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, OCTOBER 6, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 884. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

A HOME-RUN IN INDIANA.

BY GARRETT NEWKIRK.


The men of the block-house fort had eaten breakfast by candle-light, for
an early start to their work upon the various clearings. The long, rough
table would be reset later for the women and children. They were a band
of settlers in the wilderness, who had arrived from Virginia the
preceding autumn barely in time to build one house for the shelter of
all. Before another summer should be over each family would possess a
dwelling of its own, and the beginning of a farm great with the promise
of future orchards and fields of grain.

The severity of the winter had departed, March was bringing many days of
brightness, with songs from the earlier birds of spring. It was now the
hour of dawn, and, far to the east, above where rolled the broad Ohio,
the sky was rosy with the sun's bright greeting. Across the Big Blue
River to the west were clouds of morning mist, which made the higher
hills beyond appear like wooded islands in a rolling sea.

John Martin stood near the block-house, with his long rifle on his arm
and his axe in hand, ready to start for the home clearing. He was
twenty-five years old, of medium height and excellent form. There was
not his equal in the settlement for activity and strength.

By his side stood his wife, a girlish-looking woman yet in her "teens,"
with her hands clasped upon his shoulder. Her eyes were looking
earnestly into his, and there was anxiety in her voice as she said:

"I hope, John, you and Stephen are not growing careless about watching
because no Indians have been seen for many weeks. You know one can never
tell when they may come, 'like a thief in the night.' Do you keep one on
guard while the other works, as you used to?"

"Well, no, we haven't lately, to tell the truth, Mary," he replied; "it
seems like such a waste of time when there's so much to do. We've cut
away the undergrowth for a good distance round to give us a clear view,
and we both work and watch the best we can. I've heard the Indians were
entirely out of powder and lead this spring, and they will not probably
go on the war-path till they get some. Don't you worry, dear; I don't
believe there's any danger now. Come on, Stephen," he called, "let's be
off; it's been daylight half an hour; you can 'most see the sun."

The youth addressed was standing with their mother, a few steps apart,
and they had been conversing in low tones. He was only fifteen, her
"baby," and the subject of her special tenderness and care; for he was
the only one of her children who had no memory of his father, a brave
soldier of the Revolution, who had come home from Yorktown but to spend
a year and die.

Though a gray-haired woman of more than fifty years, she was still
vigorous, and there was rich color in her cheeks. She had thrown a shawl
over her head and shoulders, and come out as usual "to see the boys
off."

"Aren't you going to take your rifle with you, son?" she asked of
Stephen, as he turned to go.

"No, mother; I think not to-day. The fact is, I've carried the gun back
and forth all winter and never had the least use for it, and it's
powerful heavy, especially at night after a hard day's work. I reckon
I'm getting lazy," he added, with an attempt to smile.

The mother sighed, knowing well that "laziness" in this case meant
weariness; that the lad was doing more than he ought, from a boy's
ambition to do a man's work.

"All right," she said, gently; "perhaps it's just as well, though I've
half a notion to go along and stand guard myself. Take good care of this
boy," she said to John. "I'm afraid he's overworking; you're both so
ambitious, just like your father."

"Yes, mother," John replied, cheerily, "but it's hard to hold him back;
you see _he_ takes after father and mother both."

At this they all laughed, and the brothers walked away, followed by the
gaze of loving eyes till their forms had disappeared among the trees.

At the home clearing the morning passed as usual, with the work of
felling trees and piling brush. At noon the two ate their "dinner" of
cold johnny-cake and dried venison by the smouldering coals of a
brush-heap, whereon they also boiled a pot of water and made "corn
coffee."

"We can always work better," John had said, "for a little something
hot;" and they sweetened the "coffee" with maple-sugar made by mother
and Mary from sap of trees growing near the fort.

After half an hour's rest they cut down a tall tree, which fell
northward, as Stephen said, "pointing to the fort." They had trimmed
away the limbs, and Stephen was "topping" the tree--that is, cutting off
the small end of the trunk to go with the brush for burning. John was
measuring off the "cuts," when a large buck sprang into the clearing
from the south, and paused with head erect, looking backward.

To John this seemed a joyful opportunity. The men of the settlement had
taken little time for hunting during recent weeks, and meat was getting
scarce. Very quietly, but quickly, he crept along the log to where his
rifle stood leaning against the stump, while Stephen had as quickly
dropped from sight behind the brush. The left shoulder of the deer was
fairly presented at a distance of only fifty yards, and almost instantly
he gave a bound forward and fell dead, shot through the heart.

Laying down the weapon John started to run to the buck, passing near
Stephen and saying, "Load the gun, and I'll--" But the look and attitude
of his brother made him pause. He was gazing intently, not toward the
deer, but in the direction from which it had come. John turned and
beheld a startling sight. Stealthily approaching along a little ravine,
not far away, were a dozen or more savages in war-paint and feathers.

John was a man of quick decision and resolute action. All the meaning of
the situation flashed upon his mind. They were but two, and outnumbered
six or eight to one; they had but one gun, that empty, fifty feet
distant toward the foe. But the way was open to the fort, across the
clearing and through the woods. Had he been alone, he would have sprung
to the path in a moment and gained a good start on the savages. But
Stephen had the unfortunate habit of hesitating in emergencies. Whenever
startled or surprised he seemed powerless to act, and would stand as one
dazed. John had to go to him, therefore, take him by the shoulders, turn
him about, and say,

"Run to the fort!" pushing with the word to get him started. Once going,
however, he ran like a frightened doe; so hard, indeed, that without the
restraint and guidance of his brother he would have been exhausted early
in the race.

The Indians, of course, on finding their approach discovered, sprang
nimbly to the pursuit, but they had at first to run up hill, and when
they came to the tree the foremost stopped to examine the gun and
pouches, and a dispute arose over their possession. This was quickly
settled by the chief, but every moment gained was precious to the
fugitives.

Any company of men in danger must needs have a captain, and John was
born for a commander, whether of two or fifty. He set the pace which he
believed Stephen could keep to the end, and said:

"Don't look back; I will keep watch on the Indians for us both. We must
not follow our usual path too closely. If the way is clear we must cut
short wherever we can."

John had taken note as they ran of several important facts. Only two or
three of the Indians carried rifles, and they were not among the
foremost. He believed that, in accordance with the report he had heard,
the guns were empty.

The Indian who had secured the white man's rifle had stopped to load it,
and was now far in the rear. It was the evident purpose of the leaders
to run their victims down and kill them with tomahawk and knife; then,
if possible, they would surprise the fort, massacre the inmates, and
carry away the ammunition there to be found.

The reason for their confidence soon became apparent. Stephen,
notwithstanding his brother's advice, could not avoid now and then
turning his head for a backward glance, and he it was who first
recognized in the foremost runner a famous Indian chief named Bigfoot,
known as the bravest warrior and swiftest runner of the Wyandotte tribe.
It was reported, also, that he had three brothers, nearly equal to
himself in swiftness, who usually went with him on his expeditions.

There had not been a doubt in the mind of John about his own ability to
outrun the Indians. The question from the first had been how to save
Stephen, and this new discovery made the situation desperate. The boy
could run very swiftly for a short distance, but he lacked the endurance
of a fully developed man. In spite of his brother's encouragement his
steps began to flag. Bigfoot was easily gaining upon them, and three
others were not far behind him. Soon he came so near that John feared he
might, by a quick rush, be able to throw his tomahawk with deadly
effect. He said to Stephen,

"Jump behind the big tree we are coming near, but keep on running."

Dropping behind a pace or two, he followed Stephen's movement in line
with the tree. The Indian, fearing an assault, halted for a moment, and
by this they gained several rods. The ruse was repeated two or three
times, and they were now half-way to the fort.

Here Stephen seemed to be wellnigh exhausted and ready to despair. He
said to John,

"Run ahead and save yourself. I'm a goner, anyway."

But the other replied:

"I'll not leave you. Don't give up. Keep up your heart and we'll beat
them yet."

Bigfoot, feeling sure of his prey, had slackened his pace for the others
to overtake him, and the four together were coming on rapidly. John now
determined on the only plan which might possibly save them both. He said
to Stephen:

"We must separate. As we pass the big hickory, do you bear to the right
while I go to the left. Bigfoot will follow me, and you can outrun the
others. When you strike the clearing, yell to warn the women. I'll do
the same. _Go it, now, and do your best!_"

This plan gave the boy new hope, for Bigfoot had been his especial
terror. As he thought, too, of his mother and sisters, and their danger,
he sprang forward from the big hickory and ran bravely.

The savages paused a moment, and then, as John had foretold, the big
Indian took the left course, followed by the swiftest of the others.

Then began the real test between the two runners, red and white, neither
of whom had ever before found his match. For a time John turned his head
frequently, keeping watch upon his pursuers, and he soon learned that
the distance between them, little by little, was shortening. The Indian
was gaining because he did not look back; his eye was steadily on the
white man. John Martin thought:

"I must not turn my head, but look steadily forward, and trust my ears
to measure the space between us. If I find that he is nearing me, I will
stop and fight; my little knife against his long one and the hatchet."

Now the space does not grow less, and to the Indian, who had expected an
easy victory, this is maddening. John hears him muttering curses in his
own language, and they sound musical. Then he calls in broken English,

"White man, stop talk; me no kill."

His only purpose is to secure a moment's pause; but to all appearance
the other hears not. The Indian leaps and bounds in his rage, but
nothing can he gain. The long quick steps of the white man have the
steady movement of an eagle's wing; they flag not, nor does he turn his
head till he has leaped the fence and given the promised yell. Almost on
the instant he hears the whiz of a bullet and the crack of Mary's rifle.
The ball grazes a tree behind which the Indian has suddenly skulked,
really dodging a shot truly aimed. Then, with a cry of baffled rage, he
springs into the forest and is seen no more.

When Stephen left his brother's side, he felt that he was put upon his
mettle as never in his life before. He had recovered his "second wind,"
the swiftest of the Indians had gone the other way, and he had great
hope that he could win the race. He _must_ win, for if John should fail,
who but himself could warn the people of the fort. Left alone, he
suddenly became cool, calculating, and self-reliant. Before him was a
bit of thicket. He turned suddenly behind this, as though seeking to
hide along a ravine which bore away to the right, and as quickly again
resumed his course. The Indians were deceived, and turned, as they
supposed, to cut him off, and by this he gained considerably. Then, in
plain sight, he took a curved path, knowing that across the shorter way
were many trailing vines and low shrubs. In these the foremost savage
became entangled, and lost his position in the race. And now the lad had
only to make a supreme effort, the clearing was in sight; he heard his
brother's voice, and the report of his sister's rifle. All was well, and
he would have gone unscathed, but in leaping the fence he tripped and
fell headlong. As he rose and started forward, the foremost Indian threw
a tomahawk, the blade of which cut his shoulder, while the handle struck
his head, stunning him, and he fell again.

The savage, eager to secure a scalp and recover his weapon, sprang over
the fence, unaware of the risk he was taking, for by this time John had
given the point of his brother's approach, and the brave mother was on
the watch. The Indian's feet had but touched the open ground when she
drew a bead upon him, and as he paused to draw his scalping-knife the
rifle sent its messenger to his breast. He fell at Stephen's feet,
mortally wounded, and died in a few moments.

The mother began reloading her piece. "We may need another bullet," she
said, as she rammed one "home." "Help the boy in, and I'll keep an eye
on the woods."

But no other foe appeared, and Stephen, whose wounds though bleeding and
painful were not dangerous, soon was resting on a couch before the fire.

Notwithstanding the excitement he had passed through, he immediately
fell asleep from utter exhaustion. When at sunset he awoke and saw his
mother by his side he placed a hand in hers, and there was a world of
love and admiration in his eyes.

In the mean time the sound of guns had brought the men quickly to the
fort. John, whose blood was hot, wished to organize a party at once and
pursue the Indians, but the older and more prudent objected. The mother
said, "No, that is just what they will expect you to do. They will lead
you a long and useless chase, or else they will wait for you in ambush.
We have no lives to spare, and nothing to avenge. We're Christians and
not savages, and we've every reason to-night to be thankful we're alive.
I want you to bury the one I shot to save my boy, his scalp on his head
and his weapons with him. Bury him in a corner of the clearing and put
up a bit of slab to mark the spot."

Some frowned at this, but it was done as she had said.

Before long the story of this burial in some way reached the savages,
and was told in many wigwams.

Years afterward an aged squaw came to the fort and asked in broken
English to be shown the Indian's grave, and when she saw it she bowed
herself thereon and wept.




THE BISHOP'S DILEMMA.


The late Bishop of Argyle and the Isles, in Scotland, Dr. Mackarness,
was a very large and heavy man, weighing at least 275 pounds.

On one occasion, accompanied by his chaplain, Mr. Chinnery Haldane, he
was making his way through the mountains to confirm some children in a
far-away village.

The carriage, drawn by strong and agile mountain ponies, slowly
ascending through a rocky pass, was suddenly brought to a standstill by
a fallen tree. The Highland driver did everything in his power to get by
the obstacle, but finally had to go for assistance. The Bishop and his
chaplain strolled on.

Now the chaplain wanted to be made a rural dean, and he thought this an
excellent opportunity to try the Bishop on the subject. The weather was
fine, the view delightful, the Bishop apparently in a good temper. Why
not broach this subject so near to his heart? The Bishop heard his
request, but instead of answering him, stopped and called attention to
the effect of the sun on the distant mountains. Further hints were met
in the same way.

The village was now in sight, but an unlooked-for obstacle presented
itself. The little stream, crossed usually by a picturesque bridge, had
been so swollen by the rains that the bridge appeared like an island in
the middle.

Here was a quandary. It might be several hours before the carriage
arrived, and night was coming on.

"What are we to do?" said the Bishop.

"My lord," replied the chaplain, "if you will get on my back I will
carry you to the bridge."

The Bishop demurred, spoke of his weight, and the undignified appearance
he would present. But the chaplain was strong, and finally persuaded
him. When fairly in the middle he came to a full stop.

"Are you tired, Haldane?" said the Bishop.

"No, my lord, I am not tired; but I wish to speak to you again about
that rural deanery."

"But, my dear fellow," cried the Bishop, in alarm, "this is no place to
talk; wait till we get to the other side."

"On the contrary, my lord, I think this is an excellent place to talk,
for if you refuse me I shall drop you."

The Bishop tried to temporize; but the chaplain was immovable.

"The rural deanery or down you go," was the fiat, and reluctantly the
Bishop gave the chaplain his promise.

His kept his promise, too, and after the death of Dr. Mackarness that
same chaplain and rural dean became his successor, and is now Bishop of
Argyle and the Isles.




THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

HALLOWEEN FAGOTS.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.


A heavy farm wagon was lumbering along, raising clouds of dust, as the
children, each with a bag suspended from his or her arm, hailed the
driver for a lift. They were so tired, for they had been scouring the
woods for hours, each striving to see whose bag would be the heaviest
when they set their faces homeward; and now, as the yellow gold of the
afternoon sunset was fast deepening into night, and there was yet many a
weary mile between these Thornton woods and their supper, for which
everybody had over and again testified that he was "just starving," they
begged for a ride.

The driver was a middle-aged man, somewhat crippled and bent with toil.
His shoulders were round, his chest hollow, his hair a mixture of brown
and gray; but his big honest blue eyes shone with a kindly light, that
softened the harsh skin as he called "Whoa!" and the children hurriedly
climbed, some over the wheels, and others by the back and front--any way
to get in--and a moment later the indulgent if homely man had a
wagon-load of pleasant company.

"Well done, gals and boys; many's the time I wuz jist as spry, but I
haven't done it for nigh unto twenty year." And he pointed to the large
knots on his hands that showed the effect of rheumatism. But his
misfortunes had not soured him, for he was anxious to learn all about
the happy day. And they all had a turn in telling him.

And thus it was that he soon learned the nutting party had been planned
from away back, back as far as last October, and that a gayer set of
young people he had never seen in all his life than they were when they
met, luncheon in hand, at the cross-roads that morning. They had taken
their luncheon, they explained, because they wanted to make a full day
of it this time.

What a day! What a tramp! What bags of nuts! The boys had climbed trees
like the veriest of nimble squirrels; ran along the branches too, and
shook the ripe beauties down, while the girls were anything but quiet
underneath; and now, simply because it was night, and they were so tired
and hungry, they had to go home. Otherwise they would have liked the day
to last a week at the very least, so that they could have a longer run,
watch out later for the rabbits, woodpeckers, and squirrels, and try and
find bigger bouquets of red berries and autumn leaves.

It was even confided to this man, before the last one got out of the
wagon--for he indulgently stopped at the nearest points for all--that
Robert and Sophie McLaren, who sat near the driver's seat, were to give
a fagot party on All-Halloween, to which they were all invited, and that
some of the nuts were to be saved for that particular occasion.

A week later one of the boys, who was studying art, walked along the
same road. He had been sketching the distant woods, and again met the
driver of the comfortable though heavy farm wagon. This time the man's
keen far-sightedness saw him first, and having recognized one of "the
jolly young'uns," as in telling his wife of his adventure he explained
was "a fittin' name for 'em," he whipped up his horses the sooner to
hail the boy, hoping for companionship. And he was not disappointed, for
the drawing materials had grown heavier with each step. And thus it was
that the benevolent if curious man heard all about the fagot party.

[Illustration]

The boy commenced by explaining the meaning of the word fagot, a bundle
of twigs; and there were just as many twigs as there were girls and
boys, "the idea being that we should each draw a twig from the bundle as
our names were called. And they were all called by the hostess,
according to the letters of the alphabet. For instance, my name begins
with A; therefore I had to draw the first twig. Having drawn the twig, I
put it on the open coal fire, and at once commenced to tell a story. As
long as the twig lasted I had to talk; but when it was burned up I had
to stop; and as it burned very fast towards the end, I wound up in a
jiffy. As soon as I was through, the next name was called, and that
person did exactly as I did, only told a different story of course."

The story part of the explanation seemed rather mystifying, so the boy
said, "I'll tell you the story I told, and then perhaps you'll
understand. The title was 'The Professor.' Place, a boy's room in
college. Time, an hour before recitation.

"Duty is a grim taskmaster, and sometimes I don't fancy obeying him.
This was one of the times. I thought, what's the use of algebra,
anyway?--lots of people have lived and died without even knowing there
is such a study; so, in the hour allowed for preparation of multiplying
2a+5c by a-c, and all the rest of the rubbish, I decided to close the
window-shutters, draw down the shades, light the candles--in fact, make
believe it was night, and have in all the fellows for an out-and-out
spread. With this idea I had made preparation; the mince pie was on the
table, pumpkin pie ditto, a big pitcher of milk, some apples, bananas,
and hickory nuts; when all of a sudden, just as I was expecting the boys
to file quietly in, who should I hear tip-toeing along the hall but the
Professor? My hair almost stood on end, wondering what his next move
would be, so sure I was that he was sniffing these questionable odors. I
had but a second to wonder, however, for the door-knob turned and we
stood face to face. He did not look at all surprised. I drew a long
breath. Neither of us spoke. He seemed, I thought, to take a certain
sort of delight in watching me. The longer he watched, the more
uncomfortable I felt. I thought if there was any way of getting out of
this! The dreary hopelessness of my situation was appalling. Every
second seemed an hour, for the cool steel-colored eyes never lifted;
they seemed to read me through and through.

"After what seemed to me to be an eternity of time he slowly asked,
'Where are the boys?' And back of him, through the open doorway, I saw
them stand. They had all come together, hoping in this way the better to
escape detection; their feet had silently fallen all at the one time,
for they had practised marching in unison.

"After lingering for my answer he teasingly turned towards them, for
they were so petrified at the sight of the Professor they stood
irresolute, and he, quite conscious of the situation, then changed into
a smiling host, and welcomed them to the feast. He made us all sit down
and eat until the pie was entirely gone. I never made so uncomfortable a
meal. I thought I would choke; the food stuck in my throat, and the
silence, the torturing silence, was agonizing. I tell you, none of us
fellows ever forgot that meal; it was the heaviest punishment we ever
endured.

"When we were finished, our host's manner changed. He was again the
Professor. In clear-cut sarcastic words he stated that in five minutes
he would be in the algebra room, and would expect particularly well
prepared papers.

"The remembrance of that feast thrills me yet. Oh, how we recoiled
before him!" and the boy seemed to tremble and shrink while he talked.
"Yes, that feast will keenly and uncomfortably thrill me always."

The boy having ended, looked gayly up at the driver, and was surprised
to see how pained he looked. The man had believed every word, and could
scarcely understand what was meant when he was told that the story was
all imagination, that it never really happened, but was only made up to
tell while his twig burned.

However, the man soon heartily laughed, and then asked, "Wha'd ye play
next?" And so interested was he in hearing the merry games that he did
his best to delay his horses so as not to miss too many of them.

[Illustration]

The first that the boy explained was "The Fortunate Apple." On several
pieces of wood, thin as paper, write in ink or paint girls' names. Use
only first names, and, after including all the girls to be invited, make
up others. Slip each name into an apple. This set will do for the boys;
make similar ones for the girls. Fill three portable tubs with water,
and set an even number of apples floating in each tub. Fasten the arms
of three boys securely back, and cover them entirely with water-proof
cloaks. Lead each boy to a tub and ask him to repeat distinctly,

  "Witches and wizards and birds of the air,
  Goblins and brownies, all lend me your care,
  Now to choose wisely for once and for all,
  And ever your names in praise loudly I'll call."

Then each boy must put his head down and try to catch in his teeth an
apple. In it he'll find the name of one of the girls present, and she
will be his fate. If the name is a strange one, there will even then be
teasing enough for him. After the boys have all tried the game, then it
is time for the girls.

Lead a girl up to a tub and blindfold her; lead her around while she
repeats the rhyme, and with the words "loudly I call," she must bend
down and try to catch in one hand an apple, or, if she prefers, she may
try to spear an apple with a fork. If the latter way, only one drop of
the fork will be allowed. If it sticks far enough in an apple not to
fall altogether, her fate is sure.

[Illustration]

Another game was called "The Three T's," or "The Tumbler Test."

Fill three tumblers with water. One must hold blue water, such as the
laundress uses for clothes, another must hold soapy water, and another
clear water, while still another must be empty. These tumblers should
stand on a table directly before the individual who is to be
blindfolded. After he is blindfolded, change the position of the
glasses, placing one where the other one stood, and so on. Then instruct
the party to dip his fingers into one of the tumblers. Having felt
around, his fingers are dipped into clear water, and thus he learns that
he is to marry a beautiful rich girl. Had he dipped into the soapy
water, it would have meant that he would marry a poor widow; if in the
blue water, he would be a noted author; if in the empty glass, he would
die a bachelor. This game is played in the same way with the girls,
only, of course, changing the sex, as, example, marrying a rich,
handsome man.

As the boy was now very near home, he had only time to explain one more
game, called "The Walnut's Fortune."

A quantity of walnuts had been carefully opened in half, and inside each
one was slipped a narrow piece of paper which predicted the future. The
nuts were kept from opening by having a small elastic slipped over each.
The boys' walnuts were put in one basket and the girls' in another, and
the girls' basket was first offered. As each girl held her hand over the
basket she repeated,

  "Steady, good fairy, I am wary;
  Pray let my hand make no mistake;
  I would only the right nut take."

Then, having put her hand down, she lifted up a nut, removed the
elastic, and taking out the paper, read her future aloud. Example: "You
will travel around the world. At the age of twenty-three you will sing
before two thousand people." And thus the future was predicted in
similar style for all the players.

But the boy was at his destination, and therefore his new friend and
himself had to part company, not before the driver said, however, "I'll
come along arter you some day, fer I can't git over feelin' glad to see
you ag'in; no knowin' what you'll hev ter tell nex' time."




A FINE OLD CHAP.


  I like this kind old sunny soul,
    Whom nothing can annoy;
  His pleasant smile is e'er the same,
    To fill my heart with joy.

  I like his quaint, ungainly shape;
    I like his big round face.
  Although he's clumsy through and through,
    To me he's full of grace.

  Indeed, he's sweet enough to eat--
    Feet, elbows, legs, and head--
  This very dear old gentleman,
    Who's made of gingerbread.

  R. K. MUNKITTRICK.




IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]

[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 879.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER VI.


Elizabeth, in the days of Miss Rice's rule, had often thought that the
most desirable thing in the world would be to go to school. She had
often watched girls in the street hurrying along with books under their
arms as the clock was about to strike nine, and they always looked so
happy, and appeared to have so much to say to one another. That, to
Elizabeth, was particularly delightful, for she had a friendly nature,
although her lonely life had made her shy with other children.

And now she was to go to school herself. The summer was over, the Misses
Herrick had returned to town, and arrangements had been made for
entering Elizabeth at Mrs. Arnold's school. This decision had cost Miss
Herrick some thought. It must be a good school educationally which she
chose for her niece, but it must also be aristocratic. To Miss Herrick's
mind, suitable acquaintances were more to be desired than "higher
education."

Mrs. Arnold's school, however, apparently combined these two necessary
qualifications; and on the morning after her twelfth birthday Elizabeth
Herrick began her school life.

It was a very awful ordeal at first. She had never before encountered so
many staring eyes, and when any one chanced to speak to her, it seemed
as if she should sink through the floor.

The other girls appeared to know one another very well, and had much to
say after the summer's absence. Elizabeth wondered when there would be
time for lessons if the scholars all talked so incessantly, but she soon
found that it was only on the first day of school that so much liberty
was allowed. The girl who had the desk next to hers enlightened her on
this point, as well as on various others.

"You are a new girl, aren't you?" she remarked.

"Yes," said Elizabeth; "are you?"

"Oh dear no! I have been here a year." Elizabeth looked at her with
increased respect. She was a tall girl, with bright brown eyes, and
curly hair which hung about her face in a dark mass. "I am almost
fourteen," she continued; "at least, I am thirteen and a half. How old
are you?"

"I was twelve yesterday."

"And my name is Patsy Wayne Loring--that is, it is really Martha, but
Martha is such a hateful name I never want to tell it, and I have always
been called Patsy. What is yours?"

"Elizabeth Herrick."

"Elizabeth! What a terribly long name! What do they call you?"

"They call me Elizabeth," returned her neighbor.

"Goody! I wouldn't let them if I were you. I should be called Bessie, or
Betty, or Beth, or Elsie. There are lots of nicknames for Elizabeth. I
think Elsie is a lovely name. But there is Miss Garner! She is very
strict."

"Doesn't Mrs. Arnold sit in this room?"

"Oh no. This is the Intermediate, and Miss Garner has charge of this.
Mrs. Arnold is in the Senior, and we hardly ever see her, except when we
have been especially bad or especially good, and then we are sent in to
her. I have never been in on the good list. But once, when I fixed a
jack-in-the-box in Miss Garner's desk so that it popped up at her when
she opened the desk, the old thing found me out, and sent me down to
Mrs. Arnold. It was such fun to see her jump! I nearly died laughing."

Elizabeth looked at her new friend with wonder. Would she ever dare to
do anything so scandalous? And was that what girls did at school?

"That is the new drawing and painting teacher," continued her neighbor;
"her name is Mrs. Brown. She is awfully nice, the girls say."

"I wish I could take lessons; I love to draw."

"Why don't you? Perhaps you can't afford it. It is extra, and that is
the reason I don't."

"I don't believe that is the reason. My aunt does not want me to. She
never will let me draw at home."

"How very funny! But there is Miss Garner ringing the bell, so we shall
have to stop talking. I shall tell you some more at recess."

[Illustration: WHEN SCHOOL WAS OVER A MAID WAS WAITING TO TAKE ELIZABETH
HOME.]

When school was over a maid was awaiting Elizabeth to accompany her
home. Her new friend walked with her part of the way, but her
destination was much nearer the school than was Elizabeth's, and she
soon bade her good-by.

"I like you ever so much," were her parting words, "and I am sure we are
going to be intimate friends. Come early to-morrow, and we shall have
time to talk a little before school begins. Good-by!"

Elizabeth went home feeling that at last she was like other girls. She
had a friend of her own. She could scarcely eat her luncheon she was so
excited, and she longed for dinner-time, that she might recount her
experiences to her aunts. They were not at home this afternoon.

She looked at her new books, and in a short time had studied her lessons
for the next day. "It is too good to be true, Julius," she whispered to
the cat, who sat purring in the window; "I have an intimate friend at
last."

Fortunately no one dined there that night, so Elizabeth was to come to
the table, and there were actually a few minutes in the library before
dinner was announced in which she could be with her aunts.

"School is lovely, Aunt Caroline," said she, "and I have a friend
already."

"Indeed! What is her name?"

"Patsy Loring."

"Loring? That is not a Philadelphia name; but of course she must be
quite desirable, or she would not be at Mrs. Arnold's school."

"Her real name is Martha Wayne Loring, but she is always called-- Why,
what is the matter, Aunt Caroline?"

Miss Herrick's face wore the same look which Elizabeth had seen there
once or twice before.

"Martha Wayne?" she murmured.

"Why, yes, Aunt Caroline; but she is called Patsy. I was going to tell
you--"

"Rebecca," said Miss Herrick, in a weak voice, "do you suppose--"

"I think it is highly probable," said Miss Rebecca, briskly. "Martha
Wayne married a Loring, and went to Boston to live."

"Patsy said they used to live in Boston," put in Elizabeth; "but when
her father died, they came here."

"Of course it is the same," said Miss Herrick. "Of all things, to have
her come into our lives again. I always thought that it was partly owing
to Martha Wayne's influence that--"

She stopped abruptly.

"But, Aunt Caroline, what do you mean? Do you know Patsy? Please tell
me!"

"I cannot tell you. Do not ask me."

"Oh dear, another mystery!" exclaimed Elizabeth, petulantly. "I do hate
secrets, and there are so many in this house! There is the closed room,
and my father staying away, and now when I go to school, and everything
seems nice and pleasant, and I have a friend at last, you go and make a
mystery about her."

"Be quiet, Elizabeth. I cannot bear it! Rebecca, what do you think?
Shall the child continue to go there? Will it do for her to be thrown
with Martha Wayne's daughter?"

For a moment Elizabeth was speechless with indignation. Then, before her
aunt Rebecca could reply, she started from her chair.

"Aunt Caroline," she cried, stamping her foot, "you are a horrid old
thing! I _will_ go there to school. I _will_ be friends with Patsy! You
won't let me have a thing like other girls! I wish my father would come
home and take me away from here!" And she ran crying from the room.

"Her frightful temper again," exclaimed Miss Herrick; "and the doctor
said she must not be excited! What shall we do, Rebecca?"

"You are very foolish to allow yourself to be so agitated. The child
must go to school, and we cannot prevent her making friends. I wish
Edward would come home and take her off our hands. But as for keeping
her from Martha Wayne's daughter, or, in fact, from any one who knew
Mildred--"

"Rebecca! How often have I asked you never to mention that name? I must
go now and pacify Elizabeth, or she will make herself ill."

Miss Herrick's face looked drawn and old as she left the room. It was
some time before Elizabeth could be quieted, but when she went to school
the next morning it was with the permission to see as much of Patsy
Loring as she wished.

The two girls were soon fast friends. Patsy came once or twice to Fourth
Street, but they liked better to meet in her own little house, where the
rooms were small, and the carpets and furniture were not particularly
new, but where the sun shone brightly in at the windows, and where there
was plenty of fun and merrymaking all day long.

"It is all so open here!" said Elizabeth one day.

"What do you mean, my dear?" asked Mrs. Loring, who was sewing by the
table, while Patsy arranged her paper dolls. It was a rainy afternoon,
and therefore the dolls were in demand.

"Oh, you have no shut-up rooms and secrets. Our house is full of
skeletons. It is hateful."

"E-liz-a-beth!" exclaimed Patsy. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Well, how would you like to have a room in the house with a padlock on
it that you never could go into, and have Aunt Caroline hush you up
every time you asked about it? I have been there, though," and she
nodded her head mysteriously.

Patsy left her paper dolls and drew nearer.

"Have you really? Do tell me about it," she said, while Mrs. Loring
listened attentively.

"I stole the key and went in. Of course I ought not to have done it, but
it was a whole year ago, and I was such a little thing I didn't know any
better. I was only eleven then, you know. I went a good many times,
until Aunt Caroline found me out. It is such a pretty room. If I only
knew whom it belonged to! Mrs. Loring, I wonder if you know?" turning
suddenly to Patsy's mother. "You look just as Aunt Caroline does when I
speak of that room. What is there about that room that makes every one
look so queer?"

"Why should you think that I know anything about it?" asked Mrs. Loring,
recovering herself.

"Because I think Aunt Caroline used to know you, for she was so
excited--at least, she didn't seem to like--well, please excuse me for
saying it, but Aunt Caroline was so surprised to hear I knew Patsy, and
at first she said-- I don't believe I can tell you."

Elizabeth came to a full stop. She was too honest to extricate herself
from the difficulty, and too polite to state the truth.

"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Loring, quietly, "I knew your aunts when I
was a girl, it is true. But I cannot tell you about the room. Your aunt
does not wish you to know, Elizabeth, and therefore you should not try
to find out."

"I know I shouldn't, but it is so interesting. But I don't care so much
about it, now that I have Patsy."

When Elizabeth went home that afternoon the old house looked grim and
deserted. The aunts were out, as usual. She studied her lessons, and
then sat down with a book by the front window. The rain had ceased, but
the clouds were still thick and dark, and the room, handsomely furnished
though it was, looked gloomier even than was its wont. It reminded her
of the day, a whole year ago, when she wrote the letter to her
lather--the letter which he had never answered.

Elizabeth's book fell from her hand and she leaned her head drearily
against the window-pane. A whole year, and still he had not come.

Her attention was suddenly attracted by a figure on the sidewalk. It
stood still for a moment, and then approached the steps. It was a boy in
an overcoat, with the collar turned up about his ears, and a hat drawn
closely down over his face. There was something familiar about that part
of the face which could be seen, and almost immediately Elizabeth
recognized him. It was Valentine.

He came up the steps and motioned to her to open the door.

"They are out, aren't they?" he asked, in a whisper.

"Why, Val, where did you come from?" exclaimed Elizabeth, but he
interrupted her.

"Hush! Don't talk so loud. Are they out?"

"You mean Aunt Caroline and Aunt Rebecca? Yes, they are. But come in,
Val. Don't stand out there. What is the matter? Have you come to stay?"

"I can't tell you now," he said, coming into the hall. "I am afraid they
will come home and find me. I want you to hide me."

"Val! How can I, and why do you want to hide?"

"I tell you, never mind now. I will tell you some other time. You must
hide me."

"But where?"

"In the locked-up room."

Elizabeth was speechless. She could only look at him.

"Come," exclaimed Valentine, impatiently, "don't stand there staring.
Your eyes look as if they were going to pop out of your head. Let us
hurry!"

"But, Val, I can't hide you there. I have been forbidden to go near that
room, and I don't believe I can get the key now. Aunt Caroline keeps it
in her desk, and her desk is nearly always locked."

"You must hide me there," said Valentine, decidedly, "and we can't stand
here, or I shall be caught."

He ran up stairs, two steps at a time, and Elizabeth was obliged to
follow him, though sorely against her will. What could it all mean? Why
had he come, and why must he not be seen?

He went to the room which he had occupied when he was there a year ago.

"I will wait here," he said, "while you go and try to find the key, and
if you can't find it, we will pick the lock."

"But why must you hide, Val? Why don't you just stay downstairs and tell
Aunt Caroline you have come to make us a visit? She won't mind. She is
not nearly as strict as she used to be, but she would mind dreadfully if
she were to find you in the locked room."

"She won't find me there; that is, not if you have any sense. Of course
if you spoil it all, that is a different thing. I wish you were
Marjorie. She would have understood in a minute. But she will never be
here again to help me--"

A lump came into Val's throat as he said this, and he was silent for a
moment. Then he said,

"Well, are you going?"

"Yes."

The allusion to Marjorie was too much for Elizabeth. She went down to
her aunt's room and walked to the desk. She would at least do this for
Val. Then she would tell him that she could not open the desk, and that
he must give up the idea.

But what did she see? She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The key of
the desk was in the lock!

She stood there irresolute. Her conscience told her that she should not
open it. Her aunt had left the key by an oversight, and she should not
take advantage of it. On the other hand, Val was waiting for her at the
top of the stairs. Apparently it was most important that he should be
hidden; and then--his mention of Marjorie. He had said that Marjorie
would have done it; that she would have helped him. This decided the
question in Elizabeth's mind. She would try to atone to Val if she could
for the loss of his cousin, and perhaps it would have the effect of
making him care for her, his sister.

She opened the desk, and easily finding the little Chinese cabinet, she
took out the keys, closed the desk again, and ran up stairs.

It was a whole year since she had entered the closed room. She had not
been there since she and Val locked the door after the departure of the
Brady girls, and now together they were opening it again.

"The first thing," said he, "is to give me something to eat. I am as
hungry as a hunter. And then I will tell you why I came."

Elizabeth ran down to the pantry. There were crackers to be found there,
and some fresh cake, and there was fruit on the sideboard in the
dining-room. She filled two plates, and thus laden she hastened up the
stairs again. Val had opened the blinds and drawn a chair to the window,
and had made himself completely at home.

"I am mighty glad to get here," he remarked, "and it was the greatest
piece of luck to have you come to the window. I did not know how I was
going to get in, for it is very important that no one but you should
know that I am here. I hung around the corner till I thought I saw the
aunts' carriage drive off, and then you came and sat at the window."

"But, Val, why can't you be seen, and how long are you going to stay? I
am sure I cannot hide you long, and I don't know what Aunt Caroline will
say when she finds it out. I really think she feels worse about this
room than she ever did."

"Leave it all to me, and do just as I say," returned Valentine, loftily.
"If you don't go and make a mull of it, she'll never know. And now I
will tell you why I am here, only first you must promise, on your word
of honor, that you won't give me away."

"I promise--at least I think I do," said Elizabeth, slowly. "But wait a
minute, Val. I wish you would let me tell Patsy."

"Who is Patsy?"

"She is my friend--my intimate friend--and she is just lovely, Val. She
would never tell, and we have promised to tell each other everything. Do
let me."

"No, you can't; not a word. Girls always have to tell each other such a
lot. Now if you want to know how I happened to get here you must promise
not to say a word to her. Will you?"

"Very well," returned Elizabeth, regretfully. "I won't tell her. But,
Val!"

"What is it?"

"I have not promised not to tell Aunt Caroline."

"Aunt Caroline! Why, she is the person of all others that I don't want
to have know it. What on earth do you mean, Elizabeth?"

The little girl was standing by the dressing-table. For a moment she did
not speak, and she slowly turned over, one by one, the pile of unopened
letters which had been lying there so long.

"If I promise not to tell, are you going to explain why you came and all
about it?" she asked.

"Yes--every word."

"Oh, I do want to know so much! And if I tell Aunt Caroline you are
here, what will you do?"

"I sha'n't explain a word of it, and I will never have another thing to
do with you. I shall always think you are the meanest girl in creation,
and so you will be. I shall just wish you were not my sister. Oh,
jiminy! why aren't you Marjorie? _She_ would have helped me out."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XVII.


Very splendid was the ball at the palace that night, and very splendid
to George's provincial eyes were the assemblies in the great Apollo Room
at the Raleigh, where the wits and beaux and belles of the colonial
court assembled. Sir John Peyton was not the only dandy to be met with
there, although by far the most entertaining. There were many handsome
and imposing matrons, but George saw none that his mother could not
outshine in dignity and grace; and many beautiful girls, but none more
charming than Betty. As communication with his home was easy and
frequent, he could write long descriptive letters to Ferry Farm, as well
as to Mount Vernon. Betty became so infatuated with George's accounts of
the fine people and gay doings at Williamsburg that she wrote George: "I
wish, dear George, you would not write me any more about the routs and
assemblies at Williamsburg, for your poor sister's head is so full of
junkets and capers and the like that she attends to her duties very ill,
and drops stitches in her knitting, which brings her many reproofs, and
plays nothing but jigs on the harpsichord, instead of those noble
compositions of Mr. Handel of which our mother is so fond."

George laughed when he read this. He know, no matter how much Betty's
little head might be filled with gayeties, she never forgot to do her
whole duty, and had always time for a kind act or an affectionate word
to others. But there were more than balls and routs and Governor's
levees in this visit. George had the opportunity of knowing men
prominent in colonial matters--statesmen, scholars, lawyers, men of
affairs; and Lord Fairfax, ever on the alert for his favorite's
advancement, lost no chance of bringing him to the attention of those in
power.

Among the persons they met were many officers of the Governor's suite,
as well as those attached to the ships at Yorktown. George's passion for
a military life had never died or even languished; but by the exertion
of a powerful will he had kept it in abeyance until the times were ripe.
Already were Governor Dinwiddie and his council preparing a scheme of
defence for the frontier, and Lord Fairfax, with other leading men in
the colony, were invited to meet the Governor and council to discuss
these affairs. After attending one of these meetings, the Earl, on
coming back to his lodgings, said:

"George, after our conference broke up I talked with the Governor
concerning you and your future, and he promised me, if the plan is
carried out of dividing the colony into districts, with an
Inspector-General with the rank of Major for each, that you shall have a
commission--that is, if you have not given up your wish for a military
life."

As Lord Fairfax spoke a deep red dyed George's face.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "I never have given up, I never can give up,
my wish for a military life; and although I did not accept the warrant I
was given in the navy, it almost broke my heart. But fighting for my
country is another thing; and if the Governor calls on me for my
services it would certainly be my duty to respond--and I shall."

After four delightful weeks in Williamsburg they returned to Mount
Vernon; and George, following his plan for two years past, divided his
time between Mount Vernon and Ferry Farm until April, when he again
started for Greenway Court, where Lord Fairfax had preceded him. Again
he started for the frontier with Gist and Davidson, and again he
repeated the experiences of the former year almost without the slightest
variation. But on his return in September to Greenway Court a melancholy
letter from Laurence Washington awaited him. The doctors had declared a
sea-voyage the only thing that would restore Laurence's health; and
passage for Barbadoes had been engaged in the _Sprightly Jane_, a
commodious merchantman sailing between Alexandria and the West Indies.
Laurence wrote, saying that George must accompany him, otherwise he
would not go, to suffer and die, perhaps, among strangers.

Two hours after receiving this letter George was on his way to Mount
Vernon. The Earl, ever kind, assured him that Gist and Davidson, both
highly intelligent men, could give him all the information necessary,
together with George's papers, and, furnished with the best horse in the
stables at Greenway Court, George set out with a heavy heart. He
travelled night and day, and reached Mount Vernon a week before the very
earliest day that he was expected. His brother's pale and emaciated
countenance, his sister's anxiety, cut George to the heart. All the
preparations for sailing were made, and the _Sprightly Jane_ only waited
a fair wind to trip her anchor. George took time to spend one day at
Ferry Farm. Madam Washington was a woman of great fortitude, except in
one particular--she trembled at the idea of danger to this best-beloved
son; but she made no objection to the voyage, which she saw that George
considered not only his duty but his pleasure to make to oblige the best
of brothers. But Betty had fortitude even in parting with him. As George
rode back through the night to Mount Vernon he could not recall a single
instance in connection with himself in which Betty had considered
herself or her love for him or the solace of his society; always, her
first and only thought was for his credit.

"Dear Betty," thought George, as his horse took the road steadily
through the darkness, "I believe you would inspire the veriest poltroon
that walks with courage to do his duty."

And Betty was so very pretty and winning and coquettish, and had troops
of young gentlemen to admire her, at whom George scowled darkly, and
thought Betty entirely too young for such things. But Betty thought
differently, and rated George soundly for his overbearing ways in that
respect. For she was not the least afraid of him, and could talk him
down with the greatest spirit and emphasis at any time, George being a
little in awe of Betty's nimble tongue.

Late in September Laurence Washington, with George and his faithful
body-servant Peter, sailed for Barbadoes. The voyage lasted five weeks,
and was very tedious. It did more to cure George of his still
smouldering passion for a sea life than he had thought possible. To a
young man accustomed to the boundless forests the confinement was
irksome. He was used to pursue his plans regardless of weather, and the
lying motionless for days in a dead and depressing calm chafed him
inexpressibly. Laurence, who bore patiently all the discomforts and
delays of their position, could not forbear a wan smile when George,
coming down one day to his cabin, burst forth:

"Brother, you were right to prefer the army to the navy for me. At
least, let me be where if I walk ten miles I shall be ten miles advanced
on my way. I have walked ten miles around this vessel, and I am just
where I started."

On a beautiful autumn morning, under a dazzling sun, they landed at
Barbadoes. The Governor of the island, hearing that the sick gentleman
had once been an officer in the British army, immediately called at
their temporary lodgings and offered every kindness in his power. He
advised Laurence to take a house in the country near the sea, where the
air was good. That afternoon they drove out to the house recommended by
the Governor, and in a few days were comfortably established there.

At first Laurence improved much. He received every attention, and took
pleasure in the society of the officers of the garrison, who found two
polished and educated strangers a great resource in their monotonous
lives. So anxious was one of them--Colonel Clarke--to have them to
dinner that he very unwisely invited them, without mentioning that a
member of his family was just recovering from the small-pox.

They knew nothing of it until their return home, when both of them were
naturally indignant; and George had reason to be, for within nine days
he was seized with a well-marked case of the terrible disease. In
anticipation of it, he had made every arrangement, and, having engaged
an old Barbadian negro, who had had small-pox, for a nurse he shut
himself up to fight the disease.

His powerful constitution triumphed over it, and in three weeks he was
well. But never in all his life did he forget the sufferings of those
dreadful weeks. Utterly unused to illness, he endured agonies of
restlessness, and was like a caged lion in his wrath and furious
impatience. The old Barbadian, who had nursed many small-pox patients,
made him laugh, while in one of his worst moods, by saying, gravely:

"Barbadian nuss small-pox folks forty year. 'Ain't neber see no patient
so bad like Massa Washington."

A fear haunted him that sometimes made him smile grimly, but,
nevertheless, gave him some anxious moments. The idea of being horribly
disfigured for life was bitter to him. He saw no one but the old
Barbadian, and felt afraid to ask him; and as he said nothing about the
marks of the disease, there was room to suspect they were bad. George
had been able to sit up several days before he dared to look in the
glass. At last one day, nerving himself, he walked steadily to the
mirror and looked at himself, expecting to see a vision of horror. To
his amazement and deep relief, there was not a single permanent mark.
His skin was red, his eyes were hollow and sunken, and he was not by any
means the handsome young man who had landed on the island four weeks
before, but he was unmarked. He felt a deep thankfulness in his heart
when he was thoroughly recovered, though he was distressed to find that
his brother grew daily weaker.

Christmas amid waving palmettoes and under a tropical sky was dreary to
the two brothers, and soon after it became plain that the climate was
doing Laurence no good. One night, calling George to him, he said:

"George, I have determined to leave this island and, with Peter, go to
Bermuda. But I am homesick and heartsick for those I love, therefore I
have determined to send you back to the colony for your sister Anne, to
bring her to me. If I am compelled to be an exile, I will, at least,
have the comfort of her society, and I do not think it right, at your
age, to keep you forever tied to a sick man's chair."

George answered, with tears in his eyes, "Whatever you wish, brother,
shall be done."

It was found that a vessel was sailing for the Potomac in January, and
on her, with a heart heavier than when he came, George embarked the same
day that his brother sailed for Bermuda.

Storms instead of calms delayed this return voyage, and it was late in
February before George reached Mount Vernon. He tried to make the best
of Laurence's condition in describing it to his sister, but Mrs.
Washington, with a sad smile, stopped him.

"I know all that your kind heart, George, would make you say; but I know
also that my husband is very, very ill, and when I go to him now it will
be never to leave him again."

The _Sprightly Jane_ was to make another voyage in March, and it was
intended that George and his sister should sail on her; but she was
delayed below Mount Vernon for two weeks, waiting for a wind. One
morning late in March, George, looking out of the window on rising to
see if there were any chance of getting off that day, felt a strong wind
from the northwest; but as soon as his eyes fell on the river he saw a
frigate at anchor that had evidently come in during the night. And while
watching her he saw the Captain's gig shove off with two figures in it
that wonderfully resembled his brother Laurence and his faithful Peter.
George jumped into his clothes, and ran down stairs and to the shore to
make certain, and there in the boat, half supported by his servant, lay
Laurence, pale and ill beyond description, but with a happy light in his
weary, suffering eyes. In a few minutes Mrs. Washington came flying
down, and, with clasped hands and tears streaming down her cheeks,
awaited her husband on the end of the little wharf. The negroes flocked
after her, and shouts and cries resounded of, "Howdy, Marse Laurence!
Bless de Lord, you done come! Hi! yonder is dat ar Peter! Lordy, Peter!"

This joyous welcome, the presence of faces dear and familiar, the sight
of home, was almost too much happiness for the poor invalid. George
literally carried Laurence in his strong young arms up to the house,
while his wife clung to his hand, the old black mammy hung over him,
blessing "de Lam'" for letting him return to them, and the negroes
yah-yahed with delight.

"I could not stay away any longer," said Laurence, "and when the ship
came to Bermuda, and the kind Captain saw how hard it was for me to
stay, to die among strangers, he invited me to return with him as his
guest. I thought that you, Anne, and George might already have started
for Bermuda, but, thanks to the good God, I find you here."

All those who loved Laurence Washington saw that day that his end was
near, and within three months, with the calmness of the Christian
soldier, he gave up his life.

       *       *       *       *       *

One gloomy September day, just a year from the time he had set forth
with his brother on that dreary voyage, George realized that at last he
was master of Mount Vernon, and the realization was among the most
painful moments of his life. He returned to the place from Belvoir, the
home of his sister's father, where he had left her. In vain he had
pleaded with her to continue at Mount Vernon, for Laurence in his will
had given it to her during her lifetime. But, gentle and submissive in
all else, Anne Washington would not and could not return to the home of
her brief married happiness and the spot connected with the long series
of crushing griefs that had befallen her.

To all of George's pleadings she had answered:

"No, George. Anywhere on earth to me is better than Mount Vernon. I
understand what you feel and have not spoken--that you do not wish to
appear to be master while I am living. But you must. I have no fear that
you will not give me my share and more of what comes from the estate;
but I would give it all up rather than go back. My father's house is the
least painful place to me now."

There was no moving her, and at last she was permitted to have her own
way.

The servants all crowded around him, and the old mammy, who was promoted
to be housekeeper, wanted him to take the rooms that had once been his
brother's; but George would not, and had his belongings placed in the
little room overlooking the river which had been his from his boyhood.
This much disgusted Billy, who thought the master of Mount Vernon quite
too modest. He spent the autumn there, varied by occasional visits to
Ferry Farm and his sister at Belvoir. He worked hard, for he regarded
himself as merely his sister's steward, and he determined never to make
her regret either his brother's or her own generosity to him. He never
thought Mount Vernon could be so dreary to him. William Fairfax, who was
then graduated from William and Mary College, came over to see him
often, but George had not the heart to return even William's visits, so
it was all on one side. His mother and Betty came to visit him, but
Madam Washington had upon her hands three growing lads, the eldest a
tall youth of seventeen, and with the vast cares and responsibilities of
the mistress of a plantation in those days, she could not be absent for
long. The only time in which there was any real brightness was once when
Betty came over and staid a whole month with him. George's affections,
like his passions, were rooted in the fibre of his being, and he felt
his brother's death with a depth of sorrow that only those who knew him
well could understand.

At Christmas he gave all the negroes their usual privileges and
presents, but closed the house and went to Ferry Farm. In the
holiday-time his coming gave the greatest joy, and the cloud upon him
began to lift a little.

Meanwhile he had received his commission as Major and Inspector-General
of the forces in his district from Governor Dinwiddie, and he entered
with enthusiasm into his work. He attended the general musters
diligently at Alexandria, and used all his influence in promoting
enlistments in the militia. He was then nineteen years old--the youngest
Major in the colonial service.

He was in constant receipt of letters from Lord Fairfax giving him news
of affairs on the frontier, which were assuming a menacing aspect. In
one of these letters Lord Fairfax wrote: "The policy of the English has
always been to keep on friendly terms with the Six Nations, and the
good-will of these great and powerful tribes is essential in the coming
conflict. But they have been tampered with by the French, and the great
chief lately sent me this message: 'Where are the Indian lands, anyway?
For the French claim all on one side of the Ohio and the English claim
all on the other.' By which you will see, my dear George, that in
diplomacy, as in war, you will find these chiefs no fools. Our honorable
Governor means well, but I think he will wait until a few men, and
perhaps women, are scalped before taking any decisive measures. I need
not say I long to see you. Let not another year pass without your coming
to Greenway Court."

All during the summer George kept up an active correspondence with the
Earl, who had special means of finding out the truth. In the early
autumn he received a very pressing message from the Governor, requiring
his presence at Williamsburg. George set off immediately, with Billy, as
usual, in charge of his saddle-bags. These sudden journeys, in which
George could ride tirelessly night and day, very much disgusted Billy,
who, as a man, was quite as fond of his ease as when a boy, but he was
obliged to start on short notice.

They arrived at Williamsburg in the evening, and George immediately sent
Billy to the palace with a letter notifying the Governor of his arrival.
In a very little while a letter came back from Governor Dinwiddie asking
Major Washington's presence at the palace at his very earliest
convenience.

George had held his commission as Major for more than a year, and at
twenty-one military titles have a captivating sound. So Major
Washington, as soon as he had got his supper, changed his
travelling-suit, and, preceded by Billy with a lantern, picked his way
through the muddy streets to the palace. Then the door opened, and Major
Washington was announced.

George's appearance, always striking, was more so from the handsome
mourning-suit he still wore, although his brother had been dead more
than a year. It showed off his blond beauty wonderfully well. His
features had become more marked as he grew older, and although his face
lacked the regular beauty of his father's, who had been thought the
handsomest man of his time, there was a piercing expression, an
indescribable look of dignity and intelligence, in George's countenance,
which marked him in every company.

The Governor, who was a fussy but well-meaning man, began, as soon as
the formal greetings were over: "Major Washington, I have work in hand
for you. I am told by my Lord Fairfax and others that you are the
fittest person in the colony for the expedition I have in hand. It
requires the discretion of an old man, but it also requires the
hardiness and strength of a young man; and you see, therefore, what a
burden I lay upon you."

George's face turned quite pale at these words. "Sir," he stammered,
"you ask more of me than I can do. I will give all my time and all my
mind to my country, but I am afraid, sir--I am very much afraid--that
you are putting me in a position that I am not capable of filling."

[Illustration: "HERE ARE YOUR INSTRUCTIONS."]

"We must trust some one, Major Washington, and I sent not for you until
I and my council had fully determined what to do. Here are your
instructions. You will see that you are directed to set out with a
suitable escort at once for the Ohio River, and convene all the chiefs
you can at Logstown. You are to find out exactly how they stand towards
us. You are then to take such a route as you think judicious to the
nearest French post, deliver a letter from me, sealed with the great
seal of the colony, to the French commandant, and demand an answer in
the name of his Britannic Majesty. You are to find out everything
possible in regard to the number of French forts, their armament,
troops, commissariat, and where they are situated; and upon the
information you bring will depend to a great degree whether there shall
be war between England and France. When will you be ready to depart?"

"To-morrow morning, sir," answered George.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN.

BY JAMES BARNES.


The first Thomas Macdonough was a Major in the Continental army, and his
three sons also possessed desires for entering the service of their
country. The oldest had been a midshipman under Commodore Truxton, but
being wounded in the action between the _Constellation_ and
_L'Insurgent_, he had to retire from the navy, owing to the amputation
of his leg. But his younger brother, Thomas Macdonough, Jun., succeeded
him, and he has rendered his name and that of Lake Champlain
inseparable; but his fearlessness and bravery were shown on many
occasions long before he was ordered to the Lakes.

In 1806 he was First Lieutenant of the _Siren_, a little sloop-of-war in
the Mediterranean service. On one occasion when Captain Smith, the
commander of the _Siren_, had gone on shore, young Lieutenant Macdonough
saw a boat from a British frigate lying in the harbor row up to an
American brig a short distance off, and afterwards put out again with
one more man in her than she had originally. This looked suspicious, and
Macdonough sent to the brig to ascertain the reason, with the result
that he found that an American had been impressed by the English
Captain's orders. Macdonough quietly lowered his own boat, and put after
the heavy cutter, which he soon overhauled. Although he had but four men
with him, he took the man out of the cutter and brought him on board the
_Siren_. When the English Captain heard, or rather saw, what had
occurred--it was right under the bow of his frigate that the affair took
place--he waxed wroth, and, calling away his gig, he rowed to the
_Siren_ to demand an explanation.

The following account of the incident is quoted from the life of
Macdonough in Frost's _Naval Biography_:

"The Englishman desired to know how Macdonough dared to take a man from
one of his Majesty's boats. The Lieutenant, with great politeness, asked
him down into the cabin; this he refused, at the same time repeating the
same demand, with abundance of threats. The Englishman threw out some
threats that he would take the man by force, and said he would haul the
frigate alongside the _Siren_ for that purpose. To this Macdonough
replied that he supposed his ship could sink the _Siren_, but as long as
she could swim he should keep the man. The English Captain said to
Macdonough:

"'You are a very young man, and a very indiscreet young man. Suppose I
had been in the boat--what would you have done?'

"'I would have taken the man or lost my life.'

"'What, sir! would you attempt to stop me, if I were now to attempt to
impress men from that brig?'

"'I would; and to convince yourself I would, you have only to make the
attempt.'

"On this the Englishman went on board his ship, and shortly afterwards
was seen bearing down in her in the direction of the American vessel.
Macdonough ordered his boat manned and armed, got into her himself, and
was in readiness for pursuit. The Englishman took a circuit around the
American brig, and returned again to the frigate. When Captain Smith
came on board he justified the conduct of Macdonough, and declared his
intention to protect the American seaman."

Although Macdonough was very young, and his rank but that of a
Lieutenant, people who knew him were not surprised to hear that he had
been appointed to take command of the little squadron on Lake Champlain.
These vessels were built of green pine, and almost without exception
constructed in a hurried fashion. They had to be of light draught, and
yet, odd to relate, their general model was the same as that of ships
that were expected to meet storms and high seas.

Macdonough was just the man for the place; as in the case of Perry, he
had a superb self-reliance, and was eager to meet the enemy.

Lake Champlain and the country that surrounds it were considered of
great importance by the English, and, descending from Canada, large
bodies of troops poured into New York State. But the American government
had, long before the war was fairly started, recognized the advantage of
keeping the water communications on the northern frontier. The English
began to build vessels on the upper part of the lake, and the small
force of ships belonging to the Americans was increased as fast as
possible. It was a race to see which could prepare the better fleet in
the shorter space of time.

In the fall of the year 1814 the English had one fair-sized frigate, the
_Confiance_, mounting 39 guns; a brig, the _Linnet_; a sloop, _Chubb_,
and the sloop _Finch_; besides which they possessed thirteen large
galleys aggregating 18 guns. In all, therefore, the English fleet
mounted 95 guns. The Americans had the _Saratoga_, sloop-of-war, 26
guns; the _Eagle_, 20; the _Ticonderoga_, 17; the _Preble_, 7; and ten
galleys carrying 16 guns; their total armament was nine guns less than
the British.

By the first week in September Sir George Prevost had organized his
forces, and started at the head of fourteen thousand men to the
southward. It was his intention to dislodge General Macomb, who was
stationed at Plattsburg, where considerable fortifications had been
erected. A great deal of the militia force had been drawn down the State
to the city of New York, owing to the fears then entertained that the
British intended to make an attack upon the city from their fleet. It
was Sir George's plan to destroy forever the power of the Americans upon
the lake, and for that reason it was necessary to capture the naval
force which had been for some time under the command of Macdonough. The
English leader arranged a plan with Captain Downie, who was at the head
of the squadron, that simultaneous attacks should be made by water and
land. At eight o'clock on the morning of September 11 news was brought
to Lieutenant Macdonough that the enemy was approaching. As his own
vessels were in a good position to repel the attack, he decided to
remain at anchor, and await the onslaught in a line formation. In about
an hour the enemy had come within gunshot distance, and formed a line of
his own parallel with that of the Americans. There was little or no
breeze, and consequently small chance for manoeuvring. The _Confiance_
evidently claimed the honor of exchanging broadsides with the
_Saratoga_. The _Linnet_ stopped opposite the _Eagle_, and the galleys
rowed in and began to fire at the _Ticonderoga_ and the _Preble_.

[Illustration: THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN.--"SARATOGA" RAKING
"CONFIANCE."]

Macdonough wrote such a clear and concise account of the action that it
is best to quote from it:

".... The whole force on both sides became engaged, the _Saratoga_
suffering much from the heavy fire of the _Confiance_. I could perceive
at the same time, however, that our fire was very destructive to her.
The _Ticonderoga_, Lieutenant-Commandant Cassin, gallantly sustained her
full share of the action. At half past ten the _Eagle_, not being able
to bring her guns to bear, cut her cable, and anchored in a more
eligible position, between my ship and the _Ticonderoga_, where she very
much annoyed the enemy, but unfortunately leaving me exposed to a
galling fire from the enemy's brig.

"Our guns on the starboard side being nearly all dismounted or
unmanageable, a stern anchor was let go, the bower-cable cut, and the
ship winded with a fresh broadside on the enemy's ship, which soon after
surrendered. Our broadside was then sprung to bear on the brig, which
struck about fifteen minutes afterwards. The sloop which was opposed to
the _Eagle_ had struck some time before, and drifted down the line. The
sloop which was with their galleys had also struck. Three of their
galleys are said to be sunk; the others pulled off. Our galleys were
about obeying with alacrity the signal to follow them, when all the
vessels were reported to me to be in a sinking state. It then became
necessary to annul the signal to the galleys, and order their men to the
pumps. I could only look at the enemy's galleys going off in a shattered
condition; for there was not a mast in either squadron that could stand
to make sail on. The lower rigging, being nearly all shot away, hung
down as though it had just been placed over the mastheads.

"The _Saratoga_ had fifty-nine round shot in her hull; the _Confiance_
one hundred and five. The enemy's shot passed principally just over
our heads, as there were not twenty whole hammocks in the nettings at
the close of the action, which lasted, without intermission, two hours
and twenty minutes.

"The absence and sickness of Lieutenant Raymond Perry left me without
the assistance of that able officer. Much ought fairly to be attributed
to him for his great care and attention in disciplining the ship's crew,
as her First Lieutenant. His place was filled by a gallant young
officer, Lieutenant Peter Gamble, who, I regret to inform you, was
killed early in the action."

The English had begun the action as if they never doubted the result
being to their advantage, and before taking up their positions in the
line parallel to Macdonough's Downie had sailed upon the waiting fleet
bows on; thus most of his vessels had been severely raked before they
were able to return the fire. As soon as Sir George Prevost saw the
results of the action out on the water, he gave up all idea of conquest,
and began the retreat that left New York free to breathe again. The
frontier was saved. The hills and the shores of the lake had been
crowded with multitudes of farmers, and the two armies encamped on shore
had stopped their own preparations and fighting to watch.

Sir George Prevost had bombarded the American forts from the opposite
side of the river Saranac, and a brigade endeavored to ford the river
with the intention of attacking the rear of General Macomb's position.
However, they got lost in the woods, and were recalled by a mounted
messenger just in time to hear the cheers and shouts of victory arise
from all about them.

In the battle the _Saratoga_ had twenty-eight men killed and twenty-nine
wounded, more than a quarter of her entire crew; the _Eagle_ lost
thirteen killed and twenty wounded; the _Ticonderoga_, six killed and
six wounded; the _Preble_, two killed; and the galleys, three killed and
three wounded. The _Saratoga_ was hulled fifty-five times, and had
caught on fire twice from the hot shot fired by the _Confiance_. The
latter vessel was reported to have lost forty-one killed outright and
eighty-three wounded. In all, the British loss was eighty-four killed
and one hundred and ten wounded.

Macdonough received substantial testimonials of gratitude from the
country at large, the Legislature of New York giving him one thousand
acres of land, and the State of Vermont two hundred. Besides this, the
corporations of Albany and New York city made him the present of a
valuable lot, and from his old command in the Mediterranean he received
a handsome presentation sword.




An English journalist travelling through the United States relates a
humorous incident in his experience out West. He was journeying overland
on horseback, and one day, after a long spell of desolate travel, he
espied a house on the prairie. He rode up to the doorway and accosted
the only person around, a long gentleman in boots, these boots seemingly
trying to reach the sky, they were perched so high above the owner's
head. They came slowly down at the salutation.

"Howdy do, stranger? Glad ter see yer. This is Boonville," and with a
sweeping gesture he compassed a landscape of grass and wooden stakes.
"There's Broadway runnin' down 'tween them stakes, and there's Chicago
Avenue, St. Louis Avenue, St. Paul Avenue, and all them are streets
staked off'n it. On the lookout for a buildin' site?"

"No," replied the journalist; "I'm just travelling for pleasure, not for
investment."

"That's my luck, stranger. Here's this town been er-runnin' full blast
with all the offices filled, and I can't get a citizen."

"Where's the Mayor?"

"I'm the Mayor."

"Where are the police, judges, and that sort of thing?"

"I'm all that. Yer see, stranger, I'm everything. I elects myself to all
offices; but it's mighty poor payin' ones I'm er-holdin'."

"How do you manage to get along, then?"

"Don't, stranger; that's the puzzle. Yer see, there's only fifty cents
in the town treasury, and I've been payin' my rent and taxes with it,
and collecting my salary as Mayor and all my other offices from it so
long and it's been handled so much that the town books won't balance any
more. Yer see, I can't find anything to balance the books with fur the
wear of the silver off that coin, and I'm out that much. Now, stranger,
if yer not goin' ter invest, and want ter boom the town er little, yer
might make up that deficit in the treasury, so's I kin balance them
books, and make things square for the next Mayor."




THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

IX.


The next day was Sunday, so we did not leave the White River camp till
Monday morning. We found Chadron (pronounced Shadron) an extremely
lively town in which all of the citizens wore big hats and immense
jingling Mexican spurs. We had the big hats, but to be in fashion and
not to attract attention we also got jingling spurs.

"I shall wear 'em all night," said Jack, as he strapped his on. "Only
dudes take off their spurs when they go to bed, and I'm no dude."

Our next objective point was Rapid City. It was a beautiful morning when
we turned to the north. The sand had disappeared, and the soil was more
like asphalt pavement.

"The farmers fire their seed into the ground with six-shooters," said a
man we fell in with on the road. "Very expensive for powder."

"The soil's what you call gumbo, isn't it?" I said to him.

"Yes. Works better when it's wet. One man can stick a spade into it
then. Takes two to pull it out, though."

It was not long before we passed the Dakota line, marked by a post and a
pile of tin cans. Shortly before noon Ollie made a discovery.

"What are those little animals?" he cried. "Oh, I know--prairie-dogs!"

There was a whole town of them right beside the road, with every dog
sitting on top of the mound that marked his home, and uttering his
shrill little bark, and marking each bark by a peculiar little jerk of
his tail.

"How do you know they are prairie-dogs?" asked Jack.

"They had some of them in the park at home," said Ollie. "But last fall
they all went down in their burrows for the winter, and in the spring
they didn't come up. Folks said they must have frozen to death."

"Nonsense," said Jack. "They got turned around somehow, and in the
spring dug down instead of digging up. They may come out in China yet if
they have good luck."

"I can't hardly swallow _that_," replied Ollie. "But, anyhow, these seem
to be all right."

There must have been three or four hundred of them, and not for a moment
did one of them stop barking till Snoozer jumped out of the wagon and
charged them, when, with one last bark, each one of them shot down his
hole so quick that it was almost impossible to see him move.

"Now that's just about the sort of game that Snoozer likes," exclaimed
Jack. "If they were badgers, or even woodchucks, you couldn't drive him
at them."

"I don't think there is much danger of his getting any of them," said
Ollie.

We called Snoozer back, and soon one of the little animals cautiously
put up his head, saw that the coast was clear, gave one bark, and all
the rest came up, and the concert began as if nothing had happened.

"I suppose that was the mayor of the town that peeped up first," said
Ollie.

"Yes, or the chief of police," answered Jack.

We camped that night by the bed of a dry creek, and watered the horses
at a settler's house half a mile away.

"That's the most beautiful place for a stream I ever saw," observed
Jack. "If a man had a creek and no bed for it to run in, he'd be awfully
glad to get that."

Tho next day was distinctly a prairie-dog day. We passed dozens of
their towns, and were seldom out of hearing of their peculiar chirp.

"I wonder," said Ollie, "if the bark makes the tail go, or does the tail
set off the bark."

"Oh, neither," returned Jack. "They simply check off the barks with
their tails. There's a National Prairie-Dog Barking Contest going on,
and they are seeing who can yelp the most in a week. They keep count
with their tails."

At the little town of Oelrichs we saw a number of Indians, since we were
again near the reservation. One little girl nine or ten years old must
have been the daughter of an important personage, since she was dressed
in most gorgeous clothes, all covered with beads and colored
porcupine-quill-work. And at last Ollie saw an Indian wearing feathers.
Three eagle feathers stuck straight up in his hair. He was standing
outside of a log house looking in the window. By-and-by a young lady
came to the door of the house, and as we were nearer than anybody else,
she motioned us to come over.

"I wish," she said, "that you'd please go around and ask Big Bear to go
away. He keeps looking in the window and bothering the scholars."

We stepped around the corner, and Jack said, "See here, neighbor Big
Bear, you're impeding the cause of education."

The Indian looked at him stolidly but did not move.

[Illustration: "TEACHER SAYS VAMOOSE."]

"Teacher says vamoose--heap bother pappooses," said Jack.

The Indian grunted and walked away.

"Nothing like understanding the language," boasted Jack, as we went back
to the wagon.

At noon we camped beside a stream, but thirty feet above it. There was a
clay bank almost as hard as stone rising perpendicularly from the
water's edge. With a pail and rope we drew up all the water we needed.
In the afternoon we got our first sight of the Black Hills, like clouds
low on the northern horizon. About the same time we struck into the old
Sidney trail, which, before the railroad had reached nearer points, was
used in carrying freight to the hills in wagons. In some places it was
half a mile wide and consisted of a score or more of tracks worn into
deep ruts. There was a herd of several thousand Texas cattle crossing
the trail in charge of a dozen men, and we waited and watched them go
by. Ollie had never seen such a display of horns before.

Shortly after this we came upon the first sage-bush which we had seen.
It was queer gray stuff, shaped like miniature trees, and had the
appearance of being able to get along with very little rain.

Toward night we found ourselves winding down among the hills to the
Cheyenne River. They were strange-looking hills, most of them utterly
barren on their sides, which were nearly perpendicular, the hard soil
standing almost as firm as rock. They were ribbed and seamed by the
rain--in fact, they were not hills at all, properly speaking, but small
bluffs left by the washing out of the ravines by the rain and melting
snows. Just as the sun was sinking among the distant hills we came to
the river. It was shallow, only four or five yards wide, and we easily
forded it and camped on the other side. The full moon was just rising
over the eastern hills. There was not a sound to be heard except the
gentle murmur of the stream and the faint rustle of the leaves on a few
cottonwood trees. There was plenty of driftwood all around, and after
supper we built up the largest camp-fire we had ever had. The flame
leaped up above the wagon-top, and drifted away in a column of sparks
and smoke, while the three horses stood in the background with their
heads close together munching their hay, and the four of us (counting
Snoozer) lay on the ground and blinked at the fire.

"This is what I call the proper thing," remarked Jack, after some time,
as he rolled over on his blanket and looked at the great round moon.

"Yes," I said, "this will do well enough. But it would be pretty cool
here if it wasn't for that fire."

"Yes, the nights are getting colder, that's certain. I was just
wondering if that cover will withstand snow as well as it does rain?"

"Why," said Ollie, "do you think it's going to snow?"

"Not to-night," returned Jack. "But it may before we get out of the
mountains. The snow comes pretty early up there sometimes. I think I'll
get inside and share the bed with the rancher after this, and you and
Snoozer can curl up in the front end of the wagon-box. It would be a
joke if we got snowed in somewhere, and had to live in the Rattletrap
till spring."

"I wouldn't care if we could keep warm," said Ollie. "I like living in
it better than in any house I ever saw."

"I'm afraid it would get a little monotonous along in March," laughed
Jack. "Though I think myself it's a pretty good place to live.
Stationary houses begin to seem tame. I hope the trip won't spoil us
all, and make vagabonds of us for the rest of our lives."

We were reluctant to leave this camp the next morning, but knew that we
must be moving on. It was but a few miles to the town of Buffalo Gap,
and we passed through it before noon.

"There are more varmints," cried Ollie, as we were driving through the
town. They were in a cage in front of a store, and we stopped to see
them.

"What are they?" one of us asked the man who seemed to own them.

"Bob-cats," he answered, promptly.

"Must be a Buffalo Gap name for wild-cats," said Jack, as we drove on,
"because that's what they are."

Ollie had gone into a store to buy some cans of fruit, and when he came
out he looked much bewildered.

[Illustration: "KEEP IT, SONNY; I HAVEN'T GOT ANY CHICKENS."]

"I think," he said, "that that man must be crazy, or something. There
were thirty cents coming to me in change. He tossed out a quarter and
said, 'Two bits,' and then a dime and said, 'Short bit--thank you,' and
closed up the drawer and started off. I didn't want more than was coming
to me, so I handed out a nickel and said, 'There, that makes it right.'
The man looked at it, laughed, and pushed it back, and said, 'Keep it,
sonny; I haven't got any chickens.' Now, I'd like to know what it all
meant."

We both laughed, and when Jack recovered his composure he said:

"It means simply that we're getting out into the mining country, where
no coin less than a dime circulates. He didn't happen to have three
dimes, so the best he could do was to give you either twenty-five or
thirty-five cents, and he was letting you have the benefit of the
situation by making it thirty-five. A bit is twelve and a half cents,
and a short bit ten cents. A two-bit piece is a quarter."

"Yes; but what about his not keeping chickens?"

"Oh, that was simply his humorous way of saying that all coins under a
dime are fit only for chicken feed."

We camped that night beside the trail near a little log store. "What you
want to do," said the man in charge, "is to take your horses down there
behind them trees to park 'em for the night. Good feed down there."

"'To park,'" said Jack, in a low voice. "New and interesting verb. He
means turn 'em out to grass. We mustn't appear green." Then he said to
the man:

"Yes, we reckoned we'd park 'em down there to-night."

The next day was the coldest we had experienced, and we were glad to
walk to keep warm. We were getting among the smaller of the hills, with
their tops covered with the peculiarly dark pine-trees which give the
whole range its name. We camped at night under a high bank which
afforded some protection from the chilly east wind. Now that we were all
sleeping in the wagon there was no room in it to store the sacks of
horse feed which we had, and we knew that if we put them outside that
Old Blacky would eat them up before morning.

"There's nothing to do," said Jack, "but to carry them around up on that
bank and hang them down with ropes. Leave 'em about twelve feet from the
bottom and ten feet from the top, and I don't _think_ the Pet can get
them."

We accordingly did so, and went to bed with the old scoundrel standing
and looking up at the bags wistfully, though he had just had all that
any horse needed for supper. But in the morning we found that he had
clambered up high enough to get hold of the bottom of one of the sacks
and pull it down and devour fully half of it. He was, as Jack said, "the
worst horse that ever looked through a collar."

[Illustration: THE RATTLETRAP IN THE STORM.]

But the weather in the morning gave us more concern than did the
foraging of the ancient Blacky. It was even colder than the night
before, and the raw east wind was rawer, and with it all there was a
drizzling rain. It was not a hard rain, but one of the kind that comes
down in small clinging drops and blows in your face in a fine spray.
Jack got breakfast in the wagon, and we ate the hot cakes and
warmed-over grouse with a good relish. Then he loaded in what was left
of the horse feed, and started.

It was impossible to keep warm even by walking, but we plodded on and
made the best of it. The road was hilly and stony; but by noon we had
got beyond the rain, and for the rest of the way it was dry even if
cold. The hills among which we were winding grew constantly higher, and
the quantity of pine timber upon their summits greater. Just as dusk was
beginning to creep down we came around one which might fairly have been
called a small mountain, and saw Rapid City spread out before us, the
largest town we had seen since leaving Yankton. We skirted around it,
and came to camp under another hill and near a big stone quarry a
half-mile west of town. There was a mill-race just below us, and plenty
of water. We fed the horses and had supper. There was a road not much
over a hundred yards in front of our camp, along which, through the
darkness, we could hear teams and wagons passing.

"I wonder where it goes to?" said Ollie.

"I think it's the great Deadwood trail over which all the supplies are
drawn to the mines by mule or horse or ox teams," said Jack. "There's no
railroad, you know, and everything has to go by wagon--goods and
supplies in, and a great deal of ore out. Let's go over and see."

The moon was not yet risen and the sky was covered with clouds, so it
was extremely dark. We took along our lantern, but it did not make much
impression on the darkness. When we reached the road we found that
everywhere we stepped we went over our shoe-tops in the soft dust. We
heard a deep strange creaking noise mixed with what sounded like reports
of a pistol around the bend in the trail. Soon we could make out what
seemed to be a long herd of cattle winding toward us, with what might
have been a circus tent swaying about behind them.

"What's coming?" we asked of a boy who was going by.

"Old Henderson," he replied.

"What's he got?"

"Just his outfit."

"But what are all the cattle?"

"His team."

"Not one team?"

"Yes; eleven yoke."

"Twenty-two oxen in one team?"

"Yes; and four wagons."

The head yoke of oxen was now opposite to us, swaying about from side to
side and switching their tails in the air, but still pressing forward at
the rate of perhaps a mile and a half or two miles an hour. Far back
along the procession we could dimly see a man walking in the dust beside
the last yoke, swinging a long whip which cracked in the air like a
rifle. Behind rolled and swayed the four great canvas-topped wagons,
tied behind one another. We watched the strange procession go by. There
was only one man, without doubt Henderson, grizzled and seemingly sixty
years old. The wagon wheels were almost as tall as he was, and the tires
were four inches wide. The last wagon disappeared up the trail in the
dust and darkness.

"Well," said Jack, "I think when I start out driving at this time of
night with twenty-two guileless oxen and four ten-ton wagons that I'll
want to get somewhere pretty badly."

Then we went back to the Rattletrap.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




OFFICERS OF THE NATIONAL INTERSCHOLASTIC AMATEUR ATHLETIC ASSOCIATION.

[Illustration: C. BURTON COTTING, President.]

[Illustration: HUGH JACKSON, Vice-President.]

[Illustration: J. DEAN TILFORD, Secretary.]

[Illustration: GEORGE P. SMITH, Treasurer.]




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


The papers on the science of football written by Mr. W. H. Lewis, of the
Harvard Football Team of 1893, which have appeared in the last four
issues of this Department, have attracted such general interest among
the football-players of the schools that it has seemed advisable,
inasmuch as the active football season is not yet in full swing, to add
a brief supplementary paper on "Training," from the pen of the same
authority. The advice given here is the result of the best experience,
and any coach or captain who follows it implicitly may confidently look
forward to the best results.

       *       *       *       *       *

Any correct system of training for a team comprises three separate and
distinct elements--the physical, mental, and moral. An eleven should be
physically fit to play a hard, fast, and aggressive game from start to
finish; and it should be mentally fit in the sense that it thoroughly
knows its own game from beginning to end. Every man should know every
play, and his place in every play. After being _able_ to play the game
both physically and mentally, the next and final thing is to _play_ it.
This brings us to the third element--the moral. By that term is meant
the spirit of the eleven.

It is not our purpose to deal with the subject of diet. In passing it
may, however, be said that the proper diet for a man training is any
plain, wholesome, nourishing food. Highly seasoned foods, sweets, and
all alcoholic stimulants should be avoided. The value of from eight to
ten hours of good, sound, refreshing sleep cannot be overestimated. In
general, one broad, comprehensive rule may be laid down with regard to
training for athletic contests, and that is this: All training must be
adequate to the demands of the particular kind of contest to be entered
into. For light athletic contests, light training; for heavy contests,
heavy training. The same training requisite for baseball would not be
sufficient for rowing; nor can training for track athletics be at all
adequate for football. Different sports make different demands upon the
physical man. And the training for each must be adapted to meet the
demands of each.

Football is the most vigorous and hearty of all our athletic sports.
When properly played, it is also the most exhausting. It requires the
quickness and speed of the sprinter, the endurance of the cross-country
runner, the strength and power of a first-class wrestler; in fact, when
critically analyzed, football seems to be a sort of composite of many
sports. As to the proper style of training for an eleven, perhaps no two
persons have exactly the same ideas. But, in general, there may be said
to be two schools, the old and the new, or the old style and the new
system. The old school is one of Herculean labors and Spartan
discipline. The idea of the old school is physical development and
bodily discipline. The idea of the new school seems to be that sport is
simply a recreation. Work as little as possible seems to be the new
creed. Periods of rest are emphasized rather than periods of work. The
aim of the new system is to train the men for the final match, to bring
them to the highest physical condition by the end of the season, which
sounds rational enough. And if there is only a single important match to
be played, the system is without doubt best adapted to that end. But the
theory proceeds from the wrong premises altogether. Every one knows that
an eleven plays at least two important matches before the end of the
season, when the demands are just as great as in the final game. The two
systems may lie fairly well illustrated by the accompanying diagram, for
the idea of which the writer is indebted to Mr. W. C. Forbes.

[Illustration: CHART OF RELATIVE CONDITIONS IN TRAINING.]

Line A E represents the new school, which aims at the highest physical
condition at point E. Line A B represents the old school, which aims at
good physical condition at the end of the second or third week of
training, and to take the team to E in the same condition.

Take two elevens: No. 1 will use the old system, No. 2 the new system.
Let the two teams play a match. At the point marked October 1 the
physical condition will be decidedly in favor of No. 1, and, besides,
No. 1 will know more football, having played more. The difference in
physical condition will be the line C G. Let them play November 11: the
difference in physical condition will be D F. Suppose that No. 2 wins at
point E, November 21, which is extremely unlikely: No. 1 will have two
victories to No. 2's one. If the object be to win only the final match,
it seems that the old system will be far better, as the No. 1 eleven
must know more football, having played more, and will be in just as good
condition. It has been urged against the old system that it is
impossible to carry eleven men from A to E in good condition; that the
team, as a whole, will come to the final game overtrained. The
individual may go below the line occasionally, but the team as a whole
must be better, because the weaker individuals who are unfitted for the
game will be eliminated early, before the team is made up. The team
training on line A E, the new system, is just as likely to be
undertrained, and lose half of its best men before an important match is
finished.

A team trained under the new system will play with considerable life and
dash while it lasts, but the team trained under the old system stays,
and comes in the winner. Let us notice some fallacies of the new system.
As an argument for less work, the case of athletic teams is often cited,
where men train very little, and still play very good games. Any
reasoning by analogy from such cases is absolutely misleading. Men who
play on athletic teams are for the most part matured men, many of whom
have played on college teams for years. They would naturally have a
strength and endurance and knowledge of the game which the youngsters in
the schools must acquire by hard work and faithful, conscientious
training. The boys must acquire what the men already have; therefore a
different and more rigorous system of training is necessary.

The new system believes that an ignorant undertrained man is better than
an experienced overtrained one. Comparisons are often made with the
training of crews, prize-fighters, etc. But in such cases the training
is for only a single contest, while in football the training must be for
several important matches. Not every practice is a trial, as is urged,
but only the lesser matches once or twice a week are properly trials;
and surely in but few sports can any strong objection exist to such
trials.

Another objection to the old style urged by the new style is the
likelihood of injuries when men are played so much. That is true and not
true. In the long-run there must be fewer injuries. The amount and kind
of work a team should do will perhaps be best considered under mental
training. The problem in training is really how to do the work necessary
to learn the game without impairing the physical condition.

By mental training is simply meant the process of learning this game.
One broad rule may be laid down for learning the game, and that is to
play it. There may be different methods of teaching men how to play;
hardly any two coaches or captains will begin the season in just the
same way. But each captain should have some plan, schedule, or method of
teaching. The football season covers a period of about eight weeks. The
game must be taught within that time. Now football is divided, as has
been said in a preceding paper, into the Individual and the Team. The
first half of the season, the first four weeks, should be devoted
primarily to the individual, teaching him the fundamentals, and how to
play his own position. Assuming that the season begins about the middle
of September, this work would carry the team until the second week in
October; the balance of the season would be devoted primarily to the
team, although it is often impossible to pick the team before the end of
the third week in October. After this point in the season the individual
coaching should be done during the intervals or let-ups in the practice,
or before or after practice. During the period that should be given to
the team the graduates come around, and the tendency is to neglect the
team for the individual. The bulk of individual coaching should be done
in that part of the season in which it should naturally come. So much in
general. Now a few suggestions to the captain, in settling his work for
the season, may not be altogether out of place.

First day out, the squad upon going upon the field should form a circle,
and pass the ball around. The captain and coach should notice each man,
and see that he can make the simple straight-arm pass correctly, and
catch the ball properly. Next, let the men line up in pairs, forwards
with forwards and backs with backs, and try a half-dozen mutual scratch
starts. The purpose of this exercise is to make the men quick on their
feet, and to secure quickness and agility. That done, line the men up,
and have them fall upon the ball. Having them in line instead of in a
circle, the captain and coach can see that each man is taught how to do
it correctly. Take a moving ball first--a ball moving from the player.
Next try a ball moving towards the player from the front. The practice
on the first day should be short, lasting not more than half an hour,
and ending with a good brisk run of a distance of a mile and a half.

The second day's practice should last about three-quarters of an hour,
consisting of catching and passing, falling on the ball, scratch starts,
two-mile run for the forwards, ten minutes' kicking for the full-back,
and catching for the half-backs, with the centre man to snap the ball
and quarter to pass to the man kicking.

On the third day practise one hour--falling on the ball, passing and
catching, sprinting starts, two-and-a-half-mile run for forwards,
kicking and catching for backs, centre men snapping the ball and quarter
passing, two-mile run for the backs.

Fourth day. Practise starting with the ball. The centre man to snap the
ball back for squads. There should be a good, sharp, hard sprint for
fifteen yards. The aim is to train the eye so as to divine where the
ball is going, so as to be able to beat it. Catching punted balls by
forwards and backs. Arrange these in squads, and have the kicking backs
punt to them. Begin with the end of the line, and have each man catch a
punt in turn. They should be taught how to do this properly. Falling on
the ball, one or two of all the different kinds of balls, and the dead
ball from a dive in addition. Forwards should be lined up opposite one
another and taught the theory of blocking. The centre man should snap
the ball, and one side rush through while the other blocks, and _vice
versa_. While the forwards are doing this, the backs may be kicking and
catching. A short run for the whole squad of about two miles.

Work of this general description should be kept up for about ten days.
In this time the captain should arrange to get in some work on the
fundamentals each day. It will be impossible to take them all up in one
day, but some can be taken up one day and some another. They are easily
forgotten if not brushed up occasionally.

The first three weeks in October should be largely devoted to
position-playing--picking the team. The captain should do all the
experimenting within that period. Much straight football may be learned
in the mean time. In that period, and that alone, should the coach be
allowed to stop the play to coach the individual. "Wait a minute," can
be allowed then, but not later. The team should have two practice
matches a week. These should make no difference in the ordinary
practice, except perhaps when a pretty strong team is to be played there
should be a slight let-up in the practice the day before, or no actual
play at all. On those days there should be plenty of practice at
signals. All practice matches after the third week in October should be
of the usual length, two half-hours. The practice game with the second
eleven should not vary much as to the time of play from the matches. Two
twenty-five or one thirty and one twenty minute half are not bad.

Toward the end of October the team should begin preparations for the
final matches, which generally come off the last of that month, and
little beyond mid-November. Team-play then has the field. The team
should begin to learn its repertoire of plays, signals, etc. It should
be taught the theory and practice of offensive and defensive team-work.
In the odd moments the individual should have all the expert coaching
possible. The fundamentals must be recurred to occasionally, but
team-work now holds the boards. It is the most difficult to obtain, and
requires constant and untiring practice.

The captain should be just as careful not to underwork his men as not to
overwork them. If an individual is overtrained or off his feet, give him
rest, but for the team hard work and plenty of it should be the rule.
There is nothing that helps a man or a team more in the hour of supreme
test or conflict than the consciousness of having done his or its work
faithfully and well.

From what has been said of physical training it can be immediately seen
that football is not a lazy man's game. It is needless to say that it is
not a coward's game. If a man is afraid of over-exertion or of getting
hurt, he had better play marbles. A player may have strength in
abundance, but without sand it profiteth him nothing. High moral courage
and unconquerable spirit are the prime requisites of a good
football-player. By moral training, as has been said, is meant the
mental state, the spirit of the eleven. The spirit of the eleven has to
do with the execution, and the execution is everything. Formation counts
for little. It is not the play, but the stuff that is put into it that
makes it succeed. Without this spirit a team may know all that it is
possible to know of the game, and may be in perfect physical condition,
but cannot hope to win. It is one thing to know how to fight; it is
another to be able to fight; but greater than either or both is the
fighting spirit.

The whole team, each and every man on it, should enter a contest or
match imbued with a just sense of the responsibility resting upon him as
the chosen representative of his school or college. He owes to her the
very best and all that there is in him. Her honor, her athletic
prestige, are at stake, and she demands nothing more nor less of her
sons than that they be retrieved or maintained. Hence the team should go
upon the field with a _do or die_ spirit, with a determination to win at
all hazards.

       *       *       *       *       *

The portraits which appear at the head of these columns are those of the
officers of the National Interscholastic Athletic Association, who were
elected after the first annual field-meeting last June. C. B. Cotting,
the president, is a member of the Newton High-School, and an officer of
the New England Association. Hugh Jackson, the vice-president, comes
from the Iowa Association, and is a student of the Cedar Rapids
High-School. J. D. Tilford, the secretary, has for several years been
identified with the New York I.S.A.A. as a competent official, and
attends the De La Salle Institute. G. P. Smith, the treasurer,
represents the new association in New Jersey, of which he is president;
he attends the Plainfield High-School.

At a recent meeting of the Connecticut Football Association several
changes were made in the constitution. Is was decided that nobody should
be allowed to take part in any games under the management of the League
who had not been registered at his school before October 1. Furthermore,
it was decided that no student taking a post-graduate course should be
allowed to play on any team. There was some discussion about
establishing an age limit, but so much opposition developed that the
plan had to be abandoned.

The schedule of games for this fall's championship season was arranged,
and the first contests will be held October 31. In the Northern
Division, Hartford Public High-School will play New Britain High-School
at Hartford, and Norwich Free Academy will play the Connecticut Literary
Institute at Norwich. On the same day, in the Southern Division, Meriden
High-School will play Hillhouse High at Meriden, and Bridgeport High
will play Waterbury High at Bridgeport.

The Bridgeport team will no doubt be very strong again this fall--Smith,
centre, Wheeler, guard, Goddart, quarter-back, Deforest, half-back, and
Delaney, tackle, being in school again. The Hartford team is expected to
develop into a strong eleven as the season grows older, but it was
defeated, 22-0, by Williston in its opening game a week ago. The Meriden
High-School has the strongest eleven the school has ever seen. New
Britain will be very strong, having the full eleven men of last year
back in school again this fall. Hillhouse, Norwich, Waterbury, and the
Connecticut Literary Institute are all weak.

The Englewood High-School, of the Cook County League, played a game
against the Chicago University eleven on September 23, and held the
'varsity men down to twelve points. The school team played an excellent
game, and showed some fine defensive work. The University made a goal in
the first half after twelve minutes of hard play, and they got another
by a fluke just before time was called. In the second half the
University men were unable to make any headway against the Englewood
lads, and time was called with the ball in the middle of the field and
in Englewood's possession.

Other games of interest that have recently been played in the Cook
County League were Hyde Park H.-S. against West Aurora H.-S., in which
the former won, 4-0. The teams were pretty evenly matched, and Pingree
of Hyde Park made the winning touch-down by a run of thirty yards,
having secured the ball on a muff by the other side. The North Division
team played an eleven of graduates, and defeated them, 12-0, but a few
days later, on the return game, the graduates came out ahead by the same
score.

     JOHN FRETER, YONKERS, NEW YORK.--If the ball, being kicked, passes
     the line of scrimmage and is not stopped by an opponent, any one of
     the kicking side can pick it up and run with it, providing he is on
     side. Of course, to be on side he must either have been behind the
     ball when it was kicked, or he must have kicked it himself, or he
     must have been put on side by the kicker.

     J. D. WILLIAMS.--You will find just the information you want in the
     chapter on "The Middle Distances," in _Track Athletics in Detail_.

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

  THE GRADUATE.




[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 first instalment of the advance sheets of the 1897 catalogue has
been forwarded to those persons who pay $5 for the same. Used U.S.
stamps have remained stationary in many instances, with small advances
in others; but unused U.S. have been greatly advanced. I quote a few
instances, giving the 1896 prices first, the 1897 prices after. These
prices refer, however, to unused stamps in mint condition, evenly
centred, original gum, no perforations missing, etc. A slight falling
off in any of these conditions reduces the value from twenty-five per
cent. to fifty per cent.

1847 issue--5c., $5 to $7.50. 1851 issue--1c., ordinary type, 35c. to
50c.; 5c., ordinary type, $3.50 to $5; 10c., $1.25 to $3; 12c., $1.75 to
$3; 24c., $6 to $7.50; 30c., $7.50 to $12; 90c., $22.50 to $27.50. 1862
issue--15c., $2.50 to $7.50. 1868 issue (grilled, 11 by 13)--1c., $5 to
$6.50; 2c., $1.50 to $2.50; 3c., 40c. to $1; 10c., $3.50 to $6; 12c., $3
to $5; 15c., $20 to $25; grilled, 9 by 13, 2c., 75c. to $1.25; 3c., 25c.
to 75c.; 5c., $10 to $12; 10c. and 12c., $3 to $5; 15c., $4 to $7.50;
24c., $12.50 to $15; 30c., $10 to $15; 90c., $35 to $50. 1869
issue--1c., $1 to $1.50; 2c., 60c. to $1.25; 3c., 25c. to $1; 6c., $3 to
$4; 10c., $4 to $7; 12c., $2 to $5; 15c., $6 to $7.50; 24c., $16.50 to
$20; 30c., $15 to $20; 90c., $35 to $40. 1870 issue, grilled, have
advanced an average of one hundred per cent. The same issue, not
grilled, printed by the American Bank-Note Company, 1c., 40c. to 50c.;
3c., 25c. to 40c.; 5c., 75c. to $1.50; 6c., 75c. to $2; 10c., 60c. to
$1; 15c., reduced from 75c. to 50c.; 30c. remains $2; 90c., increased
from $4 to $7.50. 1882 issue--5c., Garfield, 20c. to 50c.; 3c.,
re-engraved, 10c. to 15c.; 6c., re-engraved, 75c. to $1.50; 10c.,
re-engraved, 40c. to 50c. 1893 Columbian issue has been reduced an
average of twenty per cent.

     A. T. ADAMS.--There is no U.S. or Colonial cent of 1739. Your coin
     is probably an English penny worth 2c.

  PHILATUS.




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]




JOSEPH GILLOTT'S

STEEL PENS

Nos. 303, 404, 170, 604 E.F., 601 E.F.

And other styles to suit all hands.

THE MOST PERFECT OF PENS.




[Illustration: PISO'S CURE FOR CONSUMPTION]




[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.


There is an important feature of bicycling which comes, or should come,
to the attention of every rider about this time of the year; that is,
the question of a thorough overhauling of the wheel itself. This is of
the greatest importance, and should be done whether the bicycle appears
to be in good running order or not. For example, you have been riding a
wheel in the country, or near the sea-shore, and though you have kept
the wheel in good running order, the spokes are a little rusty, and the
bearings must be more or less filled with dust and sand. The rust on the
spokes not only looks badly, but tends to weaken the wheel. A little
grit mixed in with the oil and the balls of the bearings is quite enough
to wear the bearings themselves as well as the balls, and in a short
time render the wheel practically useless, unless an entirely new set of
bearings is put in. Even if you have not been in the country, the fact
that you have used the wheel a little each day, and only wiped off the
outside of the machine and reoiled the bearings occasionally, is enough
to prove that the machine should be taken apart before you begin the
fall and winter season. This particular time, however, of the year
applies rather to those people who are returning from the country with
their bicycles, and who are likely to use them to some extent during the
fall. But it is a good time for any one. If you are somewhat of a
mechanic yourself, you can take the wheel apart and do the cleaning
yourself; and in this connection the article on "The Care of the Wheel,"
published in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE for March 31, should be read before
taking the wheel apart, and kept near by while the work is being done.

An extra caution, however, should be given to all those who take their
bicycles apart--and that is, take the utmost care of the little balls;
for if one of these, for instance, is lost from one side of the front
wheel-bearings, the wheel may run easily enough for a time, but the
strain on the others and on the walls of the bearing will soon wear
both. If any of these do happen to lose themselves (and it is very
probable that they will), the wisest plan is to go at once to the maker
of your bicycle and purchase enough extra balls to make up the required
number. To a great many people, however, the cheapest method for
overhauling bicycles is to take them to the manufacturer and request him
to go over every part of the wheel--clean it, polish it, and replace any
weak point, straighten any bent cranks, supply nuts that are gone, and
in every way renovate the wheel--which, by-the-way, he can do far better
than any amateur. If the wheel is not yet a year old, the average
manufacturer will do this without charge, but in any case a few dollars
is all that a maker requires. The point of this renovation is evident.
If the wheel is thus examined twice a year--in the fall and the
spring--any little irregularity which may be wearing away vital parts of
the machine can and will be corrected; whereas many a fault in a bicycle
is not perceptible to the average rider until the injury has actually
been done, when an entirely new part is necessary; and the larger the
number of replaced or new parts, the less stable and firm is the
bicycle. It therefore pays to have this renovation done twice a year,
whether the wheel appears to need it or not.




An Irishman took his watch to a jeweller's to have it repaired. The
jeweller, after examining it, said the mending would amount to eight
dollars, and he asked if the man was willing to pay that much.

"Sure," answered Pat, "if you're willing to take the watch in part
payment."




A FEW DON'TS FOR BICYCLE BEGINNERS.


I.--Don't pay any attention to people who tell you that the best bicycle
path for beginners can be made out of fifty or sixty mattresses set end
to end and running in a circle. It may be pleasanter, when taking a
header, to land on a mattress than on a macadamized road, but it is a
curious fact in bicycling that the softest road is the hardest to ride
on.

II.--Don't try to make a century run within two days of your first
lesson. If, however, you are too ambitious to follow this rule, purchase
a high-gear cyclometer which will register a mile for every ten feet you
travel. And, speaking of cyclometers, don't forget that people who call
them cycloramas are apt to be set down as wanting in intelligence.

III.--Don't think, if you are learning to ride on the sea-shore, that
because your wheels have rubber tires on they won't get wet if the waves
dash up over them. The worst mistake any one ever made in bicycling was
that of the small boy who thought the rubber tires were put on the
wheels to keep them dry, just as rubber overshoes were put on his feet
to keep them from getting wet.

IV.--Don't try coasting down joggly hills. Get out of your father's
library the copy of Dr. Holmes's poem which tells of the wonderful
"one-hoss shay," which suddenly went completely to pieces one day. What
has happened to a one-horse chaise might very easily happen to a
bicycle, particularly on a joggly hill. Nothing will loosen bolts and
screws more quickly than joggles, and if it should happen some morning
that while you were coasting down a hill full of thank-you-marms your
wheel should suddenly come apart in every bolt and bar, you would go
sailing through the air like a cannon-ball just from the cannon's mouth,
and alighting finally on the ground, while not at all difficult, might
prove painful. Be careful, then, to keep your feet on the pedals while
going down a hill of this character.

V.--Don't try fancy riding until you have studied the art of bicycling
for at least a week. One young man who ignored this rule, and tried to
ride his wheel side-saddle-wise at the end of his third lesson, left a
goodly half of his left ear on the road-side as a result, while a small
youth of our acquaintance, who tried to ride backwards on the afternoon
of his fourth day of study, got into a dispute with a picket-fence,
which tore his clothes, and made the back of his neck look as if seven
hundred mosquitoes had lunched there.

VI.--Don't be absent-minded when riding. One of the rules of good
playing in the game of golf is, "keep your eye on the ball." An equally
good rule in riding your wheel is, "keep your mind on the wheel." The
writer of these hints, while riding in the mountains during his first
year of wheeling, got thinking of something else, and the first thing he
knew, instead of being out wheeling, he was in swimming in a very cold
and wet mountain lake.

VII.--Don't forget the rule of the road. This is a very old rule, but it
cannot be too often repeated. Not more than two weeks ago the writer saw
a young woman out riding on her wheel who had forgotten the rule of the
road, and she was met by another young woman who was absent-minded in
violation of our rule numbered six. They met very forcibly, and the
result was that both of them not only had to buy new wheels, but the
spring bonnets of both of them were irretrievably ruined.

VIII.--Don't mount with a jump, but slip lightly into the saddle. A
gentleman weighing two hundred and twenty-three pounds leaped into the
saddle of his wheel one day not long ago, and as a result the upper bar
was bent into the shape of a hair-pin, the hind wheel was changed in its
shape to that of an oval, and the pneumatic tire of the front wheel
burst with such force that for a moment the gentleman thought somebody
had fired a gun at him.




[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.


TONING OF SILVER PRINTS.

The color of the silver print when it is taken from the printing-frame
is not very pleasing, and if it is fixed in this state it assumes a
yellowish-brown or bricky hue which is quite inartistic. To change this
color to a more agreeable shade it must be subjected to the chemical
treatment called toning--a process which the early photographers called
"coloring."

The theory of toning is that one metal is substituted for another, and
in the toning of silver prints with gold the gold is substituted for the
silver. Silver and gold have a great affinity for each other, and in the
toning of the silver prints the gold is deposited on the print somewhat
after the manner of plating metals.

It is a well-known fact that finely divided gold is of many shades of
color, from a rich red to a deep blue. The combination of the red of the
silver subchloride in the print with the deep blue of the gold gives
beautiful purplish, sepia, and black tones.

The gold for toning is first made into chloride of gold. This chloride
of gold is dissolved in water, and then the solution is rendered neutral
by adding acetate or bicarbonate of soda.

"Gold is reduced to a metallic state from a neutral or alkaline
solution." This toning-bath, therefore, contains a deposit of metallic
gold, which is ready to be precipitated by any reducing agent with which
it may be brought in contact. Now the action of light on the paper
coated with the silver salts has changed the salts into a gold-reducing
agent. When the silver print is placed in the gold toning-bath, this
sub-salts of silver immediately decomposes the gold salt, and attracts
the gold to itself, and it is deposited in a fine powder on the unfixed
print, changing the reddish color to brown or black. The unaltered
silver chloride on the paper--the portion of the print which has not
been exposed to the light--contains no reducing power, so the white
portions of the print remain unchanged.

The chemical action of the alkali on the chloride of gold is to separate
the chlorine from the gold. The alkali unites with the chlorine, and
sets it free from the gold. It forms with the hydrogen in the water a
new chemical combination called sodium-trichlor-acetate and hydrochloric
acid. The former is harmless to the print, but if there is not enough of
the alkali in the solution to neutralize (render harmless) the
hydrochloric acid, or, in other words, to liberate and absorb all the
chlorine, the chlorine immediately reattacks the silver and stops the
action of the gold. The result is a weak flat print. If the prints do
not tone, the bath is too acid, and more of the alkali must be added. In
order to test a bath to find out whether it is neutral, take a piece of
blue litmus-paper and dip it in the bath; if it is acid it will turn the
paper red. Add more of the alkali, until enough has been added to turn
the paper which has been turned red back to its original blue color. A
piece of red litmus-paper when dipped in the toning-bath will turn blue
if the bath is too alkaline, but if the bath is neutral the paper will
remain red.

Every silver print toned with gold contains four parts of silver to one
of gold, the quantity of both being very small. One grain of gold will
tone a sheet of paper.

There is a great deal of waste in the silver used in photography, there
being thirty-three times as much silver used as remains after the
picture is finished.

Silver prints may be toned with platinum, and this method is often used
as a substitute for gold toning, the tones obtained being very pleasing
in color, and quite as permanent as the gold tones.

     SIR KNIGHT JOHN H. CHAMBERLAIN, 6 Franklin Avenue, Dayton, O., asks
     why films are given a glycerine bath, and if the bath can be
     dispensed with; what will remove the spot of glycerine from a
     negative caused by the glycerine flowing to the edge and partly
     drying. Sir John says he is a regular reader of the Camera Club
     column, and would like to form a Chapter, and asks those of our
     amateurs who are interested in the plan to please send him their
     names. The reason for using a glycerine bath is to prevent the film
     from curling when it is dry. The bath can be dispensed with, but
     the film rolls up so tightly that it is hard to make it stay flat
     while placing it in the printing-frame. Use 1/2 oz. of glycerine to
     16 oz. of water, and there will be no trouble with the film being
     sticky. A little alcohol applied gently with a soft cloth or brush
     will remove the glycerine from the negative.

     SIR KNIGHT JAMES MAYNARD, JUN., asks if the bottle containing the
     sensitizing-solution for plain salted paper should be wrapped in
     non-actinic paper; what camera, lens, plate, and developer Max
     Miner used for the picture "Sweeping a Sliding-place"; what is the
     price of Whatman's paper. The sensitizing solution should be
     wrapped in non-actinic paper, or else kept in a dark place. Max
     Miner writes as follows in regard to the picture "Sweeping a
     Sliding-place": "The camera which I used is the Universal, made by
     the Rochester Optical Co.; the lens is a Morrison R. R., 8-1/2-inch
     focus, designed for a 6-1/2 by 8-1/2 plate. The camera was a 5 by
     7. The plates which I have always used are made by the Blake
     Dry-plate Co., North Adams, Mass. They are rapid, and always give
     uniformly good results. I have the best success in developing with
     pyro, potash, or soda, though I like the eikonogen two-solution
     developer nearly as well. I never have trouble with pyro stains, as
     I use an alum bath before fixing. The paper used is lithium, toned
     and fixed in a separate bath." A large sheet of Whatman's paper may
     be bought for fifteen cents.

     SIR KNIGHT JOHN MILLS asks how to make a picture in a pin-hole
     camera without using plates--if some kind of paper cannot be used.
     The formula for preparing paper for negatives is too long to be
     given in the column space devoted to answers to queries. The
     process will be described later in the columns of the Camera Club.
     If you have access to a public library, consult a cyclopædia of
     photography, which will give a formula for making paper negatives.
     Try a piece of bromade-paper, making an exposure of about fifteen
     seconds, if in a bright sunshine.

     SIR KNIGHT HUBBARD MARSH asks what makes the solio prints stick to
     the glass when they are squeegeed to it for burnishing; a
     preparation for coating the glass for burnishing; and a good
     toning-bath. The reason why prints stick to the glass is because
     the film is soluble, and is apt to soften in warm weather. A very
     glossy surface can be imparted to prints by washing the glass or
     ferrotype plate to remove all grease and dirt, then pour on a few
     drops of a solution made of 1 oz. of benzine and 10 grs. of
     paraffine. Rub dry with a clean cloth and polish with a piece of
     chamois or soft cloth. For toning-solution formula see No. 825.

     E. H. C. asks if, in photographic contests where no pictures are
     accepted under 4 by 5, pictures taken on a 4-by-5 plate, and the
     prints trimmed so as to come a little under this size, would be
     accepted. Yes, if not trimmed too much.




There is a good story told of the well-known actor Frédéric Lemaitre.
One of his weak points was his pride, and he expected the attachés of
the theatre in which he played to show as great interest in his
performance on the fiftieth night as the audience who were seeing him
for the first time. For some time, to his infinite rage and disgust, one
of the musicians had been in the habit of taking out a newspaper and
perusing its contents during one of his best scenes, when his acting
would hold the audience spellbound. He finally forbade this man to read
his paper during the performance. The musician refused to submit to the
demand, and Lemaitre, when he heard of the refusal, grew mad with rage,
and stormed around in great manner. The offender happened to cross the
stage while Lemaitre was in his bad humor, and the actor, catching sight
of him, cried out, in angry tones:

"You, sir; is it you who has the audacity to read in my great scene,
especially when I have forbidden it?"

"I!" mildly replied the musician. "What a mistake you are making!
Monsieur, you have been misinformed: I am in the habit of going to sleep
during that scene."

       *       *       *       *       *

SICKNESS AMONG CHILDREN

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

       *       *       *       *       *

If you wish to earn a bicycle the advertisement of W. G. Baker, of
Springfield, Mass., which appears on page 1203, will interest you. His
store in Springfield is noted for the fine teas, spices, and baking
powder which it sends out both by express and freight to all parts of
the United States. A boy by going about among his friends and selling a
mixed order of 75 lbs. can secure a good boy's bicycle, or a woman by
selling 175 lbs. can secure a lady's high-grade wheel. If you feel
interested write for catalogue and full particulars, which will be sent
on application.--[_Adv._]




ADVERTISEMENTS.




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[Illustration: STAMPS]

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PLAYS

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T. S. DENISON, Publisher, Chicago, Ill.




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]




About Naval Schools.


Bert Cunnington, who lives in Arkansas, Reed Kohl, a New York city
member, and Fred P. Jackson, who lives in a Baltimore suburb, ask about
_St. Mary's_ school-ship and naval apprentices. All get the various
naval schools well confused. That they do so is no great wonder, since
the provisions governing them are new, and have recently been changed.
We will try to make these naval matters clear. In the first place, the
United States Naval Academy, at Annapolis, is a school where men are
trained to become officers in our navy. Indeed, entrance to the academy
is at the same time entrance to our navy--naval cadet, and so on up,
without leaving the United States service at graduation.

Entrance to this academy is had only through members of
Congress--through the member from your district, Mr. Jackson.
Representatives Baker, Rusk, and Cowen represent Baltimore.

Only one cadet from each district may be at the academy at a time. You
must wait for a vacancy. Residents of other districts must address their
member of Congress, or the Secretary of the Navy, Washington, who will
give information about vacancies. The President of the United States has
ten appointments--not annually, but may keep ten cadets at the academy.
These cadetships are usually assigned to sons of naval officers. The
Annapolis Academy was removed to Newport, R. I., for a time during the
civil war. That is why, possibly, you get the naval apprenticeship
school at Newport and the naval academy confused.

Naval apprenticeships have nothing whatever to do with the Annapolis
Academy. They are enlistments for young men above fifteen and not above
eighteen years of age, who may remain in the navy till they are
twenty-one. These boys must have the full consent of parents or
guardians, be of good character--for apprenticeships are not to reform
bad characters--be sound of body, and be able to read and write English.
Having been sworn in, they are sent on board naval vessels, where they
are given the elements of a common-school education and taught naval
seamanship. That is, they knot, splice, hitch, and bend rope; sew
canvas; head, reef, and furl sail; learn the use of the various gear in
standing and running rigging; become acquainted with the terms for the
different parts of the ship; practise military tactics, broadside
exercise, rifle drill; and learn how to fire the great guns, to row, and
to swim.

Apprentices are enlisted as "third-class boys," and receive $9.50 a
month. There is no condition from what part of the United Slates they
come. They receive their board free. Their clothing is provided by the
paymaster of the ship to which they are assigned and charged against
their pay. There is a possible promotion to $11.50 a month. These
apprentices never become line-officers, but may rise only to
warrant-officer, gunner, or boat-swain. Warrant-officers are retired at
sixty-two, as are other officers, and receive thereafter a fair
proportion of their duty pay as an annuity. Apprenticeship recruiting
stations are at New York, Philadelphia, and San Francisco. Address
"Recruiting Station for Naval Apprentices, Navy-yard," and add the city
and State.

Wholly distinct from either of the foregoing are the various
school-ships. These are not owned by the national government, but by
cities, and are under the control of the boards of education. The
_Saratoga_ is located at Philadelphia, and the _St. Mary's_ at New York.
Address "Executive Committee, Nautical School." To join the _St. Mary's_
applicants must be residents of the city of New York. They must also be
of good character, and between sixteen and twenty years of age; $30 is
required as an entrance fee, and a large number of personal necessities,
as clothing, thread, needles, etc. The course covers two years of two
terms each, with two summer cruises. The _St. Mary's_ spends part of the
year at the foot of Twenty-eighth Street, East River, New York, a part
in Long Island Sound, and the cruises are usually to the coast of Europe
and Mediterranean ports.

Rules governing the _Saratoga_ are similar to those governing the _St.
Mary's_. Graduates of these nautical schools look about them for
positions just as do graduates of other schools. The New York Board of
Education say: "The passage of the 'Postal Subsidy Bill,' requiring all
vessels receiving such subsidy to be officered by Americans, and to
carry a cadet for each 1000 tons burden, enables graduates of this
school to obtain a situation upon graduation, where the education
obtained at this school will be of great advantage to them. Graduates of
this school, with few exceptions, are competent to navigate a vessel,
understanding thoroughly dead-reckoning, and how to find the latitude
and longitude by the sun, moon, planets, or stars; they are also taught
the duties of seamen, they have practice in handling a sailing vessel,
in steering, heaving the lead, in handling boats, both under oars and
sails, the rule of the road, and in fact everything that may assist in
their advancement in the profession they have chosen."

       *       *       *       *       *

A Distinct Difference.

The following story is told of the late Professor S----, the great
teacher of German at the University of Pennsylvania, and a man of much
hard and blunt sense. A man having a son whom he had reared in a most
superficial way called on the professor, whom he knew slightly, and
asked how much it would cost to give his son an education. The
professor, looking intently at the son, who accompanied his father, and
who was attired in uncomfortably big cuffs, high collar, and gave forth
an aroma of up-to-date perfume, blandly observed:

"I can't say. But you can send him through college for about $2000."

       *       *       *       *       *

Cruel, but Facetious.

When employees are discharged from the service of a firm or company they
generally receive from such employers brief letters stating when
employment is to cease. But the head of a great theatrical concern once
took a quite different course in discharging his actors and singers. His
season had been unprofitable, but he took a little of his remaining
money and paid the way of his entire troupe to West Point. The members
of said troupe were Europeans. After luncheon he arose, and in the
blandest manner possible said:

"Ladies and Gentlemen,--Mark the beauties of America, the greatest,
grandest, and most wonderful country in the world. Behold the noble
Hudson before us; observe these magnificent mountains; consider
everything well. For, by my word, you will never see them again at the
expense of Messrs. Blank and Company."

Of course sorrow closed the day's outing, but the actors and singers had
no alternative than to engage steamer passages to Europe--which they
did.

       *       *       *       *       *

Through Historic Country on a Bike.

     One cool, sunny day in the beginning of this month we took a
     fifty-one-mile bicycle trip out of the city. At the start our road
     lay along the extreme west of the city, and soon the new Harlem
     Ship-canal came into view. We halted on the bridge which spans it
     to watch a diver at work--quite a novel sight; then went on toward
     Yonkers. Yonkers passed, we took the open road for Dobbs Ferry. At
     the latter place we were informed that our road, Broadway, was
     first opened in 1844 under the name of Edgar's Lane.

     Back of the road, under tall shady trees, stands Washington's
     headquarters. A monument in front relates that here the French
     allies under Rochambeau first joined our General and his forces;
     also that here Washington planned the Yorktown campaign which
     successfully terminated the Revolution; and that directly opposite,
     on the river, an English sloop fired seventeen guns in honor of
     Washington--the first official acknowledgment of our nation on the
     part of the mother-country.

     From Dobbs Ferry to Irvington the road is lined with handsome
     suburban residences, and leads through a pretty bit of country.
     Four miles more, and Tarrytown is reached. In Tarrytown we saw a
     monument over the spot where Major André was captured in 1780. The
     shaft of the monument was dedicated in 1853. One side bears a
     relief picture in bronze of the capture; while another side has
     carved on it a eulogy of the three brave citizens of Westchester
     County who rescued their country from "imminent peril." The
     remainder of the stone, which is capped by a heroic figure of a
     Revolutionary soldier, was erected in 1880 by the Society of the
     Sons of the Revolution.

     Directly north of Tarrytown there is a bridge. Crossing it, a sharp
     turn of the road brought us to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. We spent
     some time examining the inscriptions on some of the stones. The
     lower portion of the cemetery is evidently the oldest, for here
     repose the ashes of many who died at the close of the last century
     and the beginning of this. Sleepy Hollow lies on a hill. At the
     top, in the centre of the family plot, is buried the "American
     Goldsmith," whose pen made the region where he now rests famous.
     His grave is simplicity itself, the headstone which covers it
     bearing merely the inscription, "Washington Irving, born April 3,
     1783, died November 28, 1859."

  SIMON THEODORE STERN.
  NEW YORK CITY.

       *       *       *       *       *

Questions and Answers.

Music.--The only place to which we can refer you is the United States
Marine Recruiting-office, 109 West Street, New York. That office wants
boys from fourteen to sixteen to learn music. Apply for conditions.
"Gold Fever" asks about gold-prospecting, especially in Alaska. The
occupation has many risks, and only the hardiest of persons, not alone
in body, but in determination and cheerfulness, ought to undertake it.
The Alaskan field is well to the north--in the Yukon country, which is
near the arctic circle. It is cold there. But perhaps the worst
discomfort is mosquitoes. An odd pest for that climate, yes. But they
abound there as they do in few other regions. A recent prospector says,
"When a man goes up one of the creeks he must envelop his head in a
mosquito-frame of cheese-cloth--their bills go through netting like a
knife through tissue-paper--must wear gloves, and tie his trousers and
shirt sleeves closely about his ankles and wrists." Mining is a lottery,
and the young man ought to think not twice only, but a dozen times
before undertaking it.

George J. Smith asks.--"Will you kindly tell me the names of artists who
teach pen-drawing and illustrating? When does the annual contest for
prizes begin?" Many artists take students, if such students possess
native talent. They require students to come to their studios, though
some of them have classes at art-schools. Apply to Irving R. Wiles,
Charles Broughton, or Clifford Carleton. Their addresses may be had in
the directory. Of course they charge for lesson-giving. And we do not
say that these gentlemen will now take pupils. Why not join the classes
at the Art Students' League? Round Table contests are announced, usually
late in October. See one of the issues of this paper for them. It is not
likely there will be an illustration contest unless there proves to be a
good prize story to make a picture for. In almost no other way, save
that of giving all contestants the same thing to illustrate, can
conditions fair to all be made. Full information will be published in
the Table later.

Frank S. Teal.--We know of no place to procure the Table button or pin
save through this office, and we have none in stock. David A. Hill.--So
great has been the growth of the Good Will institution that a building
suitable to house its industrial school should cost, on the ground of
present and future need, $10,000 at least. This sum is quite beyond the
power of the Table to give. When, three years ago, the Good Will work
began, the size of the Institution did not demand a building costing
one-half that sum. The Table thought to raise $3000. It raised about
$1600, when the situation developed as above outlined--a situation in
which all of us, as friends of Good Will Farm and its work in behalf of
poor boys, greatly rejoice. The money raised by the Table is to be, by
vote of the founders, turned over to the trustees of Good Will, to be
invested in a Round Table Fund, and the income used to help such boys as
the trustees think most deserving of aid.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another Mother and Man.

The truth of the adage about the hand that rules the world being the one
that rocks the cradle is again exemplified, but this time not in the
world of statesmanship, but in that of science. Nikola Tesla, who ranks
with Edison in electrical invention, was, as a boy in Montenegro, full
of mischief, and also under the guidance of a remarkable woman--his
mother. He once went by himself to a chapel in the hills back of his
native town, and managed to get himself locked in it at night. A search
was made for him, but there was no clew until, clear and sharp on the
night air, rang out the tones of the chapel bell. Nikola was cold,
nervous, and hungry when found.

On another occasion, when up to some boyish pranks, his mother suddenly
appeared on the scene. He was so startled that he fell into a kettle of
fresh milk, spoiling the milk and his clothes at the same time.

Like many other men who have become famous along one line of usefulness,
young Tesla was started in life at another line. His father wanted him
educated for the Church, but his mother encouraged his scientific
tastes, and finally had her way. She was a woman of unusual ability,
force of character, and ingenuity. This last characteristic was
developed in her embroidery, which was of artistic and original designs,
and made her famous all through the part of Montenegro in which she
lived. To his mother's love and influence Tesla attributes much of his
manhood's success.

       *       *       *       *       *

Natural-History Bit from West Australia.

     Some time ago you asked for descriptions of wild flowers and
     fruits: I live in West Australia, so far north that we have flowers
     in our yard every month in the year. This past winter, during July
     especially, we had very cold weather for this part of Australia,
     yet our sarsaparilla grew well. It is of a lovely deep purple, and
     its flowers sometimes wholly cover a stiff stem eighteen inches
     long. In summer we have a flower called kangaroo's claw. It grows
     slowly, and has only one flower. Its slender stem looks like red
     plush. The flower resembles a man's hand held out to shake with
     you. The "fingers" are green, and, odd to say, there is always a
     pale green spot at the tips, that look like finger-nails.

     We have a queer tree. It has pale green leaves, with prickly under
     leaves, and a cream flower that smells like Daphne. But the oddest
     thing about it is the fruit, which looks like luscious pears, but
     which is nothing but wood. Not a few people here send the fruit to
     their friends living in England, who use it to fool people with.
     The latter, if they do not know the fruit, can easily be induced to
     sit down with knife and plate to eat it. There is also here a Zamia
     palm. It looks like a huge pineapple, with a top like a close fern.
     The sprouts shoot up through the centre like two smaller
     pineapples. When the palm is opened one can scrape off from the
     inside very delicate wool, which country folks often use for beds
     in place of feathers. Cattle sometimes get hold of the wool and eat
     it, and it is most injurious to them. If the mails permitted, I
     would like to send you some of this wool.

  ALICIA SHAW.
  PRESTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

That Electric-light Outfit.

Mr. H. C. Durston was interested, as doubtless many others were, in "A
Small Electric-light Outfit," and he writes, "Can you tell me if, by
increasing the size or number of battery cells, I can get power enough
to run a ten-candle-power lamp?" Increase the number, not the size. Yes.
"Where can I get the small lamp mentioned, and what is its life?" Apply
to the Standard Electric Lamp Company, 248 West Twenty-third Street, New
York. Following are the claimed life: 1/2-candle power, one watt, no
life guaranteed; 1/2-candle power, two watt, 100 to 200 hours;
1/2-candle power, three watt, 600 hours; and 1/2-candle power, four
watt, indefinitely.




[Illustration: Ivory Soap]

There is only one soap that is kept by all grocers, that is Ivory Soap.

THE PROCTER & GAMBLE CO., CIN'TI.




EARN A BICYCLE!

[Illustration]

We wish to introduce our Teas, Spices, and Baking Powder. Sell 75 lbs.
to earn a BICYCLE; 50 lbs. for a WALTHAM GOLD WATCH AND CHAIN; 25 lbs.
for a SOLID SILVER WATCH AND CHAIN; 10 lbs. for a beautiful GOLD RING;
50 lbs. for a DECORATED DINNER SET. Express prepaid if cash is sent with
order. Send your full address on postal for Catalogue and Order Blank to
Dept. I

W. G. BAKER, Springfield, Mass.




HARPER'S CATALOGUE

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




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]




A NEW BOOK BY

KIRK MONROE

=RICK DALE.= A Story of the Northwest Coast, Illustrated by W. A. ROGERS.
Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

     A story of the adventures of two boys thrown by circumstances into
     the company of Indians, smugglers, and northwestern loggers. They
     have many thrilling escapes from such unpleasant companions, and
     the story is full of important information concerning our
     northwestern States.

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

=Snow-Shoes and Sledges.--The Fur-Seal's Tooth.--Raftmates.--Canoemates.--
Campmates.--Dorymates.= Each one volume.
Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

=Wakulla.--The Flamingo Feather.--Derrick Sterling.--Chrystal, Jack &
Co., and Delta Bixby.= Illustrated. Square 16mo, Cloth, $1.00 each.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW EDITION OF

CAMP'S AMERICAN

FOOTBALL

=AMERICAN FOOTBALL.= By WALTER CAMP. New and Enlarged Edition. 16mo,
Cloth, $1.25.

     The progress of the sport of football in this country, and a
     corresponding growth of inquiry as to the methods adopted by
     experienced teams, have prompted the publication of an enlarged
     edition of this book. Should any of the suggestions herein
     contained conduce to the further popularity of the game, the object
     of the writer will be attained.--_Author's Preface._

       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York




[Illustration]

THE EDUCATED PIG AND THE PLUM-TREE.


A little pink pig with a curly tail once lived with his brothers and
sisters behind a great red barn. He was brighter than the rest, and soon
learned that of the apples brought to their pen the yellow ones were
sweet, the red ones hard and pithy, and the green ones so sour that they
made him squeal.

One day a travelling showman passed that way, and was so pleased with
the pig that he invited him to join his menagerie. A beautiful sky-blue
cage with gold trimmings was placed at his disposal, and he pricked up
his ears and tossed his head with pride as he strutted behind the gilded
bars, and thought of his brothers and sisters squealing and scrambling
over their trough of swill. But a hideous hyena lived in the cage next
to his, and snarled and yowled till poor piggy was in a perfect chill
from fright. On the other side an idiotic five-footed calf blaated from
morning till night. Indeed, one could not blame the poor thing, for he
had to stand very straight and still, or his many feet would get
themselves so tangled he could never tell which ones to use first if he
wanted to go to the right or to the left.

But piggy's life was not a happy one. He longed for the open barn-yard
and his bed of fresh sweet hay. He studied hard and learned his lessons
well, but the wiser he grew the more he felt that a circus was no place
for a pig to live. So, at the very first chance, under the tent slipped
piggy, and across the fields he trotted as fast as he could go. Along a
dusty country road he went till a most delicious odor of ripe June
apples tickled his nostrils. Under and over and between the cruel barbed
wires he tried in vain to squeeze his plump little body.

But soon he spied a spreading plum-tree right in the middle of his path.
Its branches hung heavy with ripe yellow fruit, and eagerly he rooted in
the tall wet grass. But was ever such a thoughtless tree? Not a plum had
it dropped in the night for hungry, homeless pigs. Sweeter smelled the
fruit and hungrier grew the pig. His little bias eyes blinked with tears
as he looked up at the luscious yellow load. Softly he rubbed himself
against the trunk and asked so gently, so humbly, for just a taste, that
nothing but a hard-hearted scaly barked tree could have refused. But
never a leaf stirred. Every plum clung selfishly to its twig, and piggy
could have cried with vexation. Surely plums were made for pigs! Why
could he not have his share? Angrily he flung himself at the base of the
tree, but he was not as heavy as before he became a circus pig, and
nothing was hurt but his back. This was too much. Was he to be lamed and
bruised by a scrubby old tree just because he admired its fruit? In a
rage he took a running start, and struck the tree head first a fearful
blow. But, blinded, he staggered back, and nothing but stars came
floating down. Hurt, angry, he threw himself upon the ground. Sharp keen
darts of hunger stabbed him in the side. He drooped his ears, and
thought to himself of what use were his training and education if he
were now more helpless than the monkeys of the show or the squirrels of
the forest? He looked at his bony little hoofs and wished they were
claws; at his short stiff legs, and remembered the nimble little
barn-yard kitties. Sorrowfully he glanced at the tree. An ugly gnarly
knot grinned at him like a hideous face. Its ear and mouth seemed
twisted into one. A thought came to the pig, and creeping close to the
side of the tree, he said softly to himself, "I wonder if this orchard
belongs to yonder farm?" The tree kept very still. "For," said the pig,
"it seems a shame, but I heard the farmer say to the hired man, 'John,
go over to-morrow and cut down that scrubby old plum-tree in the path.
It is no good; chop it up for fire-wood. The plums are not fit for a pig
to eat.'" A mighty fear seized the tree as it heard the dreadful words.
It quivered and shook in every limb, and plums pelted poor piggy till he
squealed and squirmed with the pain. In vain he dodged and cried
"Enough!" but the plums continued to fall till nothing was left on the
tree but the joke.

       *       *       *       *       *

GOVERNESS. "Now, if I should take ten apples and put them in the basket,
and then take three more, and then five more, and put them in--what
would that be?"

MADGE. "Addition!"

GOVERNESS. "Well, if I should give Madge eight apples, and Tom six
apples, and Jack two apples--what would that be?"

JACK. "That would not be fair!"

       *       *       *       *       *

OVERHEARD IN THE COUNTRY.

"Bzzz!--bzzz!--bzzz!" said the Bee.

"Hoh!" said the Ant. "Bzzz! What a queer combination! It doesn't spell
anything."

"Well, who said it did?" retorted the Bee. "I never pretended to be a
Spelling Bee."

       *       *       *       *       *

WILLIE'S GAME.

"Willie, you mustn't mock people when they speak. It's very impolite."

"I didn't mean to be impolite, mamma. I was just playing I was the
echo."





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, October 6, 1896, by Various