Do you intend to disobey me, my son?"

"Don't force me to do it, mother!" cried George, losing his calmness,
and becoming deeply agitated, "I think my honor is engaged to my brother
and Admiral Vernon, and I feel in my heart that I have a right to choose
my own future course. I promise you that I will never discredit you; but
I cannot--I cannot obey you in this."

"You do refuse, then, my son?" said Madam Washington. She spoke in a low
voice, and her beautiful eyes looked straight into George's as if
challenging him to resist her influence; but George, although his own
eyes filled with tears, yet answered her gently,

"Mother, I must."

Madam Washington said no more, but turned away from him. The boy's heart
and mind were in a whirl. Some involuntary power seemed compelling him
to act as he did, without any volition on his part. Suddenly his mother
turned, with tears streaming down her face, and, coming swiftly towards
him, clasped him in her arms.

[Illustration: "MY SON, MY BEST-LOVED CHILD."]

"My son, my best-loved child!" she cried, weeping. "Do not break my
heart by leaving me. I did not know until this moment how much I loved
you. It is hard for a parent to plead with a child, but I beg, I implore
you, if you have any regard for your mother's peace of mind, to give up
the sea." And with sobs and tears, such as George had never before seen
her shed, she clung to him, and covered his face and hair and even his
hands with kisses.

The boy stood motionless, stunned by an outbreak of emotion so unlike
anything he had ever seen in his mother before. Calm, reticent, and
undemonstrative, she had showed a Spartan firmness in her treatment of
her children until this moment. In a flash like lightning George saw
that it was not that foolish letter which had influenced her, but there
was a fierceness of mother-love, all unsuspected in that deep and quiet
nature, for him, and for him alone. This trembling, sobbing woman,
calling him all fond names, and saying to him, "George, I would go upon
my knees if that would move you," his mother! And the appeal overpowered
him as much by its novelty as its power. Like her he began to tremble,
and when she saw this she held him closer to her, and cried, "Will you
abandon me, or will you abandon your own will this once?"

There was a short pause, and then George spoke, in a voice he scarcely
knew, it was so strange,

"Mother, I will give up my commission."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




THE POLO PONY.

BY J. CONOVER.


The polo pony is becoming such an important and conspicuous feature in
modern life that a short article upon his nature, training, and habits
may be interesting to those who either hope to make his acquaintance on
his native range, or to import him for use in riding or driving, or in
playing that most exciting of all games.

The bicycle is said to be driving horseflesh out of the market, that
good horses, even thoroughbreds, are being _canned_ by the thousand, and
sent to all parts of the world. This may be a necessary and practical
use to which to put that noble animal, the friend and companion of man
from all ages; but one cannot help being thankful that the pony has so
far escaped this fate, and that the demand for these singularly
intelligent, plucky little beasts is growing rather than diminishing.

[Illustration: A COW PONY.]

So long as there are cattle ranges the cow pony will be a necessity. One
could not "round up" or "cut out" or "rope" or "corral" on a bicycle or
from a self-propelling carriage of any kind, and even if this dreadful
day should come and the cow pony lose his prestige, the polo pony will
still have his place in the world of sport, from which the most modern
and improved wheel could never dispossess him. The cow pony or polo
pony, like the poet and the athlete, is born, not made. Out of a drove
of a hundred ponies there may be only twenty-five or less that are good
for anything, who have the instinct of sport, the quick eye, steady
foot, the grit and endurance of the true sportsman.

A good cow pony is good from the start. He learns, of course, much by
experience, but he is not only first-class "material," as they say of
football candidates, but a star player from the very first. Running wild
with the mares, their mothers, on the big ranges of Texas, Mexico,
Montana, and Indian Territory, they grow marvellously fleet of foot, and
as hardy as mountain-goats.

When about three years old the ponies--all these horses under fifteen
hands high--are taken out of the drove, and broken either for cattle or
polo. The process of breaking is not a difficult one, though sometimes
troublesome and tedious. The pony is first corralled--that is, driven
out of the bunch into a pen by himself--then roped, often thrown, and
saddled and bridled. As a rule they make a great show of resistance.
They buck, they kick, they rear, they lie down and roll, they run into
fences or trees--in short, there is nothing that the instinct of
self-defence can prompt that a spirited pony will not do, and persist in
doing, until he learns the futility of kicking against the pricks. His
spurred and booted rider is prepared for any exhibition of temper or
ingenuity that he can devise, and wrestles with him gently but firmly,
sticking to his seat until the frantic efforts of the rebellious pony
have exhausted themselves. Then, subdued, if not overcome, he is
unsaddled and staked out, or tied up for the night, only to go through
the same performance the next day.

After several days' experience of the bit and bridle, and the singular
persistence of the load upon his back in staying there under all
provocation, the pony as a rule gives in--all the sensible ones, at
least; the bad-tempered broncos--the chronic buckers and kickers and
bolters--fight on spasmodically, and sometimes do not become thoroughly
broken, if ever, for weeks. When the pony has once recognized and
accepted you as his master, his future usefulness depends very largely
upon your treatment of him. If he is ridden hard and handled roughly he
will grow rough and unmanageable or mean and uncertain in temper; but if
treated gently and kindly he becomes docile and dependable, and as
faithful as a dog. He learns to know and love his master very soon, and
is as susceptible to flattery and petting as a dog or a woman. Some
ranchers, especially those with the reputation of being able to "make a
pretty good horse talk," will tell you that their favorite ponies, even
when in the pasture, come at their whistle like a dog; but it is not
very safe to trust to this devotion and obedience, for the majority are
as wild as hawks, and as difficult to catch, and unless one wishes the
exercise of a hard chase, it is better to hobble them when the saddle
and bridle are taken off and they are left to graze.

In buying ponies, either for polo or cattle, it is well to know the
owner's reputation, and how he breaks and handles them, for a good
cow-puncher is sure to have good ponies, fast and bridle-wise--"mighty
handy," in the vernacular, and trained to stop quickly and hold hard. In
roping, a good pony is as strong as any steer, and ought to be able to
hold no matter how hard the steer may jerk or pull when the rope is
thrown. There are no particular breeds in this country; any small horse
on the range is called "bronco" or "pony" indifferently, and they are
taken from all classes indiscriminately, being picked out by their size
and build, and the polo pony only differs from others by his superior
speed and agility, and his record as a cow pony.

The small fleet Arab horses which are sold so much in England for polo
have had no early training in cow-practice, but as a breed are very
intelligent, very quick, and yet extremely docile.

The Shetland-pony, which is such a favorite with children, is not agile
enough for either polo or cattle, and there are all sorts and conditions
of ponies that are useful in other respects, but absolutely useless in
rounding up or cutting out, or on the polo-grounds.

[Illustration: POLO PONIES.]

In advertising for polo ponies one usually sends out a circular stating
the necessary requisites: the size--fourteen hands one inch--and the
temper and disposition; and it takes a trained eye to pick out the most
promising from all those brought for inspection.

A good cutting pony is always safe, and the prices range according to
their value in cutting and penning cattle. They can be bought from
thirty-five to a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars, and even up
to such fancy prices as five hundred. Some first-class cutting ponies
cannot be purchased at any price, for love or money, a cow-puncher or
ranch-owner being just as willing to part with his wife and children,
his house and land, as with his prize cow pony.

This cutting cattle is a wonderful thing, and a fruitful theme for the
tall stories with which the cowboy enlivens the tedium of the many idle
hours of his varied and precarious life. "Stuffing the tenderfoot" with
Munchausen tales of the marvellous performances of these remarkably
clever little animals, or swapping yarns with other gifted companions
whose imaginations have never been broken in by the strong hand of
truth. But even the stories which are strictly and literally true sound
almost incredible to the uninitiated, for the cutting pony shows not
only the sagacity and resources of the Scotch collie, but the quickness
and agility of the cat, in separating or cutting out the particular cow
or steer from the herd which his master indicates, sometimes by riding
the pony at her, or by following for a few yards.

The cattle may stampede, the steer or cow may run, double, stick like a
burr to the herd, but the clever little pony, cool and keen, heads her
off, turns her round, cuts her out, and finally drives her triumphantly
into the open, where she can be roped, or into a pen. He separates a cow
from her calf, cuts out a steer without even disturbing the others, and
uses as much judgment as an experienced man. The cow-puncher gives him
his head after the steer has once been selected, and only holds his
lasso in readiness to rope him when he has been successfully cut out
from the bunch.

A Texas cow-puncher offered once to bet a hundred dollars that his cow
pony could, _without a bridle_, cut any steer from the herd of cattle
after he had once understood which one he was to separate. The bet was
taken by a tenderfoot, who had sporting spirit enough not even to
grudge the money when he saw how cleverly it was done, the little pony
going to work, on his own account, with the same skill and judgment the
keenest cow-puncher in the country might have shown.

They get to be so fast and sharp, to turn and stop, and head off so
quickly, that it is almost bewildering to ride them in a difficult case.
Another Texas ranchman, a famous cow-puncher in his day, sold his
celebrated cutting pony because it was too fast for him; he was growing
too old for the pace.

This cutting-out work shows a pony to better advantage even than the
polo game. In heading off he acts more quickly than a man can think,
playing the game himself, which in polo is a very undesirable thing.

It is most amusing to watch the businesslike air with which a cutting
pony starts in to put a calf, one who is particularly fresh and
obstreperous, through a fence or into a pen, or to simply corner him.
There is nothing so exasperating as a calf, except, perhaps, a sheep.
Was it not John Randolph of Roanoke who maintained that he would _walk_
twenty miles to kick a sheep? Just so cowboys feel about a "fool calf."

A pony, however, when he chooses, can be equally aggravating. As in polo
he is sometimes too knowing, so in cutting cattle the very best ones use
their superior knowledge to be most exasperating.

They learn to gauge the distance and length of the rope with such
certainty that they know just when to stop for the throw; and when they
feel lazy and disinclined for the hard work of holding a steer, they
fool their master by coming to a stand a yard or two from the cow, and
the rope falls that much short.

One first-rate but obstinate cutting pony worked this trick so often
that his master was only saved from selling him by the humor of the
situation--his appreciation of the joke on himself.

It would be hard to choose from the stories current among cattle-men of
their cutting ponies--stories proving how "powerful smart," "plumb
human," etc., they are, for they all swear to the same class of what the
ignorant might call fiction, but which, in their opinion, does not even
come under the head of "tall horse talk."

Perhaps the --Z (bar Z) brand story is a fair example. The cow-puncher
assures you seriously that the cutting pony always knows his master's
brand, and can pick out a cow with this brand from a mixed herd of any
size, and they cite the following anecdote in illustration of this fact:

A certain --Z-brand cutting pony, who was sold after years of
experience, continued, in spite of all that his new master could do, to
cut out every cow or calf with the --Z brand that he could find in any
bunch. His owner was finally indicted for stealing cattle, but pleaded
his pony's record in self-defense. The court, sympathising in his
peculiar and delicate position, released him with a small fine; but the
pony, like Werther's Charlotte, went on cutting --Z cattle to the end of
his days, which might mean fifteen, sixteen, or even twenty years, for,
if well cared for, they often live that long. Both the cattle and polo
ponies are shod, even on the range, and if used hard are generally fed
in winter, though grazing all summer. They are ungroomed, and their
tails left flowing freely; and their first sensations, after a transfer
from their native heath to the luxurious and well-ordered stables of the
East, where they are docked, clipped, curried, rubbed down, and
blanketed, must be somewhat like those experienced by the tramp who is
forcibly bathed and groomed in a model lodging-house, though the polo
pony yields to the civilizing influence more readily than does the
tramp.

But the comforts of life and even the excitement of polo may seem to the
cutting pony a poor exchange for the lost delights of rounding up and
penning steers, and what is a Rockaway Cup to the glory of winning the
prize in a roping contest at a county fair? These roping contests are
the pride of the cattle-men, and the great feature of the Texan county
fairs.

[Illustration: STEER THROWN AND TIED IN FORTY-EIGHT SECONDS.]

The steer is put in a pen, and a man with a flag placed about fifty feet
from him. The man on the cutting pony stands near the pen, with the rope
ready. And at a given signal the steer is let out, and as he passes the
flag it is dropped, the pony dashes after him, and the man who can rope,
throw, and tie the steer in the shortest time wins the prize. It has
been done in twenty seconds, but the average time is about a minute; any
duffer, they say, can do it inside of five minutes. It is a dangerous
method of roping, and is only used in contests, never on the range, for
the pony is going at full speed, and the rope is thrown as he shoots by
the steer, the rider giving it a little fling and jerk on the off side,
and it is a close call whether the steer throws the pony or the pony the
steer.

The prize cow ponies are the ones most sought after for polo. They make
by far the best and most steady and reliable playing ponies. The
training for polo is of course different from that employed in roping
cattle, but a good cow pony has all the necessary qualifications, and
learns the game very quickly.

In order to accustom them to the mallet, one rides for several days
simply carrying it and waving it about, but not attempting to hit the
ball. The pony jumps at first, and is very nervous, but gradually grows
used to it, and after about ten days of flourishing the mallet round the
head and tapping the ball gently he is ready for the game with its
fierce scrimmage. As the warrior in olden times donned his armor--his
helmet, breastplate, greaves, and shield--before going to war, and as
his modern prototype, the football-player, prepares for battle with
shoulder and thigh pads, head and ear bandages, elastic knee and
ankle-bands, nose and teeth guards, so the polo pony is made ready for
his part in the great contest, being booted to the knees in heavy
leather leggings, which protect him from the blows of the mallet. A few
ponies, the very nervous or stupid ones, wear blinders, but as a general
rule they are played without them, and being able to see on either side
gives them a decided advantage.

With the light English saddle instead of the heavy Mexican monstrosity
which is universally used in roping cattle, the pony is led out,
blanketed by the groom, who is as careful of the condition of his polo
ponies as a jockey is of his race-horse. They are exercised regularly
when not playing, and given as much food as they will eat, and the
knowing little ponies are well aware of their true value, as one learns
in hearing polo men talk, or in reading Mr. Kipling's story of the
_Maltese Cat_.

As is the case in all fields of sport, the pony who plays for the
gallery is not nearly so useful in the long-run as the quiet, sensible,
steady ones who do not try to show off or play the whole game
themselves. Sometimes the high-strung, nervous ponies are the very best,
the quickest, and brightest, but they require most careful handling, and
are apt to get flighty, to have "wheels in their heads," and to want to
run, or they show every sign of equine nervous prostration. The
dispositions of the ponies are as varied as those of the superior
animal, man. They can be stubborn or yielding, uncertain or
even-tempered, tricky or steady, plucky or cowardly, nervous or
phlegmatic. They are ambitious, conceited, lazy, timid--in short, there
is no human trait of character that they do not at times exhibit.

Some ponies play very well at first, and then seem to lose their nerve,
and are never good for anything again.

When you know your pony's temper to be uncertain, the most cautious
handling is necessary. At the first symptom of becoming wicked it is
better to give in and get off.

A very fine polo pony belonging to Mr. Keene was entered in a contest in
one of the horse shows. The ponies had to go in and out between posts in
order to show how quickly they turned, and how well they minded the
rein. After three rounds, and before the final one, Mr. Keene quietly
jumped off and led his pony out of the ring. In explanation, he said
that his pony had made up his mind to be nasty, and simply wouldn't go;
he might spur or whip him till he was tired, but it would be of no use
when he had once become exasperated and stopped short.

The same sort of temper was shown in a match at Newport. It was very
close and exciting, when suddenly one of the best ponies on the ground
balked. His rider could not make him budge. Time was finally called, and
it took _eight men five minutes_ to get that stubborn little beast off
the field.

Outside of this uncertain temper, the most incurable faults in a polo
pony are shying, and stopping on the ball instead of following, and not
turning quickly enough.

They are plucky as a rule, but some ponies will play very well alone, be
sharp, and turn and stop in splendid form, but will not go into a game
with other ponies; the crowd seems to frighten and distress them.

Others will play a fine open game, but refuse a scrimmage, while a
scrimmage is to some the cream of the whole game, and they will never
give way, no matter how hard others bear against them, but stand like a
Yale or Princeton line in the teeth of an onslaught.

In a hard match ponies are only played for about seven minutes, they get
so winded; but often they go off the field most reluctantly, and chafe
to get back into the game.

The majority of polo ponies really seem to enjoy it, and in spite of
injuries and bad accidents, to enter into it with the zest of a true
sportsman; and the stories of their grit and endurance ought to go down
in history side by side with the tales of old war-horses and famous
cavalry chargers.

A game little pony named Ink was struck by a mallet in a scrimmage, and
though his master knew that he had been hit, the pony showed no signs of
being badly hurt, until the _goal they were trying for was made_, and
then he stood still, refusing to move. Two men and a boy tried to make
him walk, but could not, and they found that his leg was broken just
below the knee, and he was suffering so that they were obliged to shoot
him on the spot.

Another pony fell only the other day, and broke his neck without
uttering a sound, only beseeching them with his eyes to put an end to
his pain.

One could multiply examples of their heroism indefinitely, if it did not
seem to imply that the game was brutal. That is emphatically not the
case, though, as in all branches of athletics there are possibilities of
accidents more or less serious.

The object of this article, however, has been not the glorification,
justification, or explanation of the game of polo, but to give a brief
history of the noble little pony who plays it, and so long as he
thoroughly enjoys the excitement of the sport one cannot feel that he is
to be pitied, and one may wish him a long and prosperous career, and a
future even greater than his past.




ODD VESSELS DESIGNED FOR SPEED.


In a few days a very curious vessel, named _Ernest Bazin_, will be
finished at the Cail Dock-yards, at St. Denis, France. At first glance
it looks like a large broad platform, pointed at one end and round at
the other. There are three huge hollow disks, or wheels, on each side of
the platform, that rest in the water. These wheels support the vessel,
and when it is propelled by the use of a screw, the wheels revolve, and
the whole structure simply rolls over the surface of the water.

On the platform will be the usual cabins, saloons, etc., and in a
boxlike structure that sinks below the platform will be placed the
engines. It is claimed by the designers that the motion of the ship will
be very slight, thus doing away with seasickness, and the consumption of
coal will be considerably less than in ordinary steamships. As the
wheels roll over the water, the friction will be lessened, and with this
advantage it is expected that the vessel will do some astonishingly
quick travelling.

Another curious vessel was finished last June, and lay at a private
wharf in Virginia for some time. She was named the _Howard Cassard_ and
nicknamed the "Razor-back." With a length of 222 feet, she had only 16
feet beam. Her equilibrium was maintained by an extremely heavy keel and
some 50,000 pounds of machinery below the water-line.

The razorlike sharpness of the boat gave it a curious look, and it was
expected that when moving through the water the sharp prow would cut it
like a knife, thus reducing the resistance to a minimum. The narrowness
of her beam necessitated some economy in her interior arrangements, but
this was successfully overcome by adopting somewhat the idea of a
sleeping-car. But the _Howard Cassard_ was an experiment that evidently
has not been successful, as the claim of the designer to cross the ocean
in three-fifths of the time now required has as yet not been fulfilled
by his odd craft.

Probably one of the strangest ideas in marine construction was that of
the man who proposed placing in the stern of a vessel a number of
compressed-air cannons. These were to be fired one after the other, the
force of the air striking the water and driving the vessel forward.
Somewhat similar is the idea of another engineer and inventor. It is to
run a series of hollow pipes through the entire length of the keel. The
pipes are to receive the water at the bow and carry it to the centre of
the vessel, where it is shut off. Then a powerful pressure of compressed
air is brought into play, and the separated body of water is shot out of
the pipe in the stern, the power of the contact driving the vessel
forward. As the water is to be received and discharged alternately,
there would be no jerking motion.




OUR ROMAN TWINS.

BY OLIVE MAY EAGER.


[Illustration: THE ROMAN TWINS.]

When the twins were born in Rome, all of our friends exclaimed at once,
"Oh, Romulus and Remus!" but we did not name them for the city's twin
founders. One reason was that one of our babies was a girl, and although
we might have called her Romola, we could not make up our minds to name
the dear little brother in honor of that ill-natured Remus. So
notwithstanding their classic birthplace, our twins answer to common,
every-day names.

We lived at the foot of the Capitol, within a stone's-throw of the Roman
Forum, around which clusters so much of legend and history. The nursery
window overlooked the Capitol garden, where two wolves were always
stalking restlessly about in their cages. Before our twins knew a word
of English, and almost as soon as they could lisp in sweet Italian
accents, they heard the tale of Romulus and Remus, and knew that the
great city of Rome honored this legend by keeping two live wolves at the
Capitol.

When they grew older and walked through the ancient streets, they became
familiar with the picture of the babes and the wolf as seen on
sign-boards and placards, as well as in marble and bronze reliefs. Thus
the old legend grew into their lives, and they talked it over in wise
baby fashion. Whenever they went to play hide-and-seek around the statue
of Marcus Aurelius, in the Capitol square, they stopped long before the
poor old caged wolves, and wondered why two wolves were kept, if Remus
had to be killed for his bad behavior. Once they suggested to nurse that
one wolf and two babies would seem more true to history; but when she
replied that they would do splendidly for the babies, they dropped the
subject, lest the city fathers hear of it in some way, and feel inclined
to carry out so brilliant an idea.

In their own logical way, they were quite decided as to the place where
Remus, in derision, jumped over the city wall, for it would be very easy
to leap a certain low point up near the Macao, where they once went to
see King Humbert review his troops in honor of the German Emperor's
visit to Rome.

Of course mother wrote to America about the twins' sayings and doings,
and one day they received a letter from the auntie whom they had never
seen. She wrote that she had a globe of goldfish, and each fish had a
name, except two tiny ones, which she would leave for them to name and
to own when they came to see her in the spring.

The twins were very sober over this serious matter, though they did not
even discuss the names, but from the start called their fish Romulus and
Remus. When spring came, mother left for America with her
five-year-olds, who stood the travelling well, and were made much of in
the old home where mother spent her girlhood.

True to her promise, auntie gave them the fish in a tiny globe, and
they would sit on the floor watching the goldies by the hour. It was a
source of regret that they had no means of telling which was which, but
one day they came pitching up stairs, too excited to speak plainly, "Oh,
mother! we've 'scovered Remus, 'cause he jumped over." Sure enough,
there lay the poor fish gasping on the floor, and although we put him
back in the water immediately, he hobbled around for days with a broken
fin, and moved stiffly ever afterwards.

With the autumn we prepared to journey Romeward, and sad good-byes were
said. Everybody was in tears except the twins, and as we started for the
train they appeared with the precious goldfish. Here was a dilemma!
Mother said firmly that she could not possibly go all the way to Rome
with more than one pair of twins. Grief and dismay made their eyes brim
over, and uncle said: "Let's keep some dry eyes in this party. I'll
bring the fish to the station." He brought them in a little tin pail
with holes in the cover for air, and in this style Romulus and Remus set
forth on their wanderings. The sleeping-car porter looked on them with a
friendly eye, and thus we arrived safely in New York, where we went
aboard a Mediterranean steamer bound for Naples. Mother left the twins
with their pail in a safe place on deck, while she looked after the
baggage. They were gone when she returned, and rather frightened, she
rushed to her state-room, where she was still more startled to find the
Captain stooping over something on the floor. He rose and spoke
courteously, "I beg your pardon, madam, but I found the children and
their Romans on deck. I am a Roman myself, and I will give orders that
no one of this quartette lack for anything on my ship." Thanks to the
Captain's patriotism, we had a most comfortable voyage as we steamed
across the Atlantic and past Gibraltar, through the beautiful
Mediterranean. The eyes of the twins opened wide when they reached
Naples and saw the fires of Vesuvius, but in the hurry to reach Rome we
drove straight to the railway station. As we stood in the long line of
people who were pushing and crowding to the train, some impatient
traveller jostled the pail so that poor Romulus and Remus wriggled on
the stone floor. Mother almost abandoned them to their fate, but a
porter was quick-witted enough to clap them into the pail and rush off
for fresh water. He returned in time to hand them through the train
window to their beaming owners, and with an eye to further reward he
brought a bottle of water also. There is no water on Italian trains, and
but for this happy thought the fish would have perished during the seven
hours by rail to Rome. The swaying motion of the train was far worse
than that of the steamer, and mother and twins were kept busy filling
the pail as fast as the water splashed out. By-and-by we rolled into the
Roman station, and father was so glad to see his loved ones that he
declared he felt like eating the whole party, fish included.

Thus the little American goldfish came to live in the shadow of the
Roman Capitol, in sight of their wolfish namesakes. Every visitor heard
the story of their adventures, and one sympathetic listener brought them
a new globe with two dear little bronze wolves in the bottom; but, alas!
their stay on classic soil was brief. During the long sea-voyage they
had lost their bright golden hue, and wore rather a pale, silvery look,
so that the twins became anxious about the health of their pets. A
fish-dealer said that goldfish thrive best when fed with the wafers used
for taking medicine. Half a wafer was dropped in for their supper, but
next morning poor Romulus and the wafer floated on the water together.
The twins were inconsolable, till mother organized a grand funeral
procession to the flat house-top, where Romulus was buried in state
under a peach-tree which mother had grown in a packing-box from a seed
brought from her American home.

Remus lived on alone without the luxury of wafers, for the fishman, when
interviewed by the tearful twins, said that Romulus died of over-eating,
since wafers are mince pie and plum-pudding to goldfish, who are such
gluttons that they can be trusted with but a pin-point of their favorite
dish. The tragic end of Romulus was forgotten in the joys of
Christmas-time, when the twins showed some little Italian friends their
first Christmas tree, for they know nothing of Santa Claus in Rome, but
receive gifts from an old woman called Befana. She comes at Epiphany,
when there is also a procession up the 124 marble steps that lead to the
Ara Coeli Church, in which there is a "presepio," or representation of
the infant Christ in the manger. The nursery window overlooked these
steps, and just underneath was a fine array of toys and sweets to tempt
the Roman children, who go every year to recite poetry before the
"presepio." The twins spent the morning watching the crowd and driving
an occasional bargain with the toy-seller beneath their window. They
borrowed the servant's basket, which she lets down with a string, Roman
fashion, when she hears the postman's knock and does not want to go down
the long stairway to the _portone_, or big street door, to receive
letters. They sent down pennies in the basket, and drew it up with the
desired plaything, until lunch called them from their fascinating
employment. Poor lonely Remus was set in the window to enjoy the fun,
but on their return the globe was tenantless. The toy-woman below saw
the dismayed little faces peeping over the window sill, and called up to
say that she had picked up a dead fish on the cold marble step. The
basket went down once more, and was drawn up slowly and sadly with poor
Remus's body.

We buried him, too, under the peach-tree on the house-top, and set up
the little bronze wolves for a double monument; but the twins have never
wanted any more goldfish. They write their own letters now, and seal
them with a tiny stamp of the Roman wolves; but to this day they bemoan
the fact that while Remus met rather a historic fate, their favorite
Romulus died a glutton. But father comforts them by saying that those
"noble Romans" were very fond of good things, and their fish no doubt
followed the example of many another Roman citizen.




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


To continue the subject of aquatics, which the Department took up last
week, let us turn to the art of diving. Before learning to dive, the
beginner should accustom himself to keep his head under water as long as
he can hold his breath, and he should practise opening the eyes under
water in order to become used to the appearance of things below the
surface. Diving, even more than swimming, demands that a boy or man
should have confidence in himself. Nobody should attempt to learn how to
dive when alone; even more than when learning to swim, he should have
some one near at hand in case help is needed.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

To learn how to dive, the beginner should first squat down on the edge
of the float or spring-board from which he is to plunge into the water,
holding his hands out before him just as he does in the breast stroke in
swimming (described in this Department last week)--that is, with the
arms extended, the hands horizontal, and the fingers close together, the
thumb tips and the forefinger tips touching one another. Then he should
allow himself to tumble forward into the water, striking with his hands
first. The eyes must be kept closed when plunging into the water, and
should not be opened until after the head is immersed.

It is very dangerous to plunge into the water with the eyes open, and a
number of people have been blinded by so doing. Always duck the chin a
little in toward the breast just before the head strikes the water. As
soon as the body has entered the water the hands should be bent back and
the head raised to an upright position. The bending back of the hands
sends the body upward toward the surface again. As I have said, the
first trials at diving should be mere drops into the water off the edge
of the float from a sitting position.

[Illustration: FIG. 6.--THE DETAIL OF DIVING.]

After the beginner has learned to do this he should lean from the waist
over (as shown by the dotted lines in Fig. 6), and likewise fall
forward. When he has mastered this method he may stand upright, as shown
by the figure drawn in heavy lines in Fig. 6, and as also shown in the
photographic illustration No. 1.

The accompanying series of pictures illustrating the dive in detail are
made from instantaneous photographs of Professor Gus Sundstrom. They
show, in No. 1, the upright pose of the body just before taking the
plunge. The diver stands upright on a spring-board or on the edge of a
float, with the arms held stiff to the sides, the chest well filled with
air so as to give buoyancy to the body, and the eyes resting on about
that spot in the water where he expects to plunge below the surface.

The diver then raises his arms before him, the palms downward, not held
closely together like an arrow-point--a position assumed by many divers
who do not know the correct way. He then allows his body to fall
forward, bending his knees and giving a slight spring with his legs. As
the body rises in the air the arms are gradually lifted, until, when the
body is about to enter the water, it lies practically in a straight line
from toes to fingers. Fig. 6 shows very clearly what happens as soon as
a man plunges into the water and turns his palms upward. The body
describes a sort of arc under water, and the head comes to the surface
about six feet from the point where it entered.

The whole science of diving depends upon the spring taken before leaping
into the water--that is, the diver should be careful to give enough
spring to throw his body sufficiently forward to give the legs time to
follow a curve, otherwise the body will fall flat on the water, and this
might result in serious injury to the performer.

The high dive is different from the low dive only in that a run is
taken, instead of plunging into the water from a standstill. Of course
in this case the spring is greater, the body goes higher into the air,
describing a greater arc, and dives deeper under the water, unless some
effort is made to prevent. This effort is very simple, and consists of
bending the hands back as aforesaid, in throwing the chest back, and in
bending the legs back.

If the intention of the diver is to sink to the bottom of the stream or
pool, to pick up something, for instance, he should not perform any of
these motions, but allow his body to go unrestrained. To rise again
from the bottom, keep the hands well below the shoulders, and work the
feet as when treading water. The body will thus come to the surface very
quickly.

As was said last week, the fastest way to swim on the breast is to use
the over-hand stroke. It is the most common stroke in racing, both for
long distances and short distances. But in order to acquire speed in
swimming, one must practise considerably and maintain a certain kind of
more or less strict training. The swimmer needs plenty of sleep. He
should go to bed not later than 10.30 every night, and should rise
early. He should then take a very light breakfast--a glass of milk and a
piece of toast, for instance--and take a walk of a mile or so.

When he comes home he should exercise with light dumbbells and rub down
with a coarse towel. Then he should take a more solid breakfast,
consisting of coffee, eggs, and steak. An hour or so afterwards he
should go for another walk, this time of from five to ten miles, and
every now and then during this promenade he should sprint from 50 to 100
yards. This sprinting limbers the legs, which is necessary for the
swimmer.

Punching the bag is another good exercise, and of course a certain
amount of swimming should be done, though it is not necessary by any
means to swim every day. Mr. Arthur T. Kenney, the champion amateur
swimmer of America, swims only three times a week, and manages, in that
way, to keep himself in first-rate condition. He believes in keeping the
muscles pliant and in preventing them from becoming hard. Therefore it
is well for the swimmer not to indulge in much rowing, for that is the
exercise which hardens the muscles of the arms.

It goes without saying that when training for a race the swimming should
be done in a stream or lake, and not in a tank in-doors, for the open
air is much better to exercise in than the close air of the tank or
gymnasium. Young swimmers should practise short swims in order to
develop a speedy stroke, and not attempt long distances until they have
acquired the leg action necessary for racing. Short swims of 50 or 100
yards are the best distances.

Furthermore, it should be remembered that fast and hard work should not
be attempted before the body has been gotten into perfect condition,
otherwise the swimmer becomes overwearied, and is unable to perform the
work which he otherwise could.

It is only natural to suppose that any one who expects to enter a
swimming race has been swimming enough during the summer to be in fair
condition. Therefore if he follows the course of training briefly
described above for about a week--which is Mr. Kenney's method, and has
made him the champion of American amateurs--he will then be in condition
to work systematically in the water.

As in every other kind of athletic sport, a swimmer must give the
greatest attention to form. Do not allow yourself to be carried away by
the desire to acquire speed, but try so to master the action of the arms
and legs that presently they will work almost automatically, and perform
to the best advantage for the expenditure of energy. It is well to swim
half the distance of the race about three times a week, but no more, and
after this has been done for about two weeks it will be noticed that the
action of the body has become much easier, and that speed has increased.
Then a certain amount of time should be devoted to the practice of
starting.

A start in a swimming race is very much like the action of a standing
broad jump; it is a spring from a mark. The proper attitude to assume at
the starting-line is to have the legs bent, the arms held back, the body
leaning forward just as far as equilibrium will allow. As soon as the
pistol is fired, or the word to start is given, swing the arms forward,
and spring with all the strength of your legs as far out into the water
as possible. Pay no attention to the other competitors, and do not look
forward into the course, but give all your thoughts to making a long
leap. This start should be a low dive (what swimmers call a
"skip-jack"), and the head should be brought to the surface as quickly
as possible by taking a stroke under water.

An important thing to remember is to have the arms in position to take a
strong, steady stroke as soon as the head comes above the surface. It
will require a great deal of practice to master all these details of the
start, and therefore it is advisable to practise these things on the
intermediate days of swimming. For instance, swim half your distance one
day, practise starting the next, and then swim half your distance the
next day, and so on.

After coming out of the water the swimmer should be well rubbed down
with a coarse towel, and he should, if possible, have somebody to knead
his muscles, for this sort of massage helps greatly to limber the
tissues.

The football season will open in the colleges in a very few weeks, and
the schools will follow their elders shortly afterwards. The question of
summer training for football-players has been more or less mooted for
the past few years. I believe that the best opinion among athletes is
that for young players it is not advisable to try to get into training
much before September. The summer is intended for recreation and not for
work, and sport is a pastime, not a business.

Those college-men who set to work in August, gathering at the
training-table a month before the term opens, are making a business of
football. They are devoting their energies to the sport for the sake of
winning, and not for the pleasure they get from playing. And this sort
of thing is bad for athletics, and bad for that particular branch of
athletics which becomes the victim of summer training. Nevertheless,
there are cases where a little preliminary thought and work may be of
service--I mean especially with captains of teams, or with half-backs
and quarter-backs, who have the ambition to make their school or college
teams, but who feel that they have not had enough experience as yet to
feel sure that their work in the fall will assure them of the place.

It is a very different thing if an individual, or two individuals, at
their homes in the country, choose to kick a football over an improvised
goal-post, or choose, two or three times a week, to go out on the grass
and fall on the ball, or to go out in the road and run a few miles to
improve their wind. It is a different thing from getting eleven men
together for concerted work. In fact, it is well for the amateur
sportsmen who recognize their own weaknesses to try to remedy them at
home in the early fall. This is not making a business of sport--it is
rather developing a healthy interest and ambition.

Captains of teams, as I have said before, can spend several weeks prior
to the opening of the school term in reading and learning the rules of
the game, and in planning out plays and tricks which they think can be
effective against their opponents. The captain of a school team has
usually played one year or more on his school's eleven, and is
consequently more or less familiar with the style of play of the other
schools in his league; and by giving thought to the work as he has seen
it performed by each one of his rivals, he may very well be able to
develop some sort of counter-strategy which shall prove most effective
later in the season.

Recognizing the fact that the school captains all over the country will
probably wish to be giving some consideration to the new season from now
on, this Department will shortly begin a series of four papers on the
science of football, and on this game as it is to be played this year,
illustrating the text with photographs and diagrams. But before we begin
with the theory of the game, it will probably be well to touch lightly
upon training and practice.

Let us assume that the majority of school teams will be getting together
toward the end of September. At that season of the year, especially
after a long summer vacation, in which, if there has been any exercise
taken at all, it has been exercise of an entirely different kind from
football, most of the players will be soft, and their muscles will need
hardening. During the first few days practice should not exceed more
than twenty-five minutes at a stretch. It should consist of dropping on
the ball, and of snapping the ball back from the centre to the quarter,
and of passes from the half-backs to the full-back and to one another. A
little running, for wind, is also advisable.

The running should not be of the long-distance kind to begin with, but
sprinting, and very short sprints at that. A good way is to line the
whole team up across the field, and to have them sprint to the 25-yard
line. This might be done twice a day--once at the beginning of the
practice, and once at the end. As the days go by, the second sprint can
be lengthened, until the men are required to run as far as the 50-yard
line, and a week or so later they should be made to run the entire
length of the field.

Where it is possible, the players should return home from the field on
which they have been practising at a swinging trot, and upon reaching
their various rooms they should bathe and rub down so as to avoid
stiffness resulting from the new exercise. It ought not to be necessary
for me to say that football-players, and especially young
football-players, should make a point of getting to bed early--before
ten o'clock, if possible--and of rising regularly in the morning.

After this preliminary work has been going on for a week or two, more
serious practice can be undertaken. The candidates should be divided
into squads, the centres and quarter-backs, the half-backs and the
line-men working together. Practice may now be kept up for
three-quarters of an hour each afternoon, the backs, of course, devoting
themselves to punting and catching, whereas the line-men work at
breaking through, and at tackling, and at falling on the ball. Not more
than half of the time devoted to practice should be spent in playing the
game itself; but in that time, when the two teams, the first and the
scrub, are opposed to one another in regular football array, they should
play as hard and as carefully as if they were indulging in a contest
with some strong rival.

On alternate days the scrub team should keep the ball in its possession
constantly, in order that the first team may get practice in defensive
play. On the other days the first team should hold the ball, in order to
develop the strategy of offensive work. It is also well, as the season
grows older, to have the regular half-backs play on the scrub team, in
order that the rush-line players of the first team may have the
advantage of playing against the best backs their schools can turn out.

     H. P. BOARDMAN, BURLINGTON, VT.--You can get the information you
     ask for in Zimmerman's book on bicycling. Any dealer in sporting
     goods can secure the book for you.

"TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL."--ILLUSTRATED.--8VO, CLOTH, ORNAMENTAL,
$1.25.

  THE GRADUATE.




[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

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


COLORING PHOTOGRAPHS.

A very simple and easy way to color photographs, and one by which a
person with little or no knowledge of painting can produce quite
pleasing effects, is called the "Hallotype," from the name of the
inventor, Mr. J. B. Hall.

The process consists in printing two paper positives from the same
negative, rendering one transparent by the use of dammar varnish, and
painting the other, and placing the transparent print over the painted
one, and fastening them securely between two plates of glass.

To render the print transparent, after it has been toned and dried, lay
it face down on a sheet of glass, and varnish with dammar varnish. This
varnish can be bought ready prepared, or may be made of one ounce of
dammar-gum dissolved in two ounces of spirits of turpentine. If one coat
does not make the print transparent enough, apply a second when the
first is dry. Be careful that the print, when drying, does not stick to
the glass.

Another way to make the print transparent is to apply the print to
glass, and remove the paper, leaving the film on the glass. To do this
take a spoiled negative or piece of clear glass, clean it thoroughly,
and polish it with French chalk to remove all trace of grease. Varnish
the glass with varnish made of one ounce of balsam of fir and two ounces
of spirits of turpentine. As soon as the varnish begins to set, take the
print, which must be thoroughly wet, blot off the moisture from the face
with clean blotting-paper, and place the print face down on the glass.
Roll down smoothly with a squeegee, taking care that no air-blisters
remain between the print and the glass. The paper can now be removed by
rubbing it gently with the fingers, moistening it with a wet sponge as
it dries. When the paper is removed, varnish the film and set it away to
dry.

The other print is now to be colored. For this one may use either oil or
water-colors. If water-colors are used, they should be mixed with
Chinese white to give them body. The paints are applied roughly, the
only care being necessary is to follow the outlines of the objects, and
to use appropriate colors. The result will be a daub without any special
form.

When the colors are dry place the print under the transparent picture,
matching the outlines of the two pictures perfectly. If the print has
been rendered transparent by varnishing, it is best to attach it to a
glass by pasting it at the corners before fitting the colored print over
it. Back the two prints with a piece of thin white card-board, and place
another glass back of the paste-board. Bind the glasses with a strip of
adhesive paper, such as is used for binding lantern slides, and then
frame or finish in any way desired.

If the film has been transferred to glass, a pretty way to finish the
picture after the painted print has been fitted to it, and the glasses
bound together, is to take gilt paper and cut an opening of a size to
correspond with the picture, and place it over the face of the picture
like a mat. Put another piece of plain paper over this and fasten to the
picture. The picture may either be framed or bound with ribbon.

This is a good way to use up spoiled plates, and after a little practice
one can make very good colored pictures.

       *       *       *       *       *

FALSE ECONOMY

is practised by people who buy inferior articles of food. The Gail
Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk is the best infant food. _Infant
Health_ is the title of a valuable pamphlet for mothers. Sent free by
New York Condensed Milk Co., New York--[_Adv._]




ADVERTISEMENTS.




[Illustration: ROYAL BAKING POWDER]

A cream-of-tartar baking powder. Highest of all in leavening
strength.--_Latest United States Government Food Report._

ROYAL BAKING POWDER CO., NEW YORK.




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]




[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 many valuable data kindly supplied from the
     official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen.
     Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L.A.W., the
     Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership
     blanks and information so far as possible.


[Illustration: Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.]

Last week we followed the route from Chicago to Waukesha as far as
Lippencott's, on Fox Lake, advising the rider to make the distance from
Chicago to Lippencott's in one day, running as far as Wheeling in the
morning, stopping there for dinner, and continuing to Lippencott's in
the afternoon. It is possible to make the rest of the journey to
Waukesha on the second day, and by referring to the map in the last
issue of the ROUND TABLE the reader can follow the route from Fox Lake
to Salem--the rest of the distance to Waukesha being shown on the map
given this week.

The distance from Lippencott's is about fifty miles. Leaving
Lippencott's, ride to the south about three-fourths of a mile, then turn
sharp to the left instead of continuing back towards Wheeling. Hold this
road for about two miles as it turns northward, and then run straight
along on or near the shore of Fox Lake out to Antioch, the only turn
being about half a mile before entering the town of Antioch itself,
which is evidently enough to the right, as the town is in sight.

From Antioch, after crossing the track, proceed northward along the main
road direct to Salem, a little over five miles from Antioch; thence run
on out of Salem in the same direction about a mile; take the left turn
at a junction of five roads, and ride out toward Fox River by Silver
Lake, which will be on the left. Cross the river a good five miles from
the fork beyond Salem. After crossing the river keep to the right, and
follow the river itself all the way into Burlington, along an easily
found road. At Burlington recross the river again, and follow a somewhat
winding road to Rochester. Burlington is about eight miles from the
bridge over Fox River, and Rochester is five miles from Burlington.
Keeping on through Rochester, continue two miles to Waterford, and there
turn northwestward and run a good eight miles to Mukwonago. The road is
not especially good here, and there are some opportunities for losing
the way, unless the map is followed carefully. It will pay to make
inquiries occasionally. On leaving Mukwonago run on about five miles to
the north, and at a fork, which is evident on the map and will be easily
found on the road, turn to the right, and run to Saylesville. Thence
proceed direct to Waukesha, seven miles away.

Burlington is the place to stop for lunch; that gives a ride of about
twenty-five miles or more after lunch and twenty-six or twenty-seven
miles before, thus dividing the journey in halves, and making a pleasant
two days' run from Chicago to Waukesha. That is, leaving Chicago, stop
for the noon rest the first day at Wheeling, and spend the night at
Lippencott's; on the second day stop at Burlington for the noon rest,
and reach Waukesha in the late afternoon.

From this point the rides about Waukesha, which have already been
described in the recent numbers of the ROUND TABLE, can be taken, and a
good fortnight's bicycling trip can be spent to great advantage in this
one district alone. All the country along the route is made attractive
by the conspicuous absence of bad hills and by the constant appearance
of water, either in the form of ponds or lakes or rivers.

During the next weeks we shall give some especially interesting trips in
Illinois, in the vicinity of Chicago, such as trips about Ottowa and
trips to St. Joseph and Benton Harbor, Michigan. All of these are
carefully chosen trips, adapted to the average bicycle-rider--not the
long-distance century-runner--and it will well repay any wheelman to
study these maps in and around Chicago.




[Illustration: STAMPS]

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


The American Philatelic Association has just held its annual meeting at
Lake Minnetonka, Minn. The membership is 1046, and the treasurer reports
a surplus on hand of about $1300. The annual dues have been raised to
$1.08, being exactly nine cents per month. The following were elected
officers for the ensuing year: Messrs. Olney, president; Vanderlip,
Toppan, and Kilborn, vice-presidents; Chandler, treasurer; Beard,
Phillips, and Doeblin, secretaries; Mekeel, superintendent of sales.

Plate Nos. and U.S. Revenues continue to increase in value, and now a
long-neglected department of philately is exciting widespread interest,
viz., U.S. entire envelopes. I have always advocated collecting entire
envelopes, showing the different dies and colors of papers, leaving to
specialists the different varieties in shapes, sizes, water-marks, gums,
etc. The only objection has been the necessity of having separate albums
for the envelopes. One of the curious facts connected with auction sales
is that frequently a perfectly clean entire envelope could be bought
cheaper than a cut square envelope of the same die, and on the same
paper. A few collectors have availed themselves of these opportunities
to their own profit.

The issue of the Columbian series of U.S. stamps seems to have led large
numbers of persons who know nothing of stamps, except that some rare
ones bring big prices, to buy quantities of all the Columbians and lay
them aside as a speculation. These hoards are now coming into the
market, and every week quantities are purchased by the dealers at a
discount on the face value. This is especially true of the denominations
50c., $2, $3, $4, $5. Very few of the $1 stamps are offered, thus their
price is fairly well maintained. But the others are bought at a discount
of ten or fifteen per cent., thereby breaking the speculative prices.
Still, every lot that comes into the market reduces the quantity held in
reserve, and prices may advance materially at any time.

     A. CAREY.--M. stands for German marks, worth 25c. each; F. for
     French francs, worth 20c. each; £ for English pound sterling, worth
     $4.88; also for Italian liras, worth 20c. each.

     A. B. HERVEY.--It is impossible to say which of the Plate Nos. are
     rarest. One dealer may have a large quantity of certain Nos., and
     lack those of which another dealer has a superfluity, and _vice
     versa_. A priced catalogue of Plate Nos. can be bought of any
     dealer for 25c. The prices are a fair indication of present values,
     which, however, are fluctuating. The following list of Nos. wanted
     has been advertised by one of the largest dealers. They must be in
     strips of three, with full Imprint and Plate Nos. attached, either
     tops, bottoms, or sides.

     UNWATER-MARKED.

     Nos. 2, 6, 7, 10, 15, 17, 18, 21, 22, 23, 25, 31, 34, 49, 50, 53,
     54, 56, 59, 61, 62, 63, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77,
     78, 80, 84, 85, 88, 89 (will pay $25 for this), 90, 92, 93, 94, 97,
     100, 104, 105, 106, 109, 110, 111, 123, 125, 135, 136, 137, 138,
     139, 140, 141, 146, 151.

     WATER-MARKED.

     Nos. 24, 29, 33, 35, 60, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80,
     82, 84, 90, 93, 100, 102, 105, 109, 110, 116, 123, 126, 131, 132,
     133, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 159, 258, 259, 260, 261, 265,
     266, 267, 268, 269, 270, 271, 272, 273, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288,
     289. Nos. 24, 29, 33, and 35 on water-marked paper are worth $5
     each and upward.

     There must be thousands of these sheets in the smaller
     post-offices.

     R. B. B.--The U.S. coins mentioned are all current, and turn up
     constantly in the ordinary course of trade. The foreign coins are
     no longer current, and are worth bullion only. The red Centennial
     is listed at 50c., the green at 25c. I would advise you to buy a
     25c. catalogue, as it will give you full information on values.

     D. H. WILSON.--Foreign copper money has no value in this country.

     J. M. S. CARTER.--To see water-marks, dip the stamp in water, and
     try it in various positions and in various lights. The letters on
     English stamps are control Nos. (see ROUND TABLE for October 8,
     1895). Rare stamps are more valuable on letters. Common stamps are
     common in any way.

     A. SACHS.--Certainly. Buy a catalogue. If you intend to collect
     stamps systematically, you must have a catalogue.

     E. T. SYMS.--Spanish stamps cancelled by heavy lines straight
     across, and those having holes punched in them, are both
     remainders. They are genuine stamps which could have been used for
     postage before they were "barred" or "punched."

     A. CHAMBERS.--O.S. on British Colonial stamps means "Official
     Service." The New South Wales stamps with different initials were
     used in the different public offices. For instance, those with the
     surcharge L.C. stand for Land Commissioner, etc. Some of these
     stamps are very scarce, and all are worth more than the same stamps
     without the initials.

     H. D. JACKSON.--There were so many varieties of Revenue stamps that
     it would be impossible to answer your question accurately. In
     general the imperforated stamps ate worth much more than the
     perforated. The average perforated Revenues can be bought at from
     1c to 25c. each in all values up to $10.

     M. SHRENE.--A complete set of Columbian stamps, from 1c. to $5, is
     worth $25, either used or unused.

     LURA E. COSLEY.--All the U.S. stamps are now water-marked. A
     portion of a letter is to be found on every one. The letters are
     U.S.P.S. (see ROUND TABLE, August 6, 1895).

     S. ISABEL CARTER.--They are not coins, but are "war tokens," which
     are extremely interesting, but at present have no monetary value.
     They were collected from 1862 to 1864, but the dies were in the
     hands of the manufacturers, who immediately struck a quantity
     whenever there was a premium. This discouraged the collectors. Some
     day they will doubtless be much sought after, and will then become
     valuable.

     HONESDALE.--V nickels without the word "cents" can be bought of
     dealers for 10c. each. Your dime and copper are still current and
     quite common. The "Exigency" is a "war token." Letters on U.S.
     coins show the mint at which they were coined. The Philadelphia
     mint, however, does not show any special letter.

  PHILATUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

OLD TREES.

On the slope of the Sierra Nevada, five thousand feet above the
sea-level, there are a number of trees varying from 250 to 320 feet in
height and from 10 to 20 feet in diameter. The bark of these trees is
from 12 to 15 inches in thickness. In 1853 one of them was cut down and
21 feet of the bark from the lower part of the trunk was used to make a
room, and when completed it was large enough to contain a piano and seat
forty persons.

On one occasion it held 150 children. The tree from which this bark was
taken was reputed to have been three thousand years old. There are many
old trees in the world standing to-day, of which we name the following:

The camphor-tree of Sorrogi, in Japan, is hollow, and will hold fifteen
persons. Superstition relates that it grew from the staff of the
philosopher Kobodarsi, and Siebold thinks the tree may have existed
since the time of that sage at the close of the eighth century. The
cypress of Soma, in Lombardy, is perhaps the oldest tree of which there
is any record in the world. It is generally supposed to have been
planted in the year of the birth of Christ, but the Abbé of Beliz states
that there is extant at Milan a chronicle which proves that it was in
existence in the time of Julius Cæsar, B.C. 42. It is 121 feet high. The
olive-tree at Pessio is probably the most ancient in Italy, and is
stated to be 700 years old. The dragon tree of Orotava, in the island of
Teneriffe, is considered to be one thousand years old. It is stated to
have been as large and as hollow in the fourteenth century as it was
when found by Humboldt, late in the last century. There is an
extraordinary tree in the neighborhood of Finale which bears something
like 8000 oranges in one year.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




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gown to gap at the fastenings and show glimpses of embarrassing, though
exquisite white.

The DeLong Hook and Eye never unfastens except at the will of the
wearer.

[Illustration]

See that

hump?

Richardson & DeLong Bros., Philadelphia.

Also makers of the

CUPID Hairpin.




[Illustration]

BALTIMOREAN PRINTING-PRESS

has earned more money for boys than all other presses in the market.
Boys, don't idle away your time when you can buy a self-inking
printing-press, type, and complete outfit for $5.00. Write for
particulars, there is money in it for you.

THE J. F. W. DORMAN CO.,

Baltimore, Md., U.S.A.




Postage Stamps, &c.




$117.50 WORTH OF STAMPS FREE

to agents selling stamps from my 50% approval sheets. Send at once for
circular and price-list giving full information.

C. W. Grevning, Morristown, N. J.




[Illustration: STAMPS]

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




STAMPS

=10= stamps and large list =FREE!=

L. DOVER & CO., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]

       *       *       *       *       *

The New Way of Extracting Gold.

     In these days, when so much is heard about gold and silver, I
     thought the Table might like to know something about gold-mining at
     Cripple Creek. Well, everything here is new--the buildings, the
     shops, the whole town; but more remarkable than that fact is the
     one that the method of getting gold out of the earth is new too.

     It is estimated that not fewer than 2500 men are at this moment
     walking over the rocks of Colorado, Idaho, Utah, and California
     looking for gold. Nobody prospects for silver nowadays. It is all
     gold. The reason for this is that gold is so valuable, and silver
     so cheap. But there is another reason, and that is that gold is
     found everywhere, and a new way has just been discovered for
     getting it out of the rock or sand in paying quantities. Hence
     gold-fields that once were not worth working are now rich in
     promise. Gold is one of the most plentiful of metals, but we have
     just found out how to get it.

     Near Cripple Creek is the largest reduction-mill in the world. Into
     it are poured vast quantities of what look like cobble-stones, and
     out of it come fortunes every month. The way this is accomplished
     is by putting into the mill, with the cobble-stones--which
     cobble-stones have the gold in them--cyanide of potassium. This
     stuff looks just like common alum, but it is not alum by a good
     deal, for it is deadly poison. It is made from the hoofs, horns,
     and refuse of cattle. It has a wonderful way of taking hold of the
     particles of gold after the rock has been ground to a powder, and
     of letting the gold go again when it is wanted to do so. The effect
     is that rock that under the old processes was not worth handling
     is, under the new cyanide process, a "gold-mine" in reality.

     This method of gold extraction was invented by two Scotchmen, and
     came here from Australia. Now there are a score of cyanide-mills in
     Colorado, and it is predicted that the next twenty years will see
     gold far more plentiful than the world ever dreamed possible for it
     to be.

  WALTER C. NEWPORT, R.T.K.
  CRIPPLE CREEK, COL.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another Word from Distant South Africa.

     I live in Africa. I am thirteen years old. My sister wrote you, and
     a great many American children have answered her letter. One little
     girl named Xena gave a description of herself which was so like me
     that when Bertha read the letter they all looked at me and laughed.
     So Bertha thought I'd be the best one to answer her. I wrote, but
     after five months of anxious waiting, my letter was returned to me.
     If Xena sees this I hope she will write again, and send her proper
     address in print writing.

     Can you tell us what has become of the "Author of the clever
     contrivance"? He was among the first who wrote to Bertha. We are
     most interested in him, because he was an invalid. Bertha answered
     him, but he has not written again. Father gave us leave to
     subscribe to the ROUND TABLE, but there are so many troubles lately
     that we have been obliged to put it off--war, drought, and locusts.
     Besides eating the grass, beans, potatoes, and pumpkins, they have
     eaten the leaves off the fruit trees. The latter all look as if
     winter had come--all except the orange-trees. Father kept them off
     these trees with flags on long bamboos.

  FLORENCE MARIA.
  KOONAH, VIA GRAHAMSTOWN, SOUTH AFRICA, FEBRUARY.

       *       *       *       *       *

Playing at Newspaper-Making.

When amateur papers attain the excellence of those made by professional
journalists it is time for the latter fellows to bestir themselves. _Ye
Round-Table Jester_ comes to us from Brooklyn--the Avalonia Chapter, No.
792, No. 369 Lewis Avenue. The publishing committee consists of Sir
Knights William Hathaway, Beverly Sedgwick, Frederic Cook, and Russell
Molyneux. It is mimeograph print, type-writer text, in two colors, and
profusely illustrated by "Bev"--Mr. Beverly S. King, who has won several
ROUND TABLE illustration prizes. The prospectus says the artistic
abilities of the Chapter "had to find vent somewhere." Genius always
"gets there," you remember.

The front-page illustration shows two Knights, one of 1396, the other of
1896. One is in armor on a horse, the other in knickerbockers on a
bicycle. Here are some _Jester_ jokes:

BUT IT WOULDN'T WORK.

MOMMER. "Johnny, what's Willy crying about? And why have you got that
baby sitting out there in the sun?"

JOHNNY. "Why, Popper told me that if I left his tools out in the sun it
would take all the temper out, so I thought I'd see if I couldn't get a
little temper out of the baby."

ONE KIND OF A SCORCHER.

TOMMY. "Say, Pop, I saw Bridget scorching this morning."

POP. "What's that? Bridget on a wheel? I'll give her notice at once!"

TOMMY. "Oh, that's all right, Pop. She was only scorching your shirt
when she ironed it."

       *       *       *       *       *

Kinks.

No. 23.--AN ANAGRAMMATICAL ACROSTIC.

If the cross-words--of equal length--are rightly guessed, one of the
vertical columns will spell the name of an English scientist and
astronomer of world-wide fame. The name is also concealed in the
anagram.

A TOCSIN ANEW.

Cross-words.--1, To fawn. 2, A pendent ornament. 3, To spring, 4, A part
of a flower. 5, A public alarm-bell. 6, To cogitate. 7, To hold fast. 8,
An Indian dance. 9, To reel. 10, A boaster. 11, A showy but worthless
ornament.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 24.--RHYMED WORD-SQUARE.

  First is a Spanish steed, of stature very small;
  Next, a Roman magistrate, with power over all;
  My third is some strong savor--perhaps of frankincense;
  My fourth implies "to banish"--if found in use at all;
  And, last of all, aquatic birds, with breadth of wings immense.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 25.--CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.

  My first is in club, but not in mace;
  My second in lineage, but not in race;
  My third is in spruce, but not in larch;
  My fourth is in journey, but not in march;
  My fifth is in Odin, but not in Lok:
  My sixth is in herd, but not in flock;
  My seventh in park, but not in lawn;
  My eighth is in bishop, but not in pawn;
  My ninth is in gun, but not in yak;
  My tenth is in russet, but not in black;
  My eleventh in sack, but not in cape;
  My whole was a fire-arm of ludicrous shape.

  VINCENT V. M. BEEDE, R.T.F.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 26.--A RIDDLE.

I am sometimes a _quadruped_; still, like a fish, I have _scales_
running all over me. Some say I am foolish and put on airs, but I guess
my argument is pretty sound. As an instance, though I own my own home, I
live in board. Furthermore, I have the reputation of being square and
upright; perhaps too much so, for I am often played upon. My name
contradicts itself, and when I am largest I am called a "baby." I am a
thing of note, and though extremely bulky, am always peddled. What am I?

  SIMON THEODORE STERN.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 27.--A DAY OUT.

The name of the author of the work mentioned completes the sense.

A Beggar's Opera, Night Thoughts, Ivanhoe set out one day for a Fancy
and Imagination. He was thoughtful enough, Alma to starting, to Uncle
Tom's Cabin away a lunch of Essays of Elia and Novum Organum and some
Scottish Chiefs bought from a The Country Girl. Being a Handy Andy of
fishing, he carried also a The Christian Hero, The Soldier's Return tied
to a The Cloister and the Hearth. He wore a Rab and his Friends The
Faerie Queene and a Elegy in a Country Church-yard Song of a Shirt.

As he was a Hiawatha, he made Tale of a Tub progress, till he stumbled
over some Queen Mab The Hunchback, and so got an Pleasures of the
Imagination. "Land of Labor and of Gold Cotter's Saturday Night!" he
exclaimed, in a Tristram Shandy, Sir Thomas Overbury voice. "It is
enough to anger a Rape of the Lock or a The Circassian Bride. But what
are The Excursion in curing a Age of Reason?" he asked, with a Deutsche
Mythologie smile.

He made a fire to The Free his fish, and while they were The Ring and
the Book he went to a Christabel to dig for ore, with the intention of
showing it to a Vicar of Wakefield to see if Velasquez and his Works The
Phrenologist could be made of it. He dug until the sound of a The
Adventures of a London Doll and a Hohenlinden recalled him Douglas.

       *       *       *       *       *

Answers to Kinks.

No. 19.

1, Union-Jack. 2, Jack-o'-lantern. 3, Jack-oak (American black-oak). 4,
Jack Sprat. 5, Apple-jack. 6, Jellow Jack.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 20.

1, Iowa (I-owe-a). 2, Agate (a gate). 3, Cat's eye. 4, Jade.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 21.

1, Garnet (gar-net). 2, Quartz (quarts). 3, Opal (O pal!). 4, Hyacinth.
5, Jasper. 6, Jet.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 22.

Minerva, Eros, Atlas, Hecate, Achilles, Venus, Mars, Chiron, Pan, Janus,
Io, Hebe, Ge, Midas, Ganymede, Ceres, Hera, Castor, Vesta, Hymen, Leto,
Hermes, Orion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Questions and Answers.

Frank T. Jones is wrong in his controversy with his friend. There are
many higher spires in Europe than St. Paul's, London, which is 404 feet.
The cathedral at Cologne, Germany, is 507 feet. "Ramie" is a Javanese
word, adopted in the United States as the name of a kind of grass
growing in China, Borneo, and Java. It is of the _Urticaceæ_, or nettle,
order of plant, and its fibre can be made into a cloth resembling silk.
It is grown to some extent in our Southern States, and its culture is
likely to increase.

D. A. Bowman, 4412 Delmar Avenue, St. Louis, Mo., says, "I would like to
hear from amateur papers wanting stamp departments, also would like to
receive copies of papers devoted to Round Table Chapters." Edward C.
Wood asks if any one can tell him on what nights in August and November
meteor showers come. A shower was expected on the night after the total
eclipse of the sun during the second week in August, but so far as the
Table has heard, no shower came. There is no particular date in August,
November, or any other month when showers can be predicted with
certainty.

Mary M. Hardy, aged fourteen, who may be addressed, College Campus,
Easton, Pa., wants to hear from Marion M. Clute, whose morsel about that
unreliable Florida lake interested her greatly. She asks Miss Marion to
write her, and promises to respond at once. Leo Heileman, Box 823,
Phoenix, Ariz., has Aztec relics, and is interested in mound-builders'
relics and similar curios. He wants correspondents. A. Haven Smith,
Orangeville, Pa., has seeds of Pennsylvania wild flowers, labelled with
both common and scientific names, and is interested in Indian, Aztec,
mound-builders, and all similar relics. Floyd Pennoyer, Schaghticoke,
N. Y., asks Latin students to give him a literal translation of the
following:

  "Sunt hic etiam sua præmia laudi,
  Sunt lacrimæ verum."

Mail answers to him direct.

       *       *       *       *       *

Why Boers Fight Well.

Having many chances at success proves often a disadvantage. General
W. F. Molyneux, a fighter in the Transvaal, tells in _Campaigning in
South Africa and Egypt_ about going to the house of a Boer, upon the
latter's invitation to become his guest on a deer-hunt. The General
arrived on horseback, accompanied by one servant. Dismounting, he
carried into the house a bag containing what would measure a peck or so
of common cartridges. The Boer looked at the bag in astonishment, and
exclaimed:

"You Englishmen must be very rich. Cartridges cost sixpence each here."

Rather mystified, and declaring that there are poor Englishmen, General
Molyneux asked, "Where are your cartridges?"

"In this," replied the Boer, tapping his double-barrel.

"Then you don't intend to do much shooting?"

"Well, two spring-buck are as much as I can carry."

"Suppose you miss?"

"Nobody misses when a cartridge costs sixpence."

The sequel was that the Boer got his two deer, one for each cartridge,
while the General fired five shots and got one.

       *       *       *       *       *

Anachronisms In Art.

     Tintoretto's painting representing the children of Israel gathering
     manna in the desert shows the Hebrews armed with guns; while
     Brenghall, a Dutch artist, in a picture of the Wise Men of the
     East, placed in the hand of an Indian prince, as an offering to the
     Holy Child, _the model of a seventy-four_.

  JOHN COBBE.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Day at an Arapahoe School.

     Perhaps the Round Table would like to hear of a visit I made to an
     Arapahoe Indian school here. My sister and I started with our host
     from his home, in El Reno, about nine o'clock. We rode until two
     that afternoon. There was a river to ford, and some steep hills to
     climb. In about fifteen minutes after our arrival the exercises
     began. It was the time of breaking up for the summer. A chorus of
     Indian children sang a queer little song, of which I could not
     understand a word. Then followed recitations, addresses by the
     directors of the school, and songs by the children. All the Indian
     girls wore purple calico dresses, with white cotton stockings and
     heavy shoes, and the boys wore dark jackets and trousers, with
     white shirts, and the same kind of foot-wear. They speak and recite
     in a very singsong, monotonous manner.

     After the exercises were over, the guests were asked to go through
     the school. The school-rooms were large and airy, and there were
     some good specimens of sewing, clay-modelling, etc. Some of the
     Indian children have curious names. Hilda Two Babies, Myra Long
     Neck, and Charlie Good Bear were some I heard. After a while we
     went out into the grounds. All around on the grass chairs were set,
     and these were occupied by "braves." One brave was standing in the
     centre of a large circle, talking and gesticulating most
     energetically. On the grass the squaws had ensconced themselves.
     Not one of them would sit on a chair. They thought it was too
     civilized.

     The children had scattered, and were sitting with their parents, or
     hanging round the white people, watching. In about an hour men came
     around and distributed boiled rice, potatoes, and meat. Each family
     was provided with a tin dish or old coffee-pot, and each held the
     receptacle out for a share of the repast. The Indian babies, I
     think, are very cunning little brown things. The braves of the
     Arapahoe tribe have long tassels of leather, and sometimes
     fox-tails, fastened to the ends of their moccasins, at the back.
     They scarcely lift their heels in walking, and so they have a
     shuffling gait.

  RUTH S. BROOKE, R.T.L.
  THE BISHOP'S HOUSE, GUTHRIE, OKLAHOMA.




[Illustration: Ivory Soap]

"Though lost to sight, to memory dear" is the motto for ordinary soaps.

Ivory Soap is always in sight and is not wasting at the bottom of the
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THE PROCTER & GAMBLE CO., CIN'TI.




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[Illustration]

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lbs. for a =Gold Ring=; 50 lbs. for a =Decorated Dinner Set=; 75 lbs. for
a =Bicycle=. Write for a Catalog and order Blank to Dept. I

W. G. BAKER,

Springfield Mass.




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]




VERY GOOD READING

FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

       *       *       *       *       *

By HOWARD PYLE

=THE WONDER CLOCK.= Large 8vo, Cloth, $3.00.

=PEPPER AND SALT.= 4to, Cloth, $2.00.

=THE ROSE OF PARADISE.= Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

=TWILIGHT LAND.= 8vo, Half Leather. Ornamental, $2.50.

=MEN OF IRON.= 8vo, Cloth, $2.00.

=A MODERN ALADDIN.= Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

       *       *       *       *       *

By THOMAS W. KNOX

=THE "BOY TRAVELLERS" SERIES:= 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. Copiously
Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth. Ornamental, $3.00 per vol.

_OTHER BOOKS BY COLONEL KNOX:_

THE YOUNG NIMRODS IN NORTH AMERICA. THE YOUNG NIMRODS AROUND THE WORLD.
2 vols., Copiously Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2.50
each.

       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: JOHNNIE. "PA, IS THAT THE CAMEL THEY PUT THE LAST STRAW
ON?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

BEAUTIFUL.

"It must be lovely up here in winter," said Pollie to the farmer's wife.

"Why do you think that?" asked the good old lady.

"Oh, because--you have so many cows, I should think you'd have all the
ice-cream you want."

       *       *       *       *       *

A FATIGUING DAY.

"I'm very tired to-night," said Howard.

"What have you been doing?"

"Oh, I've been helping mow the hay," said Howard. "Why, I sat on Mr.
Hayseed's lap and drove the horses that pulled the mower for two hours."

       *       *       *       *       *

A LITTLE GIRL'S TRIBUTE.

"Mollie," said Mr. Hicks to his little daughter, as he sat down in the
farm-house, "whom do you love best in all the world?"

"Mrs. Farmer," said Mollie. "Because, you know, at home, papa, I love
mamma very much and cook very much, and here Mrs. Farmer is sort of
both."

       *       *       *       *       *

A WINDY-DAY THOUGHT.

  "The wind's a fast reader,"
    Said Tommy; "just look
  How the breeze turns over
    The leaves of my book!"

       *       *       *       *       *

BOBBIE MAKES A SUGGESTION.

"I say, Poppy, why do they call mucilage mucilage?"

"What would you have them call it?"

"Gluecilage."

       *       *       *       *       *

A CHANGE OF VIEW.

"Want to go home, Charlie? Why, my dear little boy, I thought you told
me yesterday that you thought the farm was the only place to live?"

"W-well, I dud-did," sobbed Charlie. "But to-to-day I--"

"Well, go on, little man. What did you do?"

"To-to-to-day I sus-sat dud-d-d-down on a pup-pitchfork!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A GREAT GAME.

"Why, Jacky, open the door and let Katie in. Don't you see it's
raining?" cried Jacky's mother.

"I can't, mamma," said Jacky. "We are playing Noah's Ark. I'm Noah, and
Katie is the sinners, and she must stay out in the wet."

       *       *       *       *       *

A NATURAL REQUEST.

Jimmie had been told that his father went to town every day to make
bread for the family. One day he was allowed to go to his father's
office for him.

"Now, Poppie," he said, as soon, as they arrived, "bring out the dough."

       *       *       *       *       *

JUST LIKE ME.

"You ought to come up and see our new baby," said Mattie. "He's
perfectly beautiful."

"What does he look like?" asked Harry.

"Just like me," said Mattie.

       *       *       *       *       *

One of our American line steamers landed its passengers in New York the
other day after dusk. Among them was a son of Ireland, who, after hearty
greetings from his friends, started to walk up one of the thoroughfares
to see the great city of New York. His friends lost no opportunity to
point out the wonders of the metropolitan city, and in a short time they
had the poor fellow simply dazed with admiration and wonder, and willing
to believe anything they told him. Suddenly he caught sight of a street
arc light on its pole, and pulling up short, he grasped the arms of his
friends nearest him, and exclaimed, "Faith, it's wonders and wonders,
shure; if my eyes don't decave me yez have the moon stuck on a stick
beyant there."

       *       *       *       *       *

PERCY AT CAPE COD.

  "This bluefish yawning on the beach,
    And jumping round head first,
  Is either very sleepy, or
    He's dying of his thirst."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE RECEIPT.

"My Papa makes lots of money," said Wallie.

"What out of?" asked Johnnie.

"Soap," said Wallie.

"Pooh!" said Johnnie. "You can't make money out o' soap. Money's made o'
gold and paper and silver."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LUMPS.

Helen had the mumps, of which she seemed very proud, but she didn't
quite get the name right.

"I can't come over and play with you," she called out of the window to
Jimmieboy, "because I've got the lumps."

And it seemed all right, because she really had lumps on her cheeks.





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, August 25, 1896, by Various