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 27, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 887. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

TEXAS.

BY A. G. CANFIELD.


"One misty, moisty morning" of April, '36, there was quite a commotion
in the office of the _Weekly Telegraph_, enterprising pioneer of Texas
journalism, printed in English and Spanish, and published in the little
town of Harrisburg, east of the Brazos River.

The Alamo,[1] citadel and tomb of heroes, had fallen, and all the
western part of the young republic was held by the Mexicans. Houston's
hundreds were falling back towards the east; Santa Anna's thousands were
in close pursuit.

[1] For the story of the battle of the Alamo see "An American
Thermopylæ," in No. 876.

The Texans now occupied Harrisburg, and a good many of them occupied the
_Telegraph_ office. These were carrying on an animated and eager
discussion, while the object of their eloquence, a slim youngster of an
uncommonly dark and swarthy countenance, stood listening silently.

"I tell you," cried one, "you're risking your life by staying here.
Santa Anna's just as likely as not to have you taken out and shot.
Remember Goliad!"

"And if they don't shoot you," said another, "they'll clap you in irons
and shut you up in a Mexican jail. For my part, I'd rather take the
bullet; it's quickest over."

"And you must remember," remonstrated a third, "that your paper's always
been down on the Mexicans. _They're_ safe to remember it, and as the
editor has got clear off, they'll make you pay for yourself and him
too."

"All the same," said John Sibley, steadily, "I'll have to stay until Mr.
Bolden sends for me. He left me in charge here, but promised to get me
away before the Mexicans come."

"Huh! Think Editor Bolden's going to trouble himself to get you out of
the hole? You needn't if you do. He's saved his own skin, and that's all
he cares about. The Greasers might knock everything in the
printing-office into pi before I'd stay here to please him."

"Come, John," said one, somewhat older than the rest, "let me persuade
you out of this foolhardy project. Your young life ought not to be
thrown away in mere bravado."

"It's not bravado, Captain Hays," protested the boy. "It's my plain
duty. I promised my employer I would stay and look after his property.
He trusted me, and I mustn't disappoint him. So please don't ask me to
go with you, for I can't."

"What can a boy like you do to protect the property?"

"I can do just what anybody else would do," said John, smiling; "I can
do my best."

"Well," cried one gay young soldier but little older than John himself,
"you may thank your lucky stars that you're 'most as black as a nigger,
and can patter Spanish like a regular Don. The Mexicans will take you
for one of themselves. If they do, and you get a chance at old
Wooden-leg, make him believe we're ten thousand strong. It's all right
to lie till you're black in the face to fool an enemy and serve your
country."

John Sibley nodded and smiled, as the troop filed through the office
door with many wishes for his ultimate safety. He stood looking after
them with a queer twinkle in his black eyes, saying to himself:

"I'll do the best I can, as you do, brave boys, but I'll lie as little
as I can help. Wonder if I couldn't make the truth do as well?"

One day passed, and then another. The Texans had left the town, and
continued their retreat towards the east. Still, there was no word from
the editor and proprietor of the _Weekly Telegraph_ releasing his young
assistant from his perilous position, and John staid steadily on, caring
faithfully for the property intrusted to him. He was "on guard," and had
no more thought of deserting his post than if he had been a soldier
under orders.

He passed the anxious time watching and waiting for two
events--wondering which of the two would come first--news that he was
relieved from duty, and the approach of the Mexican army.

The latter came first. Early one morning the vanguard appeared, soon
followed by the main body, led by President Santa Anna in person.

Before noon dark-skinned soldiers were swarming over the town on the
lookout for plunder and mischief, and a crowd of them filled the office
of the obnoxious _Telegraph_.

They were surprised to find there a lad as dark-skinned as themselves,
who in a resistless flood of Spanish welcomed them like brothers,
assuring them in the most high-flown terms of Spanish courtesy that the
office and all it contained was theirs, and would be honored by
suffering destruction at their hands. But in the midst of this
rodomontade he continued by many adroit and well-turned phrases and an
assumption of genial camaraderie to induce his troublesome visitors to
postpone their destructive designs until he had laid the case before
General Santa Anna, to whom he wished to be taken immediately.

This request was granted without any difficulty, for without a word of
assertion on his part they had at once adopted him as one of their own
race. Who else in that country but a Spanish-American could boast such
smooth and courteous manners, such densely black eyes and hair, such a
copper-colored skin, and such a flood of Spanish!

When John Sibley stood in the presence of the Dictator of Mexico he
trembled from head to foot, but not with fear. He was an American boy,
and he could not look on the ruthless destroyer of so many of his
countrymen, the treacherous executioner of Goliad, the bloody victor of
the Alamo, without a shudder. But Santa Anna was used to seeing grown
men tremble before him, and took no notice of the effect he produced on
a boy.

"How is this, muchacho?" he demanded, sternly. "They tell me you are a
Mexican, yet you are employed on the _Weekly Telegraph_, a paper that
never ceases to attack the land of God and liberty, her government and
her people. Now tell me if this is what a true Mexican would do?"

By this time John had recovered his self-possession.

"Poverty, your Excellency," he replied, in as fluent Spanish as the
Dictator's own, "will, as our proverb says, make a man put up at bad
inns. A poor orphan Mexican boy might well be pardoned if he took the
work and pay the stranger offered. But if your Excellency thinks it was
wrong, let me atone by serving my native land in any way you can make
use of me."

The General examined him critically.

"You seem an intelligent youth," he said at last, "and in spite of your
boyish look, you have all your wits about you. If you are sincere in
your offer, you can give me useful information."

Then followed the usual inquiries as to the number, equipment, and route
of the retreating army, to all of which John, contrary to precedent and
the advice of his soldier friend, returned truthful answers.

"For if I tell Santa Anna that Houston has more men than he has,"
reasoned John, "he'll be mighty clear of following him a foot further,
and will never fight if he can help it. But if I make him believe he can
eat the Texans up at a mouthful, he'll push straight on, and I know what
will happen then. The Texas boys will whip him out of his boots, or off
his wooden leg."

When these usual questions were disposed of, Santa Anna, looking keenly
at the boy, asked him if he knew the country thereabouts.

"Yes, your Excellency, I know the ground well on both sides of the
Brazos, and for some way east."

"Humph!" said the General, suspiciously; "how comes a boy of your age to
be so competent a guide?"

"My father was a ranchero," was the ready reply. "From a little chap, I
went with him everywhere, until he died, about a year ago. I know the
country almost as well as he did. Try me, and see if I fail."

"Perhaps I shall. My scouts know nothing of this country hereabouts. I
have a mind to send you with them on the enemy's track to bring me news
of their movements. Knowing the country and the people, you may gain
intelligence where they would fail. You can serve me well if you are
faithful; and if you are _not_--well, you deal with Santa Anna!"

"I'll take the job, and the punishment too if I fail," cried John,
eagerly. Then, curbing his impetuosity, lest it should excite suspicion,
he added, quietly: "I suppose your Excellency will furnish me with a
horse? I have none."

"_We_ have a good many, captured from the rebels on the Colorado," said
the General, with a smile of grim satisfaction. "You can take your
choice. And, muchacho, if you serve me well, your property shall be
returned to you uninjured, nor shall that be your only reward."

This was said with a gracious smile. John felt the tiger's claws under
the velvet pat; but his terror was gone now, and he exulted in the hope
of outwitting the cunning Mexican.

The General's orderly showed him the corral where the captured horses
were confined. There was a number of them; but the practised eye of the
ranchero soon picked out the horse he wanted--a beautiful black mustang,
whose satinlike skin, small head, and large bright eyes showed breeding
and intelligence, while his clean-built sinewy limbs gave satisfactory
promise of speed and endurance.

"This is the horse for me," said John, going up to him.

The orderly demurred. "_No, bueno!_" he exclaimed, emphatically. "He has
the temper of the Evil One himself. A muchacho like you will never
master him."

"He'll not show temper with _me_. Look!"

He patted the mustang's glossy neck and stroked its nose, while the
horse stood perfectly still and whinnied low. Then, with a bound, John
was on its back.

For a moment the mustang justified the orderly's bad opinion. With a
vigorous buck it tried its best to throw its rider. But John sat firm,
and his soothing voice and hand soon pacified the wild creature, which
stood quietly by his side when he dismounted, rubbing its head against
his shoulder.

"That horse knows you," said the orderly. "None of us can manage him;
but you are an old friend."

"Maybe so. We had a black colt on the ranch that had the making of as
fine a horse as this, but he was sold, and I don't know what became of
him. I'll try if this is he."

He went some distance from the corral, then called "Texas, Texas!" in
the caressing tone he had always used to his favorite colt. The mustang
trotted up to the fence, thrust its head over it, and looked eagerly
towards the place the voice came from.

"Texas! Texas!" cried John, delightedly, throwing his arms round the
horse's neck and kissing the "lone star" on its forehead, the sole white
spot on its glossy black hide.

The pursuit was resumed next day, and John went out regularly with the
Mexican scouts, and always brought back encouraging reports. Firm in his
conviction that a battle must result in a victory for the Texans,
notwithstanding the greatly superior force of the enemy, John felt
certain that the best service he could render his country would be to
bring about a collision between her invaders and defenders as speedily
as possible.

Meanwhile he learned to know his horse thoroughly. Although Texas
certainly deserved the orderly's assertion that he had the worst of
tempers, he never showed it to John. There was perfect understanding
between horse and rider, and John knew he could rely on Texas in any
emergency.

At last, when the scouts brought news that Houston had reached the San
Jacinto, and would cross the river and continue his retreat next day,
Santa Anna, President of the Mexican Republic and Generalissimo of her
armies, felt that his time for action had come, and John Sibley,
printer-boy, felt the same.

He was in the saddle before daylight next morning, ready for a long
day's scout. They were to scour the country between the two armies, and
send back reports to General Santa Anna. Whether the unusual number of
Mexicans sent out with him that morning was intended to supply
messengers, or a precaution prompted by doubts of his fidelity, John
neither knew nor cared. He patted his mustang's glossy neck, and
whispered in its ear that they two would do great things that day. The
scouts had their work cut out for them, and were off betimes.

They had traversed a good many miles of country, seeing no signs of the
Texans nor hearing anything new of their movements, when at noon they
stopped on the bank of a large wooded creek to rest and refresh
themselves and their horses. John's mustang was not hobbled like the
rest, as he had no fear of its straying, but, to allow it to graze,
freely, the bridle had been removed and was looped over the pommel of
the saddle.

"Unsaddle, Juan, and let your horse roll," said José Cardenas. "That
rests them more than anything else."

"Suppose Houston's scouts come upon us while we're unsaddled and
unbridled?" suggested John.

"_That_ for Houston's scouts!" retorted the Mexican, with a contemptuous
gesture. "He has all he can do to picket his camp. But, _amigo_, I would
prefer to see your horse in the same condition as ours, so if we have to
fight or fly, we may be all on equal terms."

"All right," said John, carelessly.

He removed saddle and bridle and placed them beneath a tree. José gave a
satisfied grunt, and coiled himself on the ground for a _siesta_. His
companions followed his example, and in a short while the camp sank into
utter stillness, the horses' crisp cropping of the long grass being the
only sound disturbing the deep silence.

John raised his head and looked around. No one was watching. The
solitary guard had his back towards him; all the others seemed asleep.
He rose noiselessly and moved towards his horse.

In a tone little above a whisper he called, "Texas!" Instantly the small
head was lifted from the grass, the small ears pointed forward, and the
large intelligent eyes asked plainly, "Do you want me?"

His master replied by a gesture, and the horse walked softly up to him.
John mounted and headed him towards the creek. And then--

"Whither go you, _amigo_?" rang in his ears.

He looked round. José Cardenas had risen, and his hand was on the pistol
in his belt.

"It's time we were all going," called out John, coolly. "Wake the
others, _camarada_, and saddle up while I give Texas another drink."

Cardenas hesitated. He looked at the boy sitting carelessly sidewise on
his horse, he looked at the fine silver-mounted saddle and bridle lying
under the tree, and his suspicion seemed absurd. He removed his hand
from the pistol and turned to rouse his comrades.

With one far-reaching bound, Texas and his rider were over the creek and
dashing through the woods beyond, a jubilant shout ringing back:

"_Adios, camaradas!_ Any message for General Houston?"

The boyish bravado had like to have cost him dear. Before the words were
well out of his mouth a bullet from Cardenas's pistol showered the
leaves from the bough just over his head.

On he dashed, a fusillade of pistol-shots ringing out behind him. But he
did not mind them; he was fast leaving them behind. His horse was in
perfect condition, and as John felt the springy stride beneath him, he
felt sure he could trust Texas to carry him safe out of danger.

"José Cardenas little thought I could ride barebacked as well as on the
finest Spanish saddle," he chuckled to himself, "or he wouldn't have
been so particular about my unsaddling. Ha! ha! what was I born and
raised on a ranch for?"

He pressed on as fast as due care for his horse allowed. He must not
exhaust Texas, for he bore news of vast importance which General Houston
must hear before the sun went down. And should his horse fail him, or
any unforeseen obstacle interrupt his journey, a glorious chance for
victory would be lost to his countrymen, and might never be regained.

He had lost all fear of being overtaken by his late comrades, when the
sound of a horse's hoofs behind him caught his attention. He checked
Texas and listened.

Whoever followed him was coming at furious speed. Should he wait and see
who it was? No; it was too perilous a risk. He must on.

He pressed Texas into a swifter and ever swifter gallop, but the noise
of pursuit grew louder, and was evidently gaining on him. He looked
back. His pursuer was José Cardenas, mounted on a powerful bay, and
coming up hand over hand. Where could he have got that horse? There was
none in the band to match Texas. Ah! the ranch near the creek! Cardenas
had helped himself to the ranchero's best steed to catch him.

What on earth should he do? He could not distance his pursuer, and there
was no chance for concealment on the open prairie. He was armed, but so
was Cardenas; and in a personal encounter he knew well his slight boyish
frame would stand no chance with the stalwart Mexican. But he would not
yield his life and fail in his mission if one lucky shot could save him.
He would have time for but one.

He felt for his pistol. It was gone. How, or when, or where he could not
guess, unless it had fallen from his belt when his horse jumped the
creek. He was at the mercy of his foe, and well he knew that foe would
have no mercy.

Now Texas had other peculiarities besides his fiendish temper. One was a
great dislike to being followed too closely. The sound of hoofs
clattering close behind him rasped his nerves, and he generally let it
be known. John saw that his savage temper was rising now. It had never
troubled _him_, but other individuals, equine and human, had had
frequent occasion to regret it, and the man and horse now in their rear
would probably have the same.

The mustang's ears were laid flat on his head, his lips curled back in a
fiendish grin, and the whites of his eyes showed prominently. And, to
John's horror, he began to slacken his pace. In vain he urged him on.
Slower and slower went Texas, and faster and faster came José Cardenas
and his bay.

Now they were alongside, and Cardenas's hand was extended to grasp
John's collar and drag him from his horse. On the whole, he preferred
not to shoot the muchacho, but to carry him back for Santa Anna's
judgment.

Texas saw that his time for vengeance on his too persistent follower had
come. Whirling around, he measured his distance accurately, and drove
his iron-shod heels into the bay's flank. Again came the flying heels,
this time on Cardenas's bridle arm, and broke it.

With a fierce curse the Mexican changed the bridle to his other hand,
and tried vainly to control his plunging horse. Wherever he plunged
Texas followed, and his swift heels rattled on the unhappy bay's ribs
and his master's limbs indiscriminately. At last no bay was there to
receive them. He had beaten an ignominious retreat, and was carrying his
helpless rider across the prairie as fast as his demoralized condition
would allow. As soon as the foe was fairly routed, Texas recovered his
equanimity and became as gentle as a lamb.

John pursued his journey without further interruption, exulting in the
victory and lavishing praises and caresses on the victor, assuring him
over and over again that he was worthy of the "lone star" on his
forehead and of the land whose name he bore.

They reached the Texan camp at sundown, and John disburdened himself of
his great news. It was to the effect that Santa Anna had divided his
army, part of them to cross the river at a ford several miles below and
strike Houston in flank while Santa Anna attacked him in front.

"And they ain't more'n two to one now, General," concluded John,
eagerly, "and I know you won't retreat for them."

"Not a step, my boy," replied Houston. "We'll not retreat--we'll fight."

So on April 21 the battle of San Jacinto was fought, and the
independence of Texas achieved. John was triumphant at the result of his
calculations, and when the army reoccupied Harrisburg he had the
pleasure of restoring to his quondam chief the entire plant of the
_Weekly Telegraph_ intact.

For himself he asked no reward but the consciousness of having done his
duty at considerable risk to himself, and the possession of his beloved
Texas, who was formally presented to him by General Houston, at the head
of the army, as a slight reward for his devoted patriotism.

The young republic afterward showed her gratitude in a more substantial
manner by granting to John Sibley, his heirs and assigns forever, as
many acres of her virgin soil as formed a magnificent ranch, where John
and Texas lived to the extreme of the years allotted to man or horse,
honored by all who knew them as potent factors in the cause of Texan
independence.




THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

XII.


"Snoozer shall have a pancake medal."

This was the first thing Ollie and I heard in the morning, and it was
Jack's voice addressing the hero of the night before. We speedily rolled
out, and agreed with Jack that Snoozer must be suitably rewarded. He
seemed fully to understand the importance of his action in barking at
the right moment, and for the first morning on the whole trip he was up
and about, waving his bushy tail with great industry, and occasionally
uttering a detached bark, just to remind us of how he had done it. He
walked around the pony several times, and looked at her with a haughty
air, as much as to say, "Where would you be now if it hadn't been for
me?"

"He shall have a pancake," continued Jack--"the biggest and best pancake
which the skilful hand of this cook can concoct."

Jack proceeded to carry out his promise, and when breakfast was ready
presented a pancake, all flowing with melted butter, to the dog, which
was as big as could be made in the frying-pan.

"I always knew," said Jack, "that Snoozer would do something some day.
He's lazy, but he's got brains. He would never bark at the moon, because
he knows the moon isn't doing anything wrong, but when it comes to
horse-thieves it's different."

Snoozer munched his pancake, occasionally stopping to give a grand swing
to his tail and let off a little yelp of pure joy.

As we were getting ready for a start, and speculating on the prospect
for water, a man came along, riding a mule, and we asked him about it.

[Illustration: "YAH, BLENTY VATERS. DOAN NEED TO DAKE NO VATERS ALONG."]

"Yah, blenty vaters," said the man. "Doan need to dake no vaters along."

"Any houses on the road?" asked Jack.

"Blenty houses," answered the stranger--"houses, vaters, efferydings."

We thanked him and started. Notwithstanding this assurance, I had
intended to fill a jug with water, but forgot it, and we went off
without a drop. We were going down what was called the Ridge Road, along
the divide between Elk and Elder creeks, and hoped to reach the crossing
of the Cheyenne at Smithville Post-office that evening, and get on the
Reservation the next morning. In half an hour we passed some trees which
marked the site of the Washday Springs, but there was no house there,
nor had we seen one at eleven o'clock. We met an Indian on foot, and
Jack said to him,

"Where can we get some water?"

The Indian shook his head, "Cheyenne River," he replied.

"Isn't there any this side?"

"No," with another jerk of the head. Then he stalked on.

"Yes, and the Indian's right, I'll warrant," exclaimed Jack. "'Blenty
vaters' indeed! Why, that Dutchman doesn't know enough to ache when he's
hurt."

"Well, we're in for it," said I. "We can't go back. Maybe it'll rain,"
though there was not a cloud in sight, and there was more danger of an
earthquake than of a shower.

So we went on, and a little after dark wound down among the black baked
bluffs to the crossing, without any of us having had a drop to drink
since before sunrise. After we had "lowered the river six inches," as
Jack declared, we went into camp.

We were up early in the morning, and Jack went down the river with his
gun, and got several grouse. There was one house near the crossing,
which was the post-office. The man who lived there told us it was a
hundred and twenty-five miles across the Reservation to Pierre, and
twenty miles to Peno Hill, the first station at which we would find any
one. The ford was deep, the water coming up to the wagon-box, and there
was ice along the edges of the river. It was a fine clear day, however,
and the cold did not trouble us much. We wound up among the bluffs on
the other side of the river, and at the top had our last sight of the
Black Hills. We went on across the rolling prairie, black as ink, as the
grass had all been burned off, and reached Peno Hill at a little after
noon. There was a rough board building, one end of it a house and the
other a barn. All of the stage stations were built after this plan. We
camped here for dinner, and pressed on to reach Grizzly Shaw's for the
night. About the middle of the afternoon we passed Bad River Station,
kept by one Mexican Ed.

"I'm going to watch and see if he runs when he sees Snoozer," said
Ollie. Snoozer had insisted on walking most of the time since his
adventure with the horse-thieves; but greatly to Ollie's disappointment
Mexican Ed showed no signs of fear even when Snoozer went so far as to
growl at him.

As it grew dark we passed among the Grindstone Buttes--several small
hills. A prairie fire was burning among them, and lit up the road for
us. We came to Shaw's at last, and went into camp. We visited the house
before we went to bed, and found that Shaw was grizzly enough to justify
his name, and that he had a family consisting of a wife and daughter and
two grandchildren.

"Pierre is our post-office," said Shaw, "eighty-five miles away."

"The postman doesn't bring out your letters, then?" returned Jack.

"We ain't much troubled with postmen, nor policemen, nor hand-organ men,
nor no such things," answered Shaw. "Still, once in a while a sheriff
goes by looking for somebody."

We told him of our experience with thieves, and he said:

"It's a wonder they didn't get your pony. There's lots of 'em hanging
about the edge of the Reserve, because it's a good place for 'em to
hide."

"Must make a very pleasant little walk down to the post-office when you
want to mail a letter," said Jack, after we got back to the
wagon--"eighty-five miles. And think of getting there, and finding that
you had left the letter on the hall table, and having to go back!"

We were off again the next morning, as usual. At noon we stopped at
Mitchell Creek, where we found another family, including a little girl
five or six years old, who carried her doll in a shawl on her back, as
she had seen the Indian women carry their babies. We had intended to
reach Plum Creek for the night, but got on slower than we expected,
owing partly to a strong head-wind, so darkness overtook us at Frozen
Man's Creek.

"Not a very promising name for a November camping-place," said Jack,
"but I guess we'll have to stop. I don't believe it's cold enough to
freeze anybody to-night."

There was no house here, but there was water, and plenty of tall dry
grass, so it made a good place for us to stop. Frozen Man's Creek, as
well as all the others, was a branch of the Bad River, which flowed
parallel with the trail to the Missouri. We camped just east of the
creek. The grass was so high that we feared to build a camp-fire, and
cooked supper in the wagon.

"I'm glad we've got out of the burned region," said Jack. "It's dismal,
and I like to hear the wind cutting through the dry grass with its sharp
swish."

There was a heavy wind blowing from the southeast, but we turned the
rear of the wagon in that direction, saw that the brake was firmly on,
and went to bed feeling that we should not blow away.

"I wonder who the poor man was that was frozen here?" was the last thing
Jack said before he went to sleep. "Book agent going out to Shaw's,
perhaps, to sell him a copy of _Every Man his own Barber; or, How to cut
your own Hair with a Lawn-Mower_."

[Illustration: THE CLOSEST CALL THE "RATTLETRAP" HAD.]

We were doomed to one more violent awakening in the old Rattletrap. At
two o'clock in the morning I was roused up by the loud neighing of the
horses. Old Blacky's hoarse voice was especially strong. As I opened my
eyes there was a reddish glare coming through the white cover. "Prairie
fire!" flashed into my mind instantly, and I gave Jack a shake and got
out of the front of the wagon as quickly as I could. I had guessed
aright; the flames were sweeping up the shallow valley of the creek
before the wind as fast as a horse could travel. Jack came tumbling out,
and we knew instantly what to do. We both ran a few yards ahead of the
wagon and knelt in the grass, and struck matches almost at the same
moment. Jack's went out, but mine caught, and a little flame leaped up,
reached over and to both sides, and then rolled away before the wind,
spreading wider and wider. I beat out the feeble blaze which tried to
work to windward, and ran back to the wagon, while Jack went after the
horses. The coming flames were almost upon us by this time; but Ollie
was out, and together, aided by the wind, we rolled the wagon ahead on
our little new-made oasis of safety. Jack pulled up the pony's
picket-pin, and brought her on also, while the other horses, being
loose, sought the place themselves. The flames came up to the edge of
the burned place, reached over for more grass, did not find it, and died
out. But on both sides of us they rushed on, and soon overtook our
little fire, and went on to the northwest. The wind, first hot from the
fire, now came cool and fresh, though full of the odor of the burned
grass.

"Closest call we've had," said Jack.

"Yes," I replied; "been pretty warm for us if we hadn't waked up. Our
animals are doing better; first Snoozer distinguished himself, and now I
think we've to thank Old Blacky mainly for this alarm."

We were pretty well frightened, and though we went back to bed, I do not
believe that any of us slept again that night. At the first touch of
dawn we were up. As it grew lighter, the great change in the landscape
became apparent. The gray of the prairie was turned to the blackest of
black. Only an occasional big staring buffalo skull relieved the
inkiness. Far away to the northwest we could see a low hanging cloud of
smoke where the fire was still burning.

"Blacky ought to have a hay medal," said Jack at breakfast. "If I had
any hay I'd twist him up one as big as a door-mat."

But Blacky, unlike Snoozer, seemed to have no pride in his achievement,
and he wandered all around the neighborhood trying to find a mouthful of
grass which had been missed by the fire; but he was not successful.

"If the frozen man had been here last night he'd have been thawed out,"
I said.

"Yes; and if Shaw had been here, what a good time it would have been for
him to let the fire run over his hair and clear off the thickest of it!"
returned Jack.

We started on, but the long wind had brought bad weather, and before
noon it began to snow. It kept up the rest of the day, and by night it
was three or four inches deep. We stopped at noon at Lance Creek, and
made our night camp at Willow Creek; at each place there was a stage
station in charge of one man. It cleared off as night came on, but the
wind changed to the north, and it grew rapidly colder. Shortly after
midnight we all woke up with the cold. We already had everything we had
piled on the beds, but as we were too cold to sleep, there was nothing
to do but to get up and start the camp-fire again. This we did, and
staid near it the rest of the night, and in this way kept warm at the
expense of our sleep.

The morning was clear, but it was by far the coldest we had experienced.
The thermometer at the station marked below zero at sunrise. We almost
longed for another prairie fire. It grew a little warmer after we
started, and at about eleven o'clock we reached Fort Pierre, on the
Missouri, opposite the town of Pierre. The ferry-boat had not yet been
over for the day, but was expected in the afternoon.

"You're lucky to get it at all," said a man to us. "It is liable to stop
any day now, and then, till the ice is thick enough for crossing, there
will be no way of getting over."

The boat came puffing across toward night, and we were safely landed
east of the Missouri once more. But we were still two hundred miles from
home; the country was well settled most of the way, however, and we felt
that our voyage was almost ended. Little happened worthy of mention in
the week which it took us to traverse this distance. The weather became
warmer and was pleasant most of the way. On the last night out it snowed
again a little and grew colder. We were still a long day's drive from
Prairie Flower, but we determined to make that port even if it took half
the night.

It was ten o'clock when we saw the lights of the town.

"Here we are," said Jack, "and I vote we've had a good time, and that we
forgive Old Blacky his temper, and Old Browny and Snoozer their
sleepiness, and Ollie his questions, and the rancher his general
incompetence."

"And the cook his pancakes," cried Ollie.

We stopped a little while in front of Squire Poinsett's grocery, and
Jack picked up the big revolver and fired the six shots into the air.
The pony had come alongside the wagon, and Snoozer had his head over the
dash-board. Half a dozen people came running out, including Grandpa
Oldberry, wearing red yarn mittens and carrying a lantern. He held up
the light and looked at us.

[Illustration: "WELL! WELL! WELL!" SAID GRANDPA OLDBERRY.]

"Well, I vum," he exclaimed, "if it ain't them three pesky scallawags
back safe and sound! I've said all along that varmints would get ye
sure, and we'd never see hide nor hair of ye again! Well, well, well!"

It was clear that Grandpa was just a little disappointed to see that his
predictions hadn't been fulfilled.

So the voyage of the good schooner Rattletrap was ended. It had been
over a thousand miles long, and had lasted more than two months.

THE END.




TILL THE GAME IS DONE.

BY SEELYE BRYANT.


Captain "Reddy" Alden, of the Blackwood Academy football team, was not
handsome. He was not even graceful. But his chin "meant business," and
there was a serene look in his eyes which was likely to make a bully
think twice before taking hold of him. His nickname sufficiently
indicated the color of his hair, which grew back from his forehead in a
"cowlick," and showed a tendency, when of approved football length, to
drop in straggling masses down either side of his freckled face.

Reddy--or more properly Mark--was nineteen years old, tall, and
long-armed, with a very slight outward bend of the legs, and a chest not
broad but deep. He looked wiry rather than muscular.

As he started toward the village, one Thursday afternoon, his hands were
in his pockets, his leather cap was on the back of his head, and the
collar of his heavy sweater fell over his shoulders above his
double-breasted coat.

He walked slowly down the hill, as if waiting for some one, and
occasionally turned to look back toward the academy. Soon a clear quick
call stopped him entirely. "Hold on there, Reddy!" it came, and the next
moment "Buck" Harris darted down the hill and caught him by the arm.

The two settled into a brisk walk, and Buck remarked, "I saw Billy Hurd
just now. His knee'll keep him off the field for a month."

"Too bad!"

"Well, what are you going to do?"

"Going to do?"

"Yes. Saturday comes in two days, and with Hurd gone there's no one on
the team safe enough to kick twenty yards."

The Captain smiled grimly, "We'll _run_, then!"

"Why not give up playing Winston this year? It's an extra game, and
they're too heavy for us, anyway. Think what a strain it's going to be
to face that rush-line for the two halves. And if they know enough to
keep Mellen kicking, he'll about kill us before the end of the first
half, making us chase the ball. Besides, he's dead sure to drop a goal
from the field, if he gets any sort of an angle within decent distance
of the posts."

Reddy straightened up, and his blue eyes gleamed.

"That game's no picnic for either side!" he jerked out. "The Blackwood
boys'll play it for all that's in it! Our tricks are good, and I shall
save you for the second half. As for me--well, I was never killed yet,
and I never saw a Blackwood eleven go back on its Captain!"

This was a long speech for Mark Alden, and it had its effect upon his
chum.

       *       *       *       *       *

Seton Harris was short, thick-set, and very muscular, although his
fashionable clothes and perfect grace of movement might at first deceive
you in regard to his "solid contents."

He had regular features, and clear, glowing cheeks, with handsome eyes,
and dark hair, whose clustering waves even the exigencies of football
could not persuade him to wear at more than conventional length. He was
two years younger than Alden, and a class below him in school.

Their intimacy had been the surprise of the year. When the principal
heard of it he said, "Well, if anything can make a man out of Seton
Harris, it is to room with Mark Alden. I am delighted with the
arrangement, though I confess I do not understand it."

Others felt in the same way, and perhaps the most thoroughly astonished
person in the whole academy was Seton Harris himself!

He had come to Blackwood the year before with an obliging disposition,
no strongly settled principles, and more spending-money than was good
for him. As a natural result, the sort of boys who voted him "a jolly
good fellow," and with whose doings he soon became identified, was not
the sort most likely to make his academy career a success in the eyes of
his teachers.

His great lack was persistence. He hated to face opposition or to keep
steadily at work on anything that was disagreeable.

Still he had plenty of energy when he chose to exert it, and everybody
liked him, even the principal.

He was the fastest short-distance runner in school, and when they made
him "half-back" on the football team he became the "star" of the eleven.

His occasional fits of application had results sufficiently brilliant to
save him from hopeless disgrace in his studies.

But he lived under a chronic state of reprimand for general conduct, his
miscellaneous offences ranging from noisiness in his room during study
hours to absence from the building after proper time at night.

In fact, he had so many executive sessions with the principal that
new-comers were usually informed he was "Doctor Walker's private
secretary." Rumor stated that a member of the entering class was
accustomed to lift his hat when Seton spoke to him!

Even at football the boy could not be depended upon.

In practice and in minor games his play was wonderful. But he was likely
to lose his nerve in a close struggle. It was not that he was actually
afraid. He had physical courage, only his confidence did not meet the
requirements of a "forlorn hope." Once start him with the ball, and he
was all right, seemed perfectly reckless of himself, made those
"phenomenal rushes" that capture a grand stand by storm.

But he seemed unwilling to run after he had failed once or twice to gain
ground. When sharp work was needed, he was not sure of catching the
ball, and might even trip himself up in getting under way.

Besides, the managers continually complained that he was irregular about
training.

This was Buck Harris at the time when steady-going, self-contained Mark
Alden first showed an interest in him. Buck never told exactly how it
happened, and no one ventured to ask Reddy.

But it came to pass, after one of Buck's numberless escapades, near the
beginning of the fall term, that he moved his personal effects into the
large corner room on the second floor where Alden had planned to reign
alone during Senior year.

The escapade in question was unusually serious. The "wild set" had
destroyed some abandoned buildings belonging to a farmer in the lower
village. The owner did not love the Blackwood boys, and vowed to push
the case to the extreme of the law.

"Jest let me git one o' them pesky young villyuns behind the bars 'nd
I'll be satisfied!" he told the postmaster.

Now it chanced that Seton Harris was identified as the particular
"villyun" whom he was most anxious to prosecute. Money would not satisfy
the man, and matters looked black for the culprit.

But, to the surprise of the town, the case did not come to trial.

All that the public knows about it is that Mark Alden walked down to the
lower village with Seton one afternoon, and that when they came out of
the farmer's house, an hour after, the owner was seen to shake hands
with both the boys.

The public does not know what took place as Seton and Mark sat under the
academy maples waiting for supper.

"Reddy, not one of my set would do as you've done for me to-day. I
believe I'd like to cut the whole tough outfit!"

"Why don't you?"

"Too hard work; besides, there's nobody else much that I know very
well."

"Room with me."

Seton gasped, and turned around to look his companion squarely in the
face. "Do you mean it? Wy, I'd drive you crazy!"

"I mean it."

And so it was brought about.

       *       *       *       *       *

Saturday afternoon, and one o'clock. The old "Elm House" barge drew up
promptly at the academy door. "Pete" Marston had driven that barge for
the boys on every athletic occasion in the last fifteen years. No one
enjoyed the successes or mourned the defeats of Blackwood Academy more
sincerely than Pete.

"I vum, boys, ye look 's if ye cal'lated to start for the north pole
this trip, with all them duds wound round ye!" he called back as the
players tumbled in.

Sweaters, ulsters, toboggan caps, and padded suits made it difficult to
tell where woollen goods left off and the boys began. Buck Harris had
wrapped a huge Turkish towel around himself on top of everything else,
"by way of ornament," he remarked. Buck's dark eyes were the only
visible portion of him, but from the continual "chaff" he kept flying,
the rest knew that somewhere was an open passage to his mouth. Everybody
was talking except Mark Alden. Some were excited, and a few were gayly
indifferent. Mark did not look at all worried; he simply kept quiet.

       *       *       *       *       *

Half past three o'clock on the grounds of the Winston Normal Institute.
The game with Blackwood was in progress. Mark Alden had just "tackled" a
Winston player in his decided way, which left no doubt as to where the
ball was "down."

"That Captain of yours is an ugly customer, I judge," said the Winston
storekeeper to Pete Marston, who had put up his horses and was leaning
against the fence.

"Waal no, Reddy ain't ugly 'xac'ly. He's square 's a
meetin'-house--ain't afraid 'f th' inside o' one neither; only when
football's on he _plays the game_, that's all. Don't believe he sees
anythin' but the ball, or knows there's anybody here but them players.
He's jes so in ev'rythin' else. 'Twouldn't be no diff'rent if 'twas
drawin' trygomertry figgers on that there blackboard up 't Blackwood
school. He wouldn't hev nothin' in his red head then but rules 'nd
chalk-marks. He ain't jest what I call a chromo fer looks, but he's all
pluck, 'nd I hain't seen no cleaner-talkin', perliter boy in the last
ten years."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a disheartened group that gathered in the Blackwood dressing-room
for the intermission when the game was half over. Winston had five
points, Blackwood none. Buck Harris had fumbled the ball almost in front
of his own goal. A Winston man immediately dropped on it, and in the
play that followed Mellen had kicked a clean goal from the field at
twenty-eight yards.

As the last man came in and shut the dressing-room door Harris dropped
on the bench and groaned out:

"It's all my fault, boys, but we're beaten now. We're all worn out. The
next half'll be a regular procession."

"Buck, that's enough."

The boys stared. Mark Alden seldom spoke like that, but he was stern
enough now.

"Set won't fumble again, I'll answer for that. Get rubbed down, all of
you, and then rest till time is called. This game is young yet."

And loosening his jacket Mark pulled a towel from the rack.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was evident in the last "half" that Winston was on the defensive. Its
players merely tried to keep Blackwood from scoring. They made some
pretense of running with the ball for the sake of using up time; but
their real work was done by their brilliant full-back, Mellen, whose
sure kicks carried the ball far down the field whenever their goal-line
was in danger.

These tactics succeeded until a few minutes of time remained. Buck
Harris was doing nobly, and had nearly succeeded in getting a
touch-down, but the next play gave Winston the ball. The two elevens
were lining up for Mellen's inevitable kick, when Barstow, of the
Winstons, passed near the Blackwood Captain.

Alden's hair was flying wildly about his face. His cheeks were flushed.
He was dark under the eyes and pale about the mouth and forehead. His
lips were tightly closed, and his nostrils wide apart. One stocking was
half-way down his leg, his canvas jacket was torn in several places,
and, in spite of the chill air, perspiration soaked him through and
through.

Ned Barstow knew him well, and could not resist a bantering word.

"How d'you like it, Reddy?"

"Blackwood's never beaten _till the game is done_!" came through Mark's
set teeth.

The ball was kicked on along slant, more across than down the field, and
as the players scattered to follow it, Mark and Seton found themselves
running together off at one side away from the rest. The ball, which had
gone over their heads, was still in the air, but very near. Directly
behind them there was almost a clear field to the Winston goal-line.

"I'll catch it, Buck," Mark whispered. "You be all right to start when I
give it to you. Keep behind me when I turn around; we can't afford a
foul pass!"

It was on the ground before they reached it, but Mark snapped it up and
shot it under his arm to his chum, who darted up the field behind him.
The two were fairly started before the others saw what had happened.

Fleet-footed Buck Harris, plus a clear field and Reddy Alden for
interference!

"[Illustration: BUCK'S BLOOD WAS UP, AND HE TURNED THE FULL-BACK
COMPLETELY OVER."]

No wonder the Blackwood crowd yelled with delight. Winston men started
across the field to head off the runners, but only two reached Harris.
Barstow dodged Alden, and threw himself straight for Buck's knees. With
a surprising wriggle the boy jumped clear over him, and left him
sprawling. He was fairly caught, though, by Mellen, about a yard from
the line. But his blood was up now, and by a supreme muscular effort he
turned the full-back over, and together they rolled across. A
touch-down!

Score: Winston, 5 points; Blackwood, 4.

Of course pandemonium reigned for a few minutes! Then the spectators
calmed down, and the ball was brought out for the kick. Time was up, but
the rules allowed the try for goal.

Captain Alden walked steadily toward the ball, which was held by the
quarter-back, and just as it touched the ground his foot struck it
fairly and drove it over the bar between the posts. A goal! Two points
more.

Score: Blackwood, 6; Winston, 5.

It was Seton Harris who got the credit of saving the game, but Mark
Alden did not care.

"Buck was really the only man who could make that run," he said to
himself, "and it'll do him lots of good to have kept his nerve in one
tight place."

Besides, Blackwood was not beaten, and the game was done!




A RACE WITH DACOITS ON MY BICYCLE.

BY DAVID GILMORE.


I believe I was the first man to ride a bicycle in Rangoon. I know I was
the cause of much wonder to the natives, who would stare in open-eyed
astonishment to see a white man scorching by on a little iron carriage
with two wheels. When I chanced to dismount, they would gather around
and take a look at the machine, finger the tires, ask how much it cost,
and finally grunt out some such remark as "_Teh goundy, naw?_"--Pretty
good, isn't it? It was pleasant to be the centre of all this admiration,
but not so pleasant when I turned the admiration into amusement by
coasting boldly down a steep hill, making a sharp turn just in time to
avoid a deep ditch, and driving full speed into a most unyielding fence.
It is peculiarly mortifying to be laughed at by those whom you regard as
your social inferiors.

When I arrived in Rangoon, it was just after the "dacoit times." Dacoits
are the highway-robbers of India. They work in gangs, and travel over
the country plundering, murdering, and sacking and burning the villages
in the jungle. They carry guns when they can get them; but as the
English are very careful to confiscate guns found in the possession of
natives, the dacoits are generally armed with _dahs_, as the Burmese
swords are called.

Shortly before I arrived in Burmah, the country had been infested with
dacoits, so that even in the outskirts of Rangoon houses were barricaded
at night, and the employment of private watchmen, always common in
Burmah, became almost universal. By the time I arrived there, however,
the gentle custom of dacoity had been pretty thoroughly broken up. Now
and then a lonely village in the jungle might be looted and burned, or
an English official living in some remote town might be murdered, but we
who lived in Rangoon were safe. No dacoit dared to show himself there.
At least, so I was assured.

Now I had a sweetheart in those days; and have her still--no less sweet
now that she shares my home. But then she lived in Kemendine, a
considerable village about two miles from my own home in Rangoon. I
believe that technically Kemendine lies within the municipal limits of
Rangoon, but practically it is a separate community, being cut off from
Rangoon proper by a considerable stretch of unimproved land. Kemendine
is distinctively a native community, having a large population of
Burmans, but not half a dozen white inhabitants.

I was in the habit of using my bicycle when I went out to spend an
evening with my _fiancée_. The road was lonely, but I considered it
perfectly safe.

One night, after the good-byes had been said, I started for home a
little after nine o'clock. A minute or so of easy pedalling brought me
to the railway track which bounded Kemendine village. The gates at the
crossing were closed, in anticipation of the Prome mail-train, which was
due there in a quarter of an hour. I dismounted while the Hindoo gateman
opened the gates just enough to let me through. Then I walked my wheel
across the track and remounted, receiving, as I rolled away, the
beautiful Oriental salutation, "Salaam, sahib"--Peace be with you,
sir--a pious wish strangely in contrast with the scene which was almost
immediately to follow.

On crossing the railway tracks I had left behind me the lights in the
village street, and the road before me was illuminated only by the
waning moon, which had just risen, affording me light enough to pick my
way, though not as much as I wanted before I got safely home. On my left
was the Burmese cemetery, on my right the ample grounds of a _kyaung_--a
Buddhist monastery. Of these two, the proximity of the latter was much
the more legitimate cause of anxiety, as the indiscriminate hospitality
of the _kyaungs_ makes them favorite lurking-places for bad characters.
But all I thought about the _kyaung_ just then was that the bells of its
pagodas jingled sweetly in the night wind. About half-way down the hill
the road turned at right angles from the cemetery, and skirted along the
other side of the _kyaung_. On the left was a little village called
Shan-zu. It was as still as the grave; the villagers were evidently all
asleep. Here the road began to be bordered with bushes and bamboos,
which grew denser as the road left the _kyaung_ and the village behind
and began to cross the waste-land between Kemendine and Rangoon. At the
foot of the hill the road passed over a little bridge.

Of course I didn't coast down the hill, lest I should come to grief at
the corner. But after turning the corner the road lay straight before me
clear into the town, and I let my machine go, keeping my feet on the
pedals, however, that I might have control of the wheel in case anything
should happen.

[Illustration: AS I SHOT AHEAD AN AWFUL YELL AROSE BEHIND ME.]

As I left the _kyaung_ behind and was making for the bridge, I heard a
few notes whistled softly just behind me. The sound seemed to come from
the bushes skirting the _kyaung_. I should not have thought anything of
this, however, if the same notes had not been whistled again, this time
apparently from the fields just ahead. This was evidently a call and an
answer; and it made me a little nervous, especially if the danger (if
danger there were) menaced me both in front and in the rear. I looked
around, but saw nothing more than I had seen many a night on that same
road. Not knowing anything else to do, I went steadily ahead, keeping
myself and my wheel well in hand, so as to be ready for any emergency
which might arise. Passing by some gaps in the shrubbery, I saw some
figures in the fields near the road making stealthily for the narrow
bridge which I should have to cross before I could get into the town. I
thought I could see some _dahs_ under their arms. Then I saw the danger
which threatened me. The dacoits evidently planned to intercept me at
the bridge, and cut me to pieces when I should be at a disadvantage. I
couldn't go back; for even if I had not had reason to think that some of
the gang were lurking behind me, the time I should have lost in turning
around would have put me at the mercy of my pursuers. There was only one
thing to do, and it didn't take me long to decide upon it. My wheel was
under pretty good headway, and I crowded on all the power I could to try
and reach that bridge before the dacoits got there. As I shot ahead an
awful yell arose behind me. I had been sharply watched. Immediately my
ears were greeted by a chorus of shouts from the fields on both sides of
the road.

My recollections of the next few minutes are not very clear. All I
remember is, pedalling with all my might, with those bloodthirsty cries
ringing in my ears, and my mind making incessant calculations as to the
chance of getting a bullet through my body next moment. But I heard no
shots, and probably the dacoits had no guns. I rolled on the bridge just
as they swarmed up from the fields into the road behind me.

But I was not out of the woods yet. Before I got into town I had a long
hill to climb. Now the Burman is a lightning sprinter when he chooses to
sprint, and that's just what those fellows did. Racing them down hill I
had the advantage, especially as they were running over the rough ground
in the fields. But when it came to racing up hill they rather had the
best of it, especially as they were now on the road. On a steep hill I
would have had no chance at all; but the slope was gentle, and I had a
start. I had a chance, therefore, for my life, and I made the best of
it. The thought of those _dahs_ put strength into every stroke I made.
The worst of it was, I could not tell whether I was holding my own or
not. My pursuers had stopped shouting, needing all their wind for
running; and their bare feet didn't make much noise on the ground. I was
bending low over my handle-bar, and didn't dare to risk diminishing my
speed by straightening up to look behind me even for an instant.

But when I got to the head of the hill, and was passing the grounds of
the Chief Commissioner, where there are always soldiers on guard, I felt
that I could venture to take a backward glance. Then I saw that my
pursuers had all disappeared.

Next day I wrote a letter to the Chief of Police, reporting my adventure
in detail, and having "the honor to be, sir, his most obedient servant,"
according to the prescribed formula, which whosoever observeth not shall
not gain the ear of the government of Burmah. In due course I received a
reply, in a big brown envelope, assuring me that the matter should be
promptly investigated, and having "the honor to be, sir, _my_ most
obedient servant." This was polite. The Indian government is great on
politeness. But nothing ever came of it. I suppose the Superintendent
did his best to ferret the matter out, but he had to work through native
policemen, and they may have had reasons of their own for not being too
anxious to catch the dacoits.




A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]

[2] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 868.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XX.


George returned to Alexandria, where his regiment awaited him. He was
mad with rage and chagrin. He could have taken censure with humility,
feeling sure that whatever mistakes he had made were those of
inexperience, not a want of zeal or courage. But to be quietly
supplanted, to be asked--after all the hardships and dangers he had
passed through, and the exoneration from blame by his countrymen--to
take a humiliating place, was more than he felt he ought to bear.

When he reached Alexandria he informed his officers of the resignation
of his commission, which would be accepted in a few days; and their
reply was an address, which did what all his cares and griefs and
hardships had never done--it brought him to tears. A part of the letter
ran thus:

     "SIR,--We, your most obedient and affectionate officers, beg leave
     to express our great concern at the disagreeable news we have
     received of your determination to resign the command of that corps
     in which we have, under you, long served. The happiness we have
     enjoyed and the honor we have acquired, together with the mutual
     regard that has always subsisted between you and your officers,
     have implanted so sensible an affection in the minds of us all that
     we cannot be silent on this critical occasion.

      "Your steady adherence to impartial justice, your quick
      discernment and invariable regard to merit, first heightened our
      natural emulation to excel. Judge, then, how sensibly we must be
      affected with the loss of such an excellent commander, such a
      sincere friend, such an affable companion. How great the loss of
      such a man! It gives us additional sorrow, when we reflect, to
      find our unhappy country will receive a loss no less irreparable
      than our own. Where will it find a man so experienced in military
      affairs--one so renowned for patriotism, conduct, and courage? Who
      has so great a knowledge of the enemy we have to deal with? Who so
      well acquainted with their situation and strength? Who so much
      respected by the soldiery? Who, in short, so well able to support
      the military character of Virginia? We presume to entreat you to
      lead us on to assist in the glorious work of extirpating our
      enemies. In you we place the most implicit confidence. Your
      presence only will cause a steady firmness and vigor to actuate in
      every breast, despising the greatest dangers, and thinking light
      of toils and hardships, while led on by the man we know and
      love."[3]

[3] This letter, which is printed in full in Marshall's _Life of
Washington_, was among the highest personal compliments ever paid
Washington. The signers were seasoned soldiers, addressing a young man
of twenty-three, under whom they had made a campaign of frightful
hardship ending in disaster. They were to be ordered to resume
operations in the spring, and it was to this young man that these
officers appealed, believing him to be essential to the proper conduct
of the campaign.

Deep indeed was the conviction which made George resist this letter; but
his reply was characteristic, "I made not this decision lightly, and all
I ask is that I may be enabled to go with you in an honorable capacity;
but to be degraded and superseded, this I cannot bear."

The Governor was very soon made aware that the soldiers bitterly
resented his treatment of their young commander; but he had gone too far
to retreat. George, as soon as his resignation was accepted, retired to
Mount Vernon; and about the time he left his regiment at Alexandria two
frigates sailed up the Potomac with General Braddock, and landed two
thousand regular troops for the spring campaign against the French and
Indians.

George spent the autumn and winter at Mount Vernon, where, until then,
he had spent but one night in fifteen months. After getting his affairs
there in some sort of order he visited his sister at Belvoir, and his
mother and Betty at Ferry Farm. All of them noticed a change in him. He
had grown more grave, and there was a singular gentleness in his
manner. His quick temper seemed to have been utterly subdued. Betty
alone spoke to him of the change she saw.

"I think, dear Betty," he answered, gently, "that no one can go through
a campaign such as I have seen without being changed and softened by it.
And then I foresee a terrible war with France and discord with the
mother-country. We are upon the threshold of great events, depend upon
it, of which no man can see the outcome."

The winter was passed in hard work at Mount Vernon. Only by ceaseless
labor could George control his restlessness. The military fever was
kindled in his veins, and do what he could, there was no subduing it,
although he controlled it. Torn between the desire to serve his country
as a military man and the sense of a personal and undeserved affront, he
scarcely knew what to do. One day, in the fever of his impatience, he
would determine to go to Alexandria and enlist as a private in his old
corps. Then reason and reflection, which were never long absent from
him, would return, and he would realize that his presence under such
circumstances would seriously impair the discipline of the corps. And
after receiving the officers' letter, and hearing what was said and done
among them, he was forced to recognize, in spite of his native modesty,
that his old troops would not tolerate that he should be in any position
which they conceived inadequate to his deserts. Captain Vanbraam told
him much of this one night when he rode from Alexandria to spend the
night with George.

"General Braddock is a great, bluff, brave, foolish, hard-drinking,
hard-driving Irishman. He does not understand the temper of our
soldiers, and has not the remotest conception of Indian fighting, which
our enemies have been clever enough to adopt. I foresee nothing but
disaster if he carries out the campaign on his present lines. There is
but one good sign. He has heard of you, Colonel Washington, and seems to
have been impressed by the devotion of your men to you. Last night he
said to me, 'Can you not contrive to get this young Colonel over to see
me? I observe one strange thing in these provincial troops: they have
exactly the same confidence in Colonel Washington now as before his
disastrous campaign, and as a soldier I know there must be some great
qualities in a commander when even defeat cannot undo him with his men,
for your private soldier is commonly a good military critic; so now, my
little Dutch Captain'--bringing his great fist down on my back like the
hammer on the anvil--'do you bring him to see me. If he will take a
place in my military family, by gad it is his.' And, my young Colonel,"
added Vanbraam, in his quiet way, "I am not so sure it is not your duty
to go, for I have a suspicion that this great swashbuckler will bring
our troops to such a pass in this campaign that only you can manage
them. So return with me to-morrow."

"Let me sleep on it," answered George, with a faint smile.

Next evening, as the General sat in his quarters at the Alexandria
Tavern, surrounded by his officers, most of them drinking and
swaggering, the General most of all, a knock came at the door, and when
it was opened Captain Vanbraam's short figure appeared, and with him
George Washington, the finest and most military figure that General
Braddock ever remembered to have seen. Something he had once heard of
the great Condé came to General Braddock's dull brain when he saw this
superb young soldier: "This man was born a captain."

When George was introduced he was received with every evidence of
respect. The General, who was a good soldier after a bad pattern, said
to him at once:

"Mr. Washington, I have much desired to see you, and will you oblige me
by giving me, later on, a full account of your last campaign?" The other
officers took the hint, and in a little while George and the General
were alone. They remained alone until two o'clock in the morning, and
when George came out of the room he had entered as a private citizen he
was first aide-de-camp on General Braddock's staff.

As he walked back to Captain Vanbraam's quarters in the dead of night,
under a wintry sky, he was almost overwhelmed with conflicting feelings.
He was full of joy that he could make the campaign in an honorable
position; but General Braddock's utter inability to comprehend what was
necessary in such fighting filled him with dread for the brave men who
were to be risked in such a venture.

Captain Vanbraam was up waiting for him. In a few words George told what
had passed.

"And now," he said, "I must be up and doing, although it is past two
o'clock. I must bid my mother good-by, and I foresee there will be no
time to do it when once I have reported, which I promised to do within
twenty-four hours. By starting now I can reach Ferry Farm by the
morning, spend an hour with her, and return here at night; so if you,
Captain, will have my horses brought, I will wake up my boy Billy"--for
although Billy was quite George's age, he remained ever his "boy."

That morning at Ferry Farm, about ten o'clock, Betty, happening to open
the parlor door, ran directly into George's arms, whom she supposed to
be forty-five miles off. Betty was speechless with amazement.

"Don't look as if you had seen a rattlesnake, Betty," cried George,
giving her a very cruel pinch, "but run, like a good child as you are,
though flighty, and tell our mother that I am here."

Before Betty could move a step in marched Madam Washington, stately and
beautiful as ever. And there were the three boys, all handsome youths,
but handsomer when they were not contrasted with the elder brother; and
then, quite gayly and as if he were a mere lad, George plunged into his
story, telling his mother that he was to make the campaign with General
Braddock as first aide-de-camp, and trying to tell her about the
officers' letter, which he took from his pocket, but, blushing very
much, was going to return it had not Betty seized it as with an eagle's
claw.

"Betty," cried George, stamping his foot, "give me back that letter!"

"No, indeed, George," answered Betty, with calm disdain. "Do not put on
any of your grand airs with me. I have heard of this letter, and I mean
to read it aloud to our mother. And you may storm and stamp and fume all
you like--'tis not of the slightest consequence."

So George, scowling, and yet forced to laugh a little, had to listen to
all the compliments paid to him read out in Betty's rich, ringing young
voice, while his mother sat and glowed with pride, and his younger
brothers hurrahed after the manner of boys; and when Betty had got
through the letter her laughing face suddenly changed to a very serious
one, and she ran to George and kissed him all over his cheeks, saying,

"Dear George, it makes me so happy that I want to both laugh and
cry--dear, dear brother!"

And George, with tender eyes, kissed Betty in return, so that she knew
how much he loved her.

When Madam Washington spoke it was in a voice strangely different from
her usually calm, musical tones. She had just got the idol of her heart
back from all his dangers, and she was loath to let him go again, and
told him so.

"But, mother," answered George, after listening to her respectfully,
"when I started upon my campaign last year you told me that you placed
me in God's keeping. The God to whom you commended me then defended me
from all harm, and I trust He will do so now. Do not you?"

Madam Washington paused, and the rare tears stole down her cheeks.

"You are right, my son," she answered, presently. "I will not say
another word to detain you, but will once more give you into the hands
of the good God to take care of for me."

That night, before twelve o'clock, George reported at Alexandria to
General Braddock as his aide.

On the 20th of April, near the time that George had set out the year
before, General Braddock began his march from Alexandria in Virginia to
the mountains of Pennsylvania, where the reduction of Fort Duquesne was
his first object. There were two magnificent regiments of crack British
troops and ten companies of Virginia troops, hardy and seasoned, and in
the highest spirits at the prospect of their young commander being with
them. They cheered him vociferously when he appeared, riding with
General Braddock, and made him blush furiously. But his face grew very
long and solemn when he saw the immense train of wagons to carry baggage
and stores which he knew were unnecessary, and the General at that very
moment was storming because there were not more.

"These," he said, "were furnished by Mr. Franklin, Postmaster-General of
Pennsylvania, and he sends me only a hundred and fifty at that."

"A hundred too many," was George's thought.

The march was inconceivably slow. Never since George could remember had
he had so much difficulty in restraining his temper as on that
celebrated march. As he said afterwards, "Every mole-hill had to be
levelled, and bridges built across every brook." General Braddock wished
to march across the trackless wilderness of the Alleghanies as he did
across the flat plains of Flanders, and he spent his time in
constructing a great military road when he should have been pushing
ahead. So slow was their progress that in reaching Winchester George was
enabled to make a detour and go to Greenway Court for a few hours. The
delight of Lord Fairfax and Lance was extreme, but in a burst of
confidence George told them the actual state of affairs.

"What you tell me," said the Earl, gravely, "determines me to go to the
low country, for if this expedition results disastrously I can be of
more use at Williamsburg than here. But, my dear George, I am concerned
for you, because you look ill. You are positively gaunt, and you look as
if you had not eaten for a week."

"Ill!" cried George, beginning to walk up and down the library, and
clinching and unclinching his fists nervously. "My lord, it is my heart
and soul that are ill. Can you think what it is to watch a General,
brave but obstinate and blind to the last degree, rushing upon disaster?
Upon my soul, sir, those English officers think, I verily believe, that
the Indians are formed into regiments and battalions, with a general
staff and a commissary, and God knows what!" And George raved a while
longer before he left to ride back to Winchester, with Billy riding
after him. This outbreak was so unlike George, he looked so strange, his
once ruddy face was so pallid at one moment and so violently flushed at
another, that the Earl and Lance each felt an unspoken dread that his
strong body might give way under the strain upon it.

George galloped back into Winchester that night. Both his horse and
Billy's were dripping wet, and as he pulled his horse almost up on his
haunches Billy said, in a queer voice:

"Hi, Marse George, d'yar blood on yo' bridle. You rid dat hoss hard, sho
'nough!"

"Hold your tongue!" shouted George, in a tone that Billy had never heard
from him before; and then, in the next minute, he said, confusedly, "I
did not mean to speak so, but my head is in a whirl; I think I must be
ill."

And as he spoke he reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen had not
Billy run forward and caught him. He staggered into the house where he
had lodgings, and got into his bed, and by midnight he was raving with
fever.

Billy had sense enough to go for Dr. Craik, George's old acquaintance,
who had volunteered as surgeon to General Braddock's staff. He was a
bright-eyed, determined-looking man, still young, but skilled in his
profession. By morning the fever was reduced, and Dr. Craik was giving
orders about the treatment as he sat by George's bedside, for the army
was to resume its march that day.

"Your attack is sharp," said the doctor, "but you have an iron
constitution, and with ordinary care you will soon be well."

George, pale and haggard, but without fever, listened to the doctor's
directions with a half smile. The troops were already on the move;
outside could be heard the steady tramp of feet, the thunder of horses'
hoofs, the roll of artillery-wagons, and the commotion of an army on the
move. In a few moments the doctor left him, saying,

"I think you will shortly be able to rejoin the army, Colonel
Washington."

"I think so too," answered George.

As soon as the doctor was out of the room George turned to Billy, and
said,

"Help me on with my clothes, and as soon as the troops are well out of
the town fetch the horses."

When the soldiers halted at noon, General Braddock, sitting under a tree
by the road-side, was asking Dr. Craik's opinion of the time that
Colonel Washington could rejoin, when around the corner of a huge
bowlder rode George with Billy behind him. He was very pale, but he
could sit his horse. He could not but laugh at the doctor's angry face,
but said, deprecatingly, to him,

"I would have fretted myself more ill had I remained at Winchester, for
I am not by nature patient, and I have been ill so little that I do not
know how to be ill."

"I see you don't," was the doctor's dry reply.

For four days George kept up with the army, and managed, in spite of
burning fevers, of a horrible weakness and weariness, of sleepless
nights racked with pain, to ride his horse. On the fifth he was
compelled to take to a covered wagon. There, on a rough bed, with Billy
holding his burning head, he was jolted along for ten days more, each
day more agonizing than the one before. In that terrible time master and
man seemed to have changed places. It was George who was fretful and
unreasonable and wildly irritable, while Billy, the useless, the lazy,
the incorrigible, nursed him with a patience, a tenderness, a strange
intelligence that amazed all who saw it, and was even dimly felt by
George. The black boy seemed able to do altogether without sleep. At
every hour of the day and night he was awake and alert, ready to do
anything for the poor sufferer. As the days passed on, and George grew
steadily worse, the doctor began to look troubled. In his master's
presence Billy showed no sign of fear, but he would every day follow Dr.
Craik when he left, and ask him, with an ashy face, "Marse doctor, is
Marse George gwi' die?"

"I hope not. He is young and strong, and God is good."

"Ef he die, an' I go home, what I gwin' say when mistis come out and
say, 'Billy, wh'yar yo' Marse George?'" And at that Billy would throw
himself on the ground in a paroxysm of grief that was piteous to see.
The doctor carefully concealed from the soldiers George's real
condition. But after four or five days of agony a change set in, and
within the week George was able to sit up and even to ride a little. The
wagons had kept with the rear division of the army, but George knew that
General Braddock, with twelve hundred picked men, had gone ahead and
must be near Fore Duquesne. On the fourteenth day, in the evening when
the doctor came he found his patient walking about. He was frightfully
thin and pale, but youth and strength and good habits were beginning to
assert themselves. He was getting well.

"Doctor," said he, "this place is about fifteen miles from Fort
Duquesne. I know it well, and from this hour I emancipate myself from
you. This day I shall report for duty."

The next morning, the 9th of July, 1755, dawned beautifully, and the
first long lances of light revealed a splendid sight on the banks of the
Monongahela. On one side flowed the great river in majestic beauty.
Following the shores was a kind of natural esplanade, while a little way
off the rich woods, within which dwelt forever a purple twilight,
overhung this charming open space. And along this open space marched, in
exquisite precision, two thousand of England's crack troops--cavalry,
infantry, and artillery--and a thousand bronzed Virginian soldiery, to
the music of the fife and drum. Often in after-years George Washington
was heard to say that the most beautiful sight his eyes ever rested on
was the sight of Braddock's army at sunrise on that day of blood.
Officers and men were in the highest spirits; they expected within a few
hours to be in sight of Fort Duquesne, where glory, as they thought,
awaited their coming. Even George's apprehensions of the imprudence of
this mode of attack were soothed. He rode by General Braddock's side,
and was by far the most conspicuous figure there for grace and nobility.
His illness seemed to have departed in a night, and he was the same
erect, soldierly form, fairly dwarfing every one contrasted with him. As
the General and his first aide rode together, General Braddock said,
confidently:

"Colonel Washington, in spite of your warning, see how far we have come
upon our way without disaster. The danger of an attack by Indians is now
passed, and we have but to march a few miles more and glory is ours."

Scarcely were the words out of his month when there was one sharp crack
of a gun, followed by a fierce volley, and fifty men dropped in their
tracks. But there was no enemy visible. The shots were like a bolt of
lightning from a clear sky.

"The Indians," said George, in a perfectly composed voice, reining up
his horse.

"I see no Indians," cried General Braddock, excitedly. "There is
disorder in the ranks; have them closed up at once, and march in
double-time. We will soon find the enemy."

But the firing from the invisible foe again broke forth, this time
fiercer and more murderous than before. General Braddock, riding to the
head of the first regiment, which had begun to waver, shouted the order
for them to reform and fire. The veteran troops, as coolly as if on
parade, closed up their ranks and gave a volley, but it was as if fired
in the air. They saw no enemy to fire at. Meanwhile the Virginia troops,
after the first staggering effect of a terrific musketry fire poured
into them by an unseen enemy, suddenly broke ranks, and, each man
running for a tree, took possession of the skirts of the woods. On
seeing this General Braddock galloped up to George.

"Colonel Washington," he cried, violently, "your Virginia troops are
insubordinate! They have scattered through the woods, and I desire them
formed again in column of fours to advance."

"Sir," answered George, in agony, "the ravines are full of Indians--many
hundreds of them. They can slaughter us at their pleasure if we form in
the open. The Virginians know how to fight them."

"You are an inexperienced soldier, sir, and therefore I excuse you. But
look at my English veterans--see how they behave--and I desire the
Virginians to do the same."

At that moment George's horse fell upon his knees, and the next he
rolled over, shot through the heart. The English regiments had closed up
manfully, after receiving several destructive volleys, returning the
fire of their assailants without seeing them and without producing the
smallest effect. But suddenly the spectacle of half their men dead or
wounded on the ground, the galloping about of riderless horses, the
shrieks of agony that filled the air, seemed to unman them. They broke
and ran in every direction. In vain General Braddock rode up to them,
actually riding over them, waving his sword and calling to them to halt.

The men who had faced the legions of Europe were panic-stricken by this
dreadful unseen foe, and fled, only to be shot down in their tracks. To
make it more terrible, the officers were singled out for slaughter, and
out of eighty-six officers in a very little while twenty-six were killed
and thirty-seven wounded. General Braddock himself had his horse shot
under him, and as he rolled on the ground a cry of pain was wrung from
him by two musket-balls that pierced his body. Of his three aides, two
lay weltering in their blood, and George alone was at his side helping
him to rise.

Rash and obstinate as General Braddock might be, he did not lack for
courage, and in that awful time he was determined to fight to the last.

"Get me another horse," he said, with difficulty, to George. "Are you
too wounded?"

"No, General, but I have had two horses shot under me. Here is my third
one. Mount!" And by the exertion of an almost superhuman strength he
raised General Braddock's bulky figure from the ground and placed him in
the saddle.

"I am badly wounded," said General Braddock, as he reeled slightly; "but
I can sit my horse yet. Your Virginians are doing nobly, but they should
form in column."

Besotted to the end, but seeing that the Virginians alone were standing
their ground, General Braddock did not give a positive order, and George
did not feel obliged to obey this murderous mistake. But General
Braddock, after a gasp or two, turned a livid face towards George.

"Colonel Washington, the command is yours. I am more seriously wounded
than I thought." He swayed forward, and but for George would have fallen
from his horse.

[Illustration: GEORGE DID ALL THAT MORTAL MAN COULD DO TO RALLY THE
PANIC-STRICKEN MEN.]

The panic was now at its height. Men, horses, wagons, all piled together
in a terrible mélée, made for the rear; but there, again, they were met
by a hail of bullets. Staggered, they rushed back, only to be again
mowed down by the hidden enemy. The few officers left commanded, begged,
and entreated the men to stand firm; but they, who had faced death upon
a hundred fields, were now so mad with fear that they were incapable of
obedience. George, who had managed to have General Braddock carried to
the rear with the aid of Dr. Craik, had got another horse, and riding
from one end of the bloody field to the other, did all that mortal man
could do to rally the panic-stricken men, but it was in vain. His
clothes were riddled with bullets, but in the midst of the carnage
around him he was unharmed, and rode over the field like the embodied
spirit of battle.

The Virginians alone, cool and determined, fought steadily and sold
their lives dearly, although picked off one by one. At last, after hours
of panic, flight, and slaughter, George succeeded in bringing off the
remnant of the Virginians, and, overtaking the fleeing mob of regular
troops some miles from the scene of the conflict, got them across the
ford of the Monongahela. They were safe from pursuit, for the handful of
Frenchmen could not persuade their Indian allies to leave the plunder of
the battle-field for the pursuit of the enemy. The first thing that
George did was to send immediately for wagons, which had been left
behind, to transport the wounded. General Braddock, still alive but
suffering agonies from his wounds, was carried on horseback, then in a
cart, and at last, the jolting being intolerable, on a litter upon the
shoulders of four sturdy backwoodsmen. But he was marked for death. On
the third day of this terrible retreat, towards sunset, he sank into a
lethargy. George, who had spent every moment possible by his side,
turned to Dr. Craik, who shook his head significantly--there was no
hope. As George dismounted and walked by the side of the litter, the
better to hear any words the dying soldier might utter, General Braddock
roused a little.

"Colonel Washington," he said, in a feeble voice, "I am satisfied with
your conduct. We have had bad fortune--very bad fortune; but"--here his
mind began to wander--"yonder is the smoke rising from the chimneys; we
shall soon be home and at rest. Good-night, Colonel Washington--"

[Illustration: THE BURIAL OF GENERAL BRADDOCK.]

The men with the litter stopped. George, with an over-burdened heart,
watched the last gasp of a rash but brave and honorable soldier, and
presently gently closed his eyes. At daylight the body of General
Braddock, wrapped in his military cloak, was buried under a great
oak-tree in the woods by the side of the highway, and then the mournful
march was resumed.

The news of the disaster had preceded them, and when George, attended
only by Captain Vanbraam and a few of his Virginian officers, rode into
Williamsburg on an August evening, it was with the heaviest heart he had
ever carried in his bosom. But by one of those strange paradoxes ever
existing in the careers of men of destiny, the events that had brought
ruin to others only served to exalt him personally. His gallant conduct
in battle, his miraculous escape, his bringing off the survivors,
especially among the Virginia troops, and the knowledge which had come
about that had his advice been heeded the terrible disaster would not
have taken place--all conspired to make him still more of a popular
hero. Not only his own men adored him, and pointed out that he had saved
all that could be saved on that dreadful day, but the British troops as
well saw that the glory was his, and the return march was one long
ovation to the one officer who came out of the fight with a greater
reputation than when he entered it. Everywhere crowds met him with
acclamations and with tears. The streets of the quaint little town of
Williamsburg were filled with people on this summer evening, who
followed the party of officers, with George at their head, to the
palace. George responded to the shouts for him by bowing gracefully from
side to side.

Arrived at the palace, he dismounted, and just as the sentry at the main
door presented arms to him he saw a party coming out, and they were the
persons he most desired to see in the world and least expected. First
came the Earl of Fairfax with Madam Washington, whom he was about to
hand down the steps and into his coach, which had not yet driven up.
Behind them demurely walked Betty, and behind Betty came Lance, carrying
the mantles of the two ladies.

The Earl and Madam Washington, engaged in earnest conversation, did not
catch sight of George until Betty had rushed forward, and crying out in
rapture, "George, dear George!" they saw the brother and sister clasped
in each other's arms.

Madam Washington stood quite still, dumfounded with joy, until George,
kissing her hand tenderly, made her realize that it was indeed he, her
best beloved, saved from almost universal destruction and standing
before her. She, the calmest, the stateliest of women, trembled, and had
to lean upon him for support; the Earl grasped his hand; Lance was in
waiting. George was as overcome with joy as they were.

"But I must ask at once to see the Governor," said he, after the first
rapture of meeting was over. "You, my lord, must go with me, for I want
friends near me when I tell the story of sorrow and disaster."

Four days afterwards, the House of Burgesses being in session, Colonel
Washington was summoned by the Speaker to read his report of the
campaign before it, and to be formally designated as commander-in-chief
of the forces. The facts were already known, but it was thought well, in
order to arouse the people to the sense of their danger, and to provide
means for carrying on the war in defence of their frontiers, that
Colonel Washington should make a public report, and should publicly
receive the appointment of commander-in-chief of the next expedition.
The House of Burgesses, then as ever proudly insistent of its rights,
had given the Governor to understand that they would give him neither
money nor supplies unless their favorite soldier should have the command
in the next campaign--and, indeed, the attitude of the officers and
soldiery made this absolutely necessary. Even the Governor had realized
this, and, disheartened by the failure of his much-heralded regulars,
was in a submissive mood, and these haughty colonial legislators, of
whose republican principles Governor Dinwiddie already complained much,
took this opportunity to prove that without their co-operation but
little could be done.

The large hall of the House of Burgesses, but dimly lighted by small
diamond-paned windows, was filled with the leading men of the colony,
including Lord Fairfax. Ladies had been admitted to the floor, and among
them sat in majestic beauty Madam Washington, and next to her sat Betty,
palpitating, trembling, blushing, who with proud, bright eyes awaited
the entrance of her "darling George," as she called him, although often
reproved for her extravagance by her mother.

At last George entered this august assembly. His handsome head was
uncovered, showing his fair hair. He wore a glittering uniform, and his
sword, given him by Lord Fairfax, hung at his side. He carried himself
with that splendid and noble air that was always his characteristic,
and, quietly seating himself, awaited the interrogatory of the
president. When this was made he rose respectfully and began to read
from manuscript the sad story of Braddock's campaign. It was brief, but
every sentence thrilled all who heard it. When he said, in describing
the terrible story of the 9th of July, "The officers in general behaved
with incomparable bravery, for which they suffered, upwards of sixty
being killed or wounded," a kind of groan ran through the great
assemblage; and when he added, in a voice shaken with emotion, "The
Virginia companies behaved like men and died like soldiers; for, I
believe, out of three companies on the ground that day scarce thirty men
were left alive," sobs were heard, and many persons, both men and women,
burst into tears.

His report being ended, the president of the House of Burgesses arose
and addressed him:

"Colonel Washington, we have listened to your account of the late
campaign with feelings of the deepest and most poignant sorrow, but
without abandoning in any way our intention to maintain our lawful
frontiers against our enemies. It has been determined to raise sixteen
companies in this colony for offensive and defensive warfare, and by the
appointment of his Excellency the Governor, in deference to the will of
the people and the desire of the soldiers, you are hereby appointed, by
this commission from his Excellency the Governor, which I hold in my
hand, commander-in-chief of all the forces now raised or to be raised by
this colony, reposing special confidence in your patriotism, valor,
conduct, and fidelity. And you are hereby invested with power and
authority to act as you shall think for the good of the service.

"And we hereby strictly charge all officers and soldiers under your
command to be obedient to your orders, and diligent in the exercise of
their several duties.

"And we also enjoin and require you to be careful in executing the great
trust reposed in you, by causing strict discipline and order to be
observed in the army, and that the soldiers be duly exercised and
provided with all necessaries.

"And you are to regulate your conduct in every respect by the rules and
discipline of war, and punctually to observe and follow such orders and
directions as you shall receive from his Excellency the Governor, and
this or other House of Burgesses, or committee of the House of
Burgesses."

A storm of applause broke forth, and George stood silent, trembling and
abashed, with a noble diffidence. He raised one hand in deprecation, and
it was taken to mean that he would speak, and a solemn hush fell upon
the assembly. But in the perfect silence he felt himself unable to utter
a word, or even to lift his eyes from the floor. The president sat in a
listening attitude for a whole minute, then he said:

"Sit down, Colonel Washington. Your modesty is equal to your valor, and
both are above comparison. Your life would not have been spared, as if
by a miracle, had not the all-wise Ruler of the heavens and the earth
designed that you should fulfil your great destiny; and one day, believe
me, you shall be called the prop, the stay, and the glory of your
country."

THE END.




THE SMALL BOY IN WAR.

BY C. E. SEARS.


Much has been recently said and written about the resources of the
nation in the event of war, the fighting capacity of our army and navy,
and the character of recruits who would constitute the new army that
must be speedily organized should a conflict result from present
complications. The valor of the veterans who participated in our civil
war has been often dwelt on, but nowhere have I seen any calculation
based on the intrepidity and wild courage of the small boy--an element
that constitutes a more important factor in every successful campaign
than most people imagine. Literature is full of accounts of the small
boy at school and at play. Humorists have depicted his weaknesses, his
mischievous proclivities, and volunteer poets have made him the victim
of rhyming obituaries. Dickens has painted him in pathetic colors,
Thackeray has alternately satirized and sympathized with him, and Hughes
has described him in his character of friend and fighter. None of his
peculiarities has escaped detection. His disappointments have been
ridiculed, his triumphs belittled; nor have even his sorrows been held
sacred from the rude analysis and heartless ridicule of maturer and more
conceited minds. While asleep the pockets of his little pants have been
invaded, and their curious collections exposed to excite merriment. If
he wears his cap-brim backward, smuts his face with sooty fingers or
marks the progress of the season with fruit stains on his clothes,
whistles from the gallery of the theatre, guys the actors, projects
spiral play-bills on the spectators below, tortures the house cat,
fights chickens in out-of-the-way places, or burglarizes his sister's
safety bank of its pennies, he is condemned and often lashed. And these
are penalties he pays for existence outside of the school-room. His life
there is one of continued anxiety and peril. But this part of his
history has been over and over narrated. My purpose is to give some
account of the small boy on the battle-field--not in the petty conflicts
that occur on the play-ground, but in the fiercer and bloodier clash of
arms, where the very souls of grown men were tried, and where they were
oftener found wanting than the small boy.

After Julius Cæsar had conquered Gaul, Britain, and Egypt, and had even
overcome the great Pompey at Pharsalia, he found a victory over Pompey's
two sons, mere lads, in Spain, a very different enterprise. Encountering
them at the great battle of Munda, his army was about to yield before
their intrepid leadership, when he rushed among his men, exclaiming,
"Will you deliver me into the hands of boys?" He afterwards said he had
often fought for victory, but it was the first time he had fought for
his life.

Mr. Bryan, in a speech in Congress, made good use of an incident
recorded by Muelbach, who narrated that at Marengo, when Napoleon gave
up the battle as lost, and ordered a drummer-boy to beat a retreat, the
lad's face saddened as he said: "Sire, I do not know how. Dessaix has
never taught me retreat, but I can beat a charge. Oh, I can beat a
charge that would make the dead fall into line! I beat it at Mount
Tabor; I beat it at the Pyramids. Oh, may I beat it here?" The charge
was ordered, and victory plucked from the jaws of defeat by the little
hands of that heroic lad.

The incident is fanciful, but it is illustrative. There is a stone wall
in a cemetery at Paris where many Communists were executed. When I saw
it the wall still bore marks of shot, and fragments of the skin and hair
of the victims were matted to the masonry. A lad who had been among the
fiercest of the fighters was one of the condemned. While marching near
his home and to the place of execution, he told the officer in command
that he had a locket which he had just taken from the body of his dead
father, and begged that he might bear it to his mother, promising to
return and resume his place in the fated line. The officer, touched by
his tender age, gave the permission, hoping and believing he would not
return, thus sparing him the necessity of executing a mere child. Before
the line reached its destination, however, the lad came up with hasty
steps, stood against the wall, and faced the soldiers. The first volley
tore out his brave little heart.

The cradles of France furnished the troops who fought and won the
desperate battle of Wagram. "In my young soldiers," said Napoleon, "I
have found all the valor of my old companions in arms."

The small boy as a soldier has never had a historian. No Foy or Napier
or Thiers has done justice to his heroism; but he furnishes much of the
enthusiasm, the dash and fury, of every triumphant army. It was the
small boy of France who helped to win those marvellous victories under
the revolutionary government of 1789, and, later, under Napoleon. When
Wellington was contending against Marshal Soult in Spain, he got a
number of young recruits from England whose smooth faces and dudish
uniforms excited the derision of veterans. But when the conflict came
they were foremost in the charge. The Duke, who had shared the contempt
for these "parlor soldiers," was forced to admit that "the puppies
fought well. They report oftener for duty, are capable of more
endurance, and are irresistible in a charge. They need only a few
veterans to steady them in action. Some are timid in the first
encounter, as was Frederick the Great, but they soon overcome it." It
was "a narrow lane, an old man and two boys," that saved the battle in
_Cymbeline_, and forced on the Romans better thought of Britons than
when Julius Cæsar "smiled at their lack of skill." The soul contributes
more than the body to results. Take a boy of eighteen, inspire him with
enthusiasm, and however fragile in form, he will outstrip, both on the
march and in the field, the less impressible men with twice his physical
strength. I have seen trudging in the ranks of Lee's army striplings
whose equipments almost outweighed their delicate bodies. But they
straggled less, were sick less, and were foremost in the fight. When the
hour of battle came their faces brightened with a beautiful light, a
smile would play over their features, and their disposition to cheer and
charge became irrepressible. It has been said that the most dangerous
antagonists are those who value their own lives the least; and these
lads seemed not to think of either life or death, but the foe, the foe,
and to be up and at them. Must a battery be captured? They rushed at it,
and recked not of the terror and death it belched forth. Must a redoubt
be carried? Forward they leaped so swift and brave, not counting the
bristling mass that defended it.

[Illustration: "I AM THE KING'S DRUMMER AND CANNOT BEAT FOR REBELS."]

Another and well-known incident of the bravery of a boy is the one which
is told of a young drummer in 1798 who, in an engagement between the
rebels and the King's troops, was captured. During the fight he was
ordered by his captors to beat the drum for them. Without a moment's
hesitation he placed his drum on the ground and put his foot through
both heads, then sitting down he said, "I am the King's drummer and
cannot beat for rebels."

All who have seen anything of war appreciate the presence of the small
boy in the ranks, for he must be reckoned with in the hours of battle. A
fury blazes in his little frame that nerves his delicate arm and gives a
tiger-spring to his step.




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


One of the principal difficulties which have to be faced every year by
the managers of interscholastic athletics is the choice of proper and
competent officials for league games. It is not so difficult in the
spring-time to get umpires for baseball games, but in the fall if seems
to be an exceedingly difficult matter to secure the proper kind of
officials for the football matches.

Not only is this difficulty encountered in New York, but we often hear
of the same trouble in Boston and Philadelphia, and other great athletic
centres. The main difficulty seems to be in securing referees and
umpires who shall be thoroughly impartial. Inasmuch as the men who can
be secured to act as officials at school games are usually graduates of
the schools, or are still in the schools, or are teachers at the
schools, there is always the chance that they may be more or less
interested in the success of one team or the other, and so not entirely
impartial in their decisions, in spite of having the best of intentions.

If it were only possible to secure the co-operation of graduates of two
or three years' standing, both in this city and in others, the question
of officials would be settled. This, however, would be the ideal
solution of the vexing problem, and can hardly be hoped for. It might be
possible to get a list of such gentlemen, who are familiar with the
sport, and who would be willing, for the sake of the promotion of the
sport, to give one afternoon each season to the game.

In Boston there has been so much trouble over the matter of securing
competent officials for the football-games that a committee of the head
masters of the schools interested finally took up the question, and,
after going thoroughly into its merits, reported to the Football
Association, whose executive committee thereupon passed the following
resolutions:

     "Voted, that all games officials should be approved by the
     executive committee of the association before being allowed to act,
     and that the officials should be, when possible, men of college
     rank.

     "Voted, that the secretary of the association be empowered to act
     by the executive committee as regards the approval of games
     officials, except in such cases where he shall desire to call a
     meeting of the whole committee."

It is plain now that when this rule goes into effect, the old system of
waiting to choose the officials until the teams appear upon the football
field ready to play will be done away with. The captains of the teams
are now compelled to meet the secretary of the Football Association
before the game, and to decide upon the officials at that time. This
will dispose of one of the difficulties; but the greatest difficulty of
all, that of securing the individuals themselves, of getting them to
promise to come, and of having them appear after they have promised, is
one that cannot be overcome by legislation. It is a condition that can
only be improved by an increased interest among college men in the
sports of their juniors.

Among other things done by the Executive Committee of the Boston
Interscholastic Football Association was the reconsideration of its
former decision to compel the Cambridge High and Latin schools to
compete in athletics as two separate institutions. C.H. and L.
petitioned to be readmitted to the Senior Football League as a single
school, and their cause was very strongly championed by a number of
graduates at the recent committee meeting.

The result was that C.H. and L. was readmitted to the Senior League, and
for this year at least the two schools will be represented by a single
eleven. It is greatly to be hoped, however, that the young man who
captains this year's team will make it his especial business to find out
all about the men under him, and to know whether they attend the High or
the Latin school, or neither. In this way he will avoid making the
rather unexplainable mistake which occurred last year.

The decision of the committee has infused new life into the many
football-players of C.H. and L., and active practice has been begun by
the various squads. Warnock has been elected captain; and as this move
was made upon the advice of a number of graduates, it is probable that
the new leader will prove to be a man competent to avoid the pitfalls
which proved so disastrous to his predecessor.

Not more than four or five of the men who played on last year's team are
back in school this year. Among them is Estabrook, who will retain his
old position at centre. One of his guards will undoubtedly be Usher.
The tackles will probably be Fletcher and Simmons. Captain Warnock will
undoubtedly go in and look after one end of the line. Back of the line
we shall probably see Clarkson at quarter, and the other positions ought
to be divided among Donovan, Lewis, and Hill. But it is too early to
make much of a prognostication, as football was somewhat disorganized at
C.H. and L. in the early part of the fall on account of the uncertainty
in the future, which has now been settled by the executive committee's
action.

The Hartford High-School team, after its rather poor showing a few weeks
ago, has taken a big brace, and is displaying somewhat of its old-time
form. The eleven went up to Springfield a week or so ago, and defeated
the High-School eleven there, 18-10. The team-work on that occasion was
much better than Hartford had done at any time this year, and the
general snap of the players was noticeably improved.

This good work was followed up a week ago Friday in the game against
Hillhouse, in which the latter was defeated, 16-4. The weakest spot in
the Hartford team was right guard, which is filled by Costello. The
Hillhouse men made all their gains through him, with hardly any
exception. Captain Sturtevant was unable to play at quarter on account
of injuries received in the Springfield game, and this may possibly
account for the many holes made through guard. Had Sturtevant been at
his usual post, it is probable that he could have headed off some of the
runs that got past Costello. Two of Hartford's touch-downs were made by
Bush, who is developing into a strong player.

The Hillhouse players fumbled badly, and many of their fumbles proved
most expensive. They had gotten the ball to within one yard of the
Hartford line, when they lost it through inability to keep their fingers
on the leather. The New Haven men's defence was weak too, and Hartford
had little trouble in getting around the ends. Their best work was done
by Morris, Sternberg, and Wolfe. For Hartford the best playing was done
by Bush, Strong, Twichell, and Allen.

If this improvement in the Hartford team continues, New Britain will not
have such a sure thing of the championship as we all had reason to
suppose a few days ago. The line-up for the rest of the season will
probably be as follows: Whaples and Gillette, ends; Allen and Morris,
tackles; Weeks and Costello, guards; Smith, centre; Strong and Bush,
half-backs; Sturtevant, quarter-back and captain; Twichell, full-back.
This team will average about 154 pounds, and, unusual as it is, the
backs will average 156 pounds, two pounds heavier than the rush-line.

[Illustration: ENGLEWOOD HIGH-SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM.

Cook County Interscholastic League.]

The Cook County High-School Football League's season began October 10.
If we may judge from the initial game, there are four strong teams and
four weak teams in the Association. Englewood H.-S. so badly out-classed
Northwest Division in the first half, scoring 30-0, that the Northwest
men did not care to play out the second half, which was exceedingly
unsportsmanlike. Teetzel did not play for Englewood in this game, but
Ferguson went in at right half in his place, and did good work. He made
a number of long runs, and proved a clever substitute. The Northwest
eleven did not have sufficient team-work to prevent Englewood's plays.

[Illustration: TEETZEL, HALF-BACK,

Englewood High-School, Chicago.]

Another one-sided match was that between West Division and North
Division, in which the Northerners routed the Westerners, 42-0, in
20-minute halves. West Division seemed to go to pieces in the face of
the excellent team-work of North Division. Johnson, the N.D. left
half-back, made a number of good runs, assisted by interference. On the
whole there was little individual play, the men working well in concert.

It was doubtless a surprise to Oak Park to be defeated, 44-0, by Lake
View. Oak Park's centre was lamentably weak, and the Lake View men went
through it repeatedly, and when they got tired of bucking the line they
travelled easily around the ends. Evanston defeated Manual, 28-0. Manual
had no team-work at all, and was defeated principally on this account,
although Evanston had little trouble in making holes between guard and
tackle on both sides of the line.

[Illustration: LINDEN, END.

Hyde Park High-School, Chicago.]

In the game between Hyde Park and English High, Hyde Park made a
touch-down at the very start. Then followed a series of fumbles, first
by Knickerbocker of Hyde Park, who caught the kick off; then by Sullivan
of English High, who secured the ball and made a good run, only to lose
the leather to Hyde Park again. This incident was the cause for a
display of bad feeling and ill-breeding, and, worst of all, of
unsportsmanlike instincts.

The English High players refused to accept the decision of the referee,
and left the field, subsequently protesting the game; but, very
fortunately for the good name of the Chicago League, their protest was
not sustained, and the game went to Hyde Park, as it should have.

In the Inter-preparatory League the initial games were between the
Princeton-Yale and University schools, the latter winning, 10-8. This
game was much closer than any played by the Cook County teams, although
the contesting elevens were not made up of such good men, but were more
evenly matched. Fumbling was plentiful, and gave Henneberry, one of the
University School half-backs, a chance to make a 40-yard run.

"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.


Collectors in the West are warned against an old-time philatelist who is
going about offering "specimen" sets of the U.S. stamps at very low
prices. Several of these sets have been sent to me for examination. They
prove to be card-board proofs rubbed down with pumice-stone, gummed, and
perforated. The word "specimen," instead of being printed, was then
applied, by means of a rubber-stamp, in aniline ink. These are very
dangerous frauds, as few young collectors are familiar with the genuine
originals. Unused U.S. stamps and "specimen" sets are always saleable in
New York city at fair prices. When any one offers these stamps at
"bargain-counter" rates, it is safe to say that there is something wrong
in the transaction.

The Nova Scotia "find" made a very little flurry in this country, but in
England it has developed into a first-class sensation. The leading
dealers are involved, and letters to one another and to the philatelic
press abound; but, curious to say, no definite information is given. The
facts seem to be that one large dealer was offered sets at sixty-two
cents, and several weeks later another large dealer advertised himself
as the sole agent for the sale of these stamps, and fixed six dollars as
the price of the set. In the absence of any statement as to the true
quantity of each of the stamps, collectors refuse to buy except at very
low prices.

A Western philatelic paper proposes the riddle, "What is the difference
between stamp-albums and clocks?" and answers it as follows: "The latter
points out the hours, the former causes us to forget them."

The auction season has begun, and most of the larger sales will be held
in the hall of the Collectors Club, 351 Fourth Avenue, New York. The
value of stamps sold by auction in London during the past season was
nearly $200,000, and the auction sales during the same period in the
United States amounted to a somewhat larger sum.

     R. B. HADDOCK.--The 1856 flying eagle is the only small cent that
     dealers care to buy. They offer from $1.50 to $2 for a fine copy.
     The 3c. piece is quite common.

      F. G. TUPPER.--Your half-dollar is worth face only. Most of the
      early dollars and half-dollars were in the same style.

      H. C. DAY.--The U.S. envelopes of the present issue differ
      slightly from the preceding. The main difference is in the
      water-mark of the paper, and advanced collectors make at least
      eight varieties. I have not room to give all the varieties.

  PHILATUS.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




[Illustration: ROYAL]

The greatest American baking powder. Sold the world over and approved by
the highest authorities for its healthfulness.

ROYAL BAKING POWDER CO., NEW-YORK.




Postage Stamps, &c.




[Illustration]

The neatest and most attractive Stamp Album ever published is =The
Favorite Album for U.S. Stamps=. Price 25c. (post free 30c.).

Catalogue of U.S. Stamps free for the postage, 2c. Complete Catalogue of
all Stamps ever issued, 10c. Our Specialty: =Fine Approval Sheets= at low
prices and 50% commission.

R. F. ALBRECHT & CO.,

90 Nassau Street, New York.




THE market value of the 7c. Vermilion, 1872, United States, is 75 cents,
but in order to increase the circulation of my price-list of stamps, I
will send one of these stamps and a copy of my list to any one sending
me 30 cents and the names and addresses of five or more stamp
collectors.

E. T. PARKER, Bethlehem, Penn.




10 BOOKS FREE

On tricks, experiments in electricity, in chemistry, war, puzzles, 4 of
stories, coins we buy, 4 on stamps, stamp dictionary, toy making. Send
35c. for youth's paper, 1 year, and choose any ten books.

BULLARD, Pembroke St., Boston, Mass.




[Illustration: STAMPS]

100, all dif., & fine =STAMP ALBUM=, only 10c.; 200, all dif., Hayti,
Hawaii, etc., only 50c. Agents wanted at 50 per cent. com. List FREE!
=C. A. Stegmann=, 5941 Cote Brilliant Ave., St. Louis, Mo.




[Illustration: STARR STAMP CO.]

Coldwater, Mich. See ad. in H.R.T. Sept. 29th for bargains. Large col'n
bought. Agents wanted. 50% com.




STAMPS

=10= stamps and large list =FREE!=

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




200

Foreign Stamps, 10c. Agt's wanted. 60% discount.

LOU. O. BROSIE, 3405 Butler St., Pittsburg, Pa.




HARPER'S MAGAZINE

For 1897

will contain

[Illustration: GEORGE DU MAURIER.]

GEORGE DU MAURIER'S

Last Novel

The Martian

which was begun in the October Number.

       *       *       *       *       *

POULTNEY BIGELOW

will contribute papers on

WHITE MAN'S AFRICA

with many illustrations.

STEPHEN BONSAL ON EASTERN SIBERIA

F. HOPKINSON SMITH ON HUNGARY

       *       *       *       *       *

A New Novel of the Next Century

BY

[Illustration: FRANK R. STOCKTON.]

FRANK R. STOCKTON

will appear during the year.

       *       *       *       *       *

SHORT STORIES

will continue to be the most popular feature of the MAGAZINE.

Besides contributions from authors already famous, others

will be especially sought from NEW WRITERS.

       *       *       *       *       *

STRIKING AMERICAN FEATURES

WILL BE CONTRIBUTED BY

CHARLES F. LUMMIS, WOODROW WILSON, OWEN WISTER,

FREDERIC REMINGTON, AND WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

       *       *       *       *       *

_35 CENTS A COPY. $4.00 A YEAR._

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York




[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 are many questions connected with what to the average rider would
be long journeys on a bicycle which seldom or never obtain the amount of
attention which they require in order to give the rider the comfort and
pleasure that he ought to have.

For instance, the packing of luggage is one of the most important
details of a week's run. The best method for carrying luggage is that
already described in this column, namely, a leather bag fitted to the
inside of the frame. The proper luggage for a week should be the
smallest set of toilet articles that can be conveniently used, a couple
of sets of under-clothing, and at least two extra pairs of long
stockings, and, perhaps most important of all, a pair of loose slippers.
When starting out in the morning the entire clothing which you wear
should be perfectly dry. This can always be accomplished if it is done
in the right way, by asking a maid at the hotel where you stop at night
to see that all your clothes are dried during the night, and it is well
to dress in a different suit each day, except, of course, the trousers
and jacket. When you stop at noon for the hour or two for dinner, with
the intention of riding on in the afternoon, the greatest care should be
taken to avoid taking cold, especially in the fall and winter weather.
In the first place, you should wrap yourself up usually by putting on
the coat and waistcoat which you have been carrying on the front of the
wheel or in the leather portmanteau. It is unwise, however, to take a
bath and change the clothing at this time of day, and therefore merely
the rest and the dinner should be your care at noon. After riding all
the afternoon, the moment the bicycle is stowed away or put under some
one's care, go to your room at the hotel and take a bath. If there
happens to be no bath-tub available, which is often the case at small
inns or country hotels, take a sponge bath--always in warm water at
first, ending with cold. There is considerable danger to any one who
takes a warm bath after heavy physical exertion and omits the cold water
afterward. It is one of the best methods known for catching a dangerous
cold.

The food which you eat on these journeys is quite as important as any
other of the details of the ride. It is always well, if that be
possible, to sit still reading the paper, or smoking, or resting in any
way, for from three-quarters of an hour to an hour after each meal. For
breakfast, oatmeal, coffee, and perhaps a couple of eggs with toast is
quite as much as it is well for you to take, unless you have been in the
habit of eating a very heavy breakfast. If the journey is to be
continued in the afternoon, it is well not to eat too heavily at dinner,
and you are advised to stick to water for drink. Then after the
afternoon ride, after a good bath, and with a change of clothing and the
slippers on, at anywhere from six to eight o'clock, you may eat as much
and take as much time at table as you care to. If this rule is followed,
you will wake up the next morning fresh and ready for the day's run.




THE BABY SPEAKS.


  I've got a joke on pa and ma--
    They say 'at I can't walk.
  It really makes me laugh right out
    To hear those people talk.
  Why, I can walk as well as you,
    So grand in all your pride,
  But for the present "Baby" thinks
    He'd much prefer to ride.




Money Prizes Offered Subscribers.


The attention of all subscribers to HARPER'S ROUND TABLE is called to
the prize competitions which we are offering for the winter of 1896-7.
These Prizes are worth, in all, $475, and are offered for original Short
Stories, Amateur Photographs, and Puzzle Solutions. Contestants for them
must be _bona fide_ subscribers to HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, save in Puzzle
contests, in which contestants may be subscribers of a few newspapers
which publish the puzzles simultaneously with HARPER'S ROUND TABLE. If
you are not now a subscriber, and desire to compete, send the
subscription price, $2, with your puzzle answer, photograph, or story,
and you will then receive HARPER'S ROUND TABLE each week for a year,
besides having a chance at the prizes. Even if you do not secure any
prizes, you will have the paper, and be able to enter other
competitions, and take advantage of our Book and Library offers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Prizes for Puzzle Solutions--$200.

Offered in Five Unique Contests.

HARPER'S ROUND TABLE puzzles are famous. During the year five prize
puzzles will be published, and $40 in cash will be offered for best
solutions to each. Competition for these prizes is open only to actual
subscribers to HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, and to the subscribers of a few
newspapers which print these puzzles simultaneously with this
periodical.

These prize puzzles are given in addition to the usual "Kinks." As a
rule, the Kinks are not prize contests. The prize puzzles consist of
stories, which are interesting as stories, and are good puzzles besides.
The five cover as many varieties or styles of puzzles, and so give
solvers of different tastes and abilities a chance at the particular
kind of puzzle for which they have a bent. Here are titles of two of the
prize puzzles: "The River Styx Puzzle," and "A Wonderful Outing
Tragedy." Others are similar. The prize-money is $40 to the best three
solvers in each contest. The right is reserved to divide the prize-money
according to merit of answers. As a rule, it may be said that the best
solver wins $20; the one who comes next wins $12, and the third $8.
These puzzles will appear in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE during November and
December, 1896, and January, February, and March, 1897, with the
particulars of the contest. Correctness and neatness are the tests of
excellence.

       *       *       *       *       *

Prizes for Short Stories--$150.

First Prize, $75; Second, $50; Third, $25.

HARPER'S ROUND TABLE offers $150, divided in three parts, thus: First
Prize, $75; Second Prize, $50; Third Prize, $25--for the best stories
written by actual subscribers to it, those whose names are on its
subscription list for a one year's subscription. Stories must contain at
least five hundred words, and must not exceed two thousand words, actual
count. The plot must be probable, and the story well told, both in
sequence of events and in language employed. As far as practicable
type-write the story. But this condition is not imperative. At the top
of the first page place your name and address in full, and the number of
words in your story. Do not roll your manuscript. Use paper about five
by eight inches in size, unless the story is type-written, when use
regular type-writer paper. Prepay postage, and enclose return postage.
Address it, not later than February 28, 1897, to HARPER'S ROUND TABLE,
New York, and put in the lower left-hand corner of the envelope the
words "Story Competition." No story may be sent by you that is not
wholly original with you, and none may be submitted that has ever been
submitted in any contest. One person may not submit more than one story.
Two persons may not join in writing a single story. If you are not a
subscriber, and desire to compete for these prizes, send $2 with your
story, and give address to which paper is to be sent for one year.

       *       *       *       *       *

Prizes for Photographs--$125.

In Junior and Senior Contests.

We take great pleasure in announcing the opening of our annual
photographic competition, in which prizes are to be given for the best
photographs entered in the different classes before February 15, 1897.
Until last year the competition was confined to members of the ROUND
TABLE CAMERA CLUB. At that time it was decided to arrange, in addition
to the competition for the club members, one which should be open to all
amateur photographers who are subscribers to HARPER'S ROUND TABLE. This
arrangement proved so popular that it will be continued this year. The
prizes are as follows:

Open to all subscribers of HARPER'S ROUND TABLE who have not passed
their eighteenth birthday.

        CLASS I.           CLASS II.          CLASS III.
    FIGURE STUDIES.       LANDSCAPES.          MARINES.

  First Prize    $20  First Prize    $12  First Prize     $12
  Second Prize    10  Second Prize     8  Second Prize      8
  Third Prize      5  Third Prize      5  Third Prize       5

Entries for this competition will close February 15, 1897.

RULES OF COMPETITION.

RULE I.--This competition is open to all subscribers of HARPER'S ROUND
TABLE who have not passed their eighteenth birthday.

RULE II.--All photographs offered must be the work of the competitor,
from the exposure of the plate to the mounting of the finished print.

RULE III.--No picture less than 4 by 5 or larger than 8 by 10 must be
sent.

RULE IV.--Any printing process may be used with the exception of the
blue print.

RULE V.--All pictures must be mounted and carriage prepaid.

RULE VI.--Each picture must be marked on the back of the mount with the
name and address of the sender, the class for which it is designed, and
the statement whether the artist has or has not passed his or her
eighteenth birthday. No other writing is required, nor is it necessary
to send a letter with the picture or pictures.

RULE VII.--No picture must be sent which has taken a prize, or has been
submitted for prizes in other competitions.

RULE VIII.--Each competitor may send as many pictures as he chooses.

RULE IX.--In addition to the name and address of the journal the package
must be marked on the outside, "Harper's Round Table Photographic
Competition."

Senior Contest.

Open to all amateur photographers who are subscribers to HARPER'S ROUND
TABLE, without regard to age limit.

CLASS A.--FIGURE STUDIES.

  First Prize         $20
  Second Prize         15

CLASS B.--LANDSCAPES.

  First Prize         $15
  Second Prize         10

Entries for this competition will close February 15, 1897.

RULES OF COMPETITION.

This competition is open to all amateurs, young or old, whether they are
or are not members of the ROUND TABLE CAMERA CLUB. Members of the Camera
Club may send pictures to both competitions.

The other rules governing this competition are the same as those in the
competition open only to members of the Camera Club.

Photographs which do not take prizes, or are not retained for
publication, will be returned to the senders if postage is enclosed.

Any picture which fails to take a prize, the percentage of which is
above seventy, will receive honorable mention.

If you are not a subscriber, send $2 with your picture or pictures, and
give your address, where we will send HARPER'S ROUND TABLE for one year.

Any questions in regard to the competition, or preparing pictures for
the same, will be promptly answered by the editor. Address "Editor of
Camera Club."

       *       *       *       *       *

A GOOD CHILD

is usually healthy, and both conditions are developed by use of proper
food. The Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk is the best infant's
food: so easily prepared that improper feeding is inexcusable and
unnecessary.--[_Adv._]




ADVERTISEMENTS.




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Made at

DORCHESTER, MASS.

It bears their Trade Mark

"La Belle Chocolatiere" on every can.

Beware of Imitations.




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Tricycle; sell 25 lbs. for a Solid Silver Watch and Chain; 50 lbs. for a
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Write for catalog and order sheet Dept. I

W. G. BAKER,

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---- 1857-1897 ----

HARPER'S WEEKLY

For the Coming Year

will continue to be a

PANORAMA OF THE WORLD

[Illustration]

TOPICS OF

INTERNATIONAL

INTEREST

will be fully treated.

       *       *       *       *       *

SERIALS

_A New England Story_

_By MARY E. WILKINS._

_A Tale of a Greek Uprising_

_By E. F. BENSON._

A Sequel to "The House-Boat on the Styx," by

JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

Will also appear early in the year. Illustrated by PETER NEWELL

       *       *       *       *       *

ARMY AND NAVY LIFE

will be

PRESENTED BY SPECIAL WRITERS AND WELL-KNOWN ARTISTS

       *       *       *       *       *

Special attention will be given to

WESTERN SUBJECTS

       *       *       *       *       *

The department of

AMATEUR SPORT

By CASPAR WHITNEY

will remain the most important department of its kind in the country.

       *       *       *       *       *

_10 CENTS A COPY $4.00 A YEAR_

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York




_A SPLENDID LIST OF_

BOOKS FOR THE HOLIDAYS

       *       *       *       *       *

=George Washington.= By WOODROW WILSON, Ph.D., LL.D., Professor of
Jurisprudence, Princeton University. Illustrated by HOWARD PYLE and
Others. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Deckel Edges and Gilt Top. (_In
Press._)

=Contemporary Essayists.= Uniform in Size and Style. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top.

     =Aspects of Fiction=, and Other Ventures in Criticism. By BRANDER
     MATTHEWS. $1.50.

     =Impressions and Experiences.= By W. D. HOWELLS. $1.50.

     =The Relation of Literature to Life.= By CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. (In
     Press.)

=In the First Person.= A Novel. By MARIA LOUISE POOL. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.

=History of the German Struggle for Liberty.= By POULTNEY BIGELOW, B.A.
Copiously Illustrated with Drawings by R. CATON WOODVILLE, and with
Portraits and Maps. Two Volumes. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut
Edges and Gilt Tops, $5.00. (_In a Box._)

=The Dwarfs' Tailor=, and Other Fairy Tales. Collected by ZOE DANA
UNDERHILL. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.75.

="Harper's Round Table" for 1896.= Volume XVII. With 1276 Pages, and about
1200 Illustrations. 4to, Cloth, Ornamental, $3.50. (_In Press._)

=Limitations.= A Novel. By E. F. BENSON, Author of "Dodo," "The Judgment
Books," etc. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental.

=The Gray Man.= A Novel. By S. R. CROCKETT, Author of "The Raiders," etc.
Illustrated by SEYMOUR LUCAS, R.A. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50.

=Rick Dale.= A Story for the Young. By KIRK MUNROE. Illustrated. Post 8vo,
Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

=By George du Maurier.= Illustrated by the Author.

     =Trilby.= A Novel. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.75; Three-quarter
     Calf, $3.50; Three-quarter Crushed Levant, $4.50.

     =A Souvenir of "Trilby,"= Seven Photogravures in a Portfolio, $1.00.

     =Peter Ibbetson.= Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50; Three-quarter
     Calf, $3.50; Three-quarter Crushed Levant, $4.50.

=The Square of Sevens.= An Authoritative System of Cartomancy. With a
Prefatory Notice by E. IRENÆUS STEVENSON. With Diagrams. Post 8vo,
Cloth, Ornamental, Deckel Edges and Gilt Top. (_In Press._)

=Solomon Crow's Christmas Pockets=, and Other Tales. By RUTH MCENERY
STUART. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (_In Press._)

=In the Old Herrick House=, and Other Stories. By ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental.

=Tommy Toddles.= By ALBERT LEE. Illustrated by PETER S. NEWELL. Square
16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

=Iras: A Mystery.= By THEO. DOUGLAS. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.

=Green Fire.= A Romance. By FIONA MACLEOD. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1.25.

=Amyas Egerton, Cavalier.= A Novel. By MAURICE H. HERVEY. Illustrated.
Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.50.

=The Evolution of Woman.= Forty-four Drawings by HARRY WHITNEY MCVICKAR,
printed in colors, with accompanying text. Large 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental,
Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $2.00.

=Naval Actions of the War of 1812.= By JAMES BARNES. With 21 Full-page
Illustrations by CARLTON T. CHAPMAN, printed in color or tint. 8vo,
Cloth, Ornamental, Deckel Edges and Gilt Top, $4.50. (_In Press._)

=Reminiscences of an Octogenarian of the City of New York= (1816-1860). By
CHAS. H. HASWELL. With many Illustrations, a Photogravure Portrait of
the Author, and a Map of New York in 1816. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental,
Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $3.00.

=Alone in China=, and Other Stories. By JULIAN RALPH. Illustrated by C. D.
WELDON. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2.00. (_In Press._)

=The Ship's Company=, and Other Sea People. By J. D. JERROLD KELLEY,
Lieutenant-Commander, U.S.N. Copiously Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental. (_In Press._)

=A Rebellious Heroine.= A Story. By JOHN KENDRICK BANGS. Illustrated by
W. T. SMEDLEY. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges, $1.25.

=Mark Twain's Joan of Arc.= Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc.
Illustrated by F. V. DU MOND. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2.50.

=Books by Mark Twain.= New and Uniform Library Editions from New
Electrotype Plates. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental.

     =The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.= With Photogravure Portrait of
     the Author, and other Illustrations. $1.75.

     =Life on the Mississippi.= Illustrated. $1.75.

     =A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.= Illustrated. $1.75.

     =The Prince and the Pauper.= Illustrated. $1.75.

     =Tom Sawyer Abroad=, =Tom Sawyer, Detective=, and Other Stories,
     etc., etc. Illustrated. $1.75. (_In Press._)

     =The American Claimant=, and Other Stories. Illustrated. (_In
     Press._)

=The Abbey Shakespeare.= The Comedies of William Shakespeare. With 131
Drawings by EDWIN A. ABBEY, Reproduced by Photogravure. Four Volumes.
Large 8vo, Half Cloth, Deckel Edges and Gilt Tops, $30.00 per set. (_In
a Box._)

=Bound in Shallows.= A Novel. By EVA WILDER BRODHEAD. Illustrated by W. A.
ROGERS. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (_In Press._)

=Love in the Backwoods.= Two Stories: "Two Mormons from Muddlety,"
"Alfred's Wife." By LANGDON ELWYN MITCHELL. Illustrated by A. B. FROST.
Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (_In Press._)

=Frances Waldeaux.= A Novel. By REBECCA HARDING DAVIS, Author of "Dr.
Warrick's Daughters." Illustrated by T. DE THULSTRUP. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental. (_In Press._)

=Gascoigne's "Ghost."= A Novel. By G. B. BURGIN. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.00.

=Tomalyn's Quest.= A Novel. By G. B. BURGIN. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1.25. (_In Press._)

=A Virginia Cavalier.= By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL. Illustrated. Post 8vo,
Cloth, Ornamental. (_In Press._)

=Constitutional History of the United States= from their Declaration of
Independence to the Close of their Civil War. By GEORGE TICKNOR CURTIS.
In Two Volumes. 8vo, Cloth, Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops, $3.00 each.

=Clarissa Furiosa.= A Novel. By W. E. NORRIS. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1.50.

=An Elephant's Track=, and Other Stories. By M. E. M. DAVIS. Illustrated.
Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

=The Mystery of Sleep.= By JOHN BIGELOW. Post 8vo, Cloth, Deckel Edges and
Gilt Top. (_In Press._)

       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York




HE DID NOT KNOW THE ROPES.


General Morgan, of Illinois, who commanded a brigade in Davis's
division, was one of those men so slouchy in his appearance that a
stranger would never have picked him for an officer of high rank. One
day a raw recruit of his brigade who had lost some books asked a veteran
where he might be likely to find them. The veteran said the only thief
in the brigade was Jim Morgan, who occupied a tent near the blue flag.
The recruit hastened to Morgan's tent, shoved his head in through the
flaps, and asked,

"Does Jim Morgan live here?"

"My name is James Morgan," answered the General.

"Then I want you to hand over those books you stole from me!"

"I have none of your books, my dear man."

"That's a lie!" cried the soldier. "The boys say you are the only thief
in camp. Turn out them books, or I'll grind your carcass into
apple-sass!"

General Morgan appreciated the joke, and laughed heartily, but when the
recruit began pulling off his coat to make good his threats, the officer
informed him of his relations to the brigade.

"Waal, blast me if I'd take you for a brigadier!" said the man. "Excuse
me, General, but I don't thoroughly know the ropes yet."




ADVERTISEMENTS.




Arnold

Constable & Co.

       *       *       *       *       *

Children's Wear.

FALL STYLES.

_Velvet Walking Coats,_

_Lamb's-wool Coats,_

_Hand-made Dresses,_

_Children's Reefers,_

_School Frocks, Jackets, Capes._

INFANTS' WEAR.

       *       *       *       *       *

Broadway & 19th st.

NEW YORK.




WATCH AND CHAIN FOR ONE DAY'S WORK.

[Illustration]

Boys and Girls can get a Nickel-Plated Watch, also a Chain and Charm for
selling 1-1/2 doz. Packages of Bluine at 10 cents each. Send your full
address by return mail and we will forward the Bluine, post-paid, and a
large Premium List. No money required.

BLUINE CO. F Concord Junction, Mass.




[Illustration: PISO'S CURE FOR CONSUMPTION]

CURES WHERE ALL ELSE FAILS.

Best Cough Syrup. Tastes Good. Use

in time. Sold by druggists.




[Illustration: Ivory Soap]

  When office work has tried the nerves
    And taxed both hands and brain,
  A quick, cool wash with Ivory serves
    To soothe and ease the strain.

Copyright, 1896, by The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.




HARPER'S BAZAR

[Illustration]

In 1897

Will be, as in the past,

AN UNEQUALLED FASHION JOURNAL

AN UNRIVALLED PAPER FOR THE HOME

       *       *       *       *       *

4 Splendid Serials

BY

MARIA LOUISE POOL

W. D. HOWELLS

OCTAVE THANET

S. R. CROCKETT

Working-Girls' Clubs and Young Women's Christian Association Work

_By LILLIAN W. BETTS_

STRONG SHORT STORIES

_By well-known writers._

THE EARLIEST YEARS

OF CHILDHOOD

_By FRANCES FISHER WOOD_

BREAD-WINNING AVOCATIONS

IN NEW LINES

_By CLARE BUNCE_

THE OUTDOOR WOMAN

_By ADELIA K. BRAINERD_

EMBROIDERY AND NEEDLEWORK

_Will be illustrated by CANDACE WHEELER, ALICE C. MORSE, and others._

WOMEN AND MEN

_By COL. T. W. HIGGINSON_

WOMEN IN SOCIETY AND

AT HOME

_By JUNIUS HENRI BROWNE_

CEREMONY AND ETIQUETTE

_By ANNA WENTWORTH SEARS_

WHAT GIRLS ARE DOING

_By a New York Girl._

       *       *       *       *       *

10 Cents a Copy. PUBLISHED WEEKLY. $4.00 a Year.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York




[Illustration: SYMPATHY.]

       *       *       *       *       *

"Jimmie," said Mrs. Hicks, "won't you have some brown bread?"

"No, thank you," said Jimmie; "I'm afraid to eat it."

"Afraid?" asked Mrs. Hicks.

"Yes," said Jimmie. "You see, ma'am, my papa says red beef will give me
red cheeks, and I'm afraid brown bread will make a darky out of me."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Pat," said Tommie to the gardener, "what is nothing?"

"There ain't any such thing as nothin'," replied Pat; "becaze whin ye
find nothin', and come to look at it, there ain't nothin' there."

       *       *       *       *       *

An absent-minded old gentleman went into a shop to buy a new cane.

"That's a very nice one," he said, picking one up from the counter. "How
much is that?"

"That's the one you brought in with you. You just laid it down there,
sir," said the shopkeeper.

"Oh, really?" said the old gentleman. "Then I don't need a new one.
Good-day." And he walked out.

       *       *       *       *       *

"What is the baby crying about?" asked his mother.

"He doesn't want to get in the bath-tub without his rubbers on," said
the nurse. "He's afraid he'll get his feet wet."

       *       *       *       *       *

A WITTY DECISION.

A good story is told of Dr. Arne, the composer of the English national
hymn "Rule, Britannia." He was called upon one day to judge between two
singers, neither of whom was worthy of a moment's consideration. After
patiently hearing them, he said to one of the contestants,

"You are the worst singer I ever heard in my life."

"Ah!" cried the other, exultingly, "then I win?"

"No," said Dr. Arne. "You can't sing at all."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, my son," said the Freshman's father, "I am very glad you have
gone on your class football team. Have you got everything you need?"

"Everything, father, except a new set of teeth, and I may be able to get
through the year without losing those that I have," replied the
Freshman.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jack got asking his grandmother questions the other night. One of them
was:

"Grandma, if you was a centipede, would you always insist on putting on
fifty pairs of rubbers before you walked on the grass?"

Up to this hour the dear old lady has not made up her mind on the
important point.

       *       *       *       *       *

Li Hung-Chang, the famous Chinaman who visited this country a short time
ago, made quite an impression in England for his wit and apparent
ingenuousness, although it was more than suspected that some of the old
gentleman's remarks were not so bland as they seemed. One incident
especially amused the Britishers. It was when Li Hung-Chang met Joseph
Chamberlain, who affects a monocle. The Chinaman noticed the single
eye-glass, and took it for granted that the Colonial Secretary had lost
the use of one eye, and he offered him his sincere condolences.

       *       *       *       *       *

PHILOSOPHIC.

  To prophesy the future would
  Bring more of evil than of good;
  So let us thank our lucky stars
  That no such gift our wisdom mars.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Irish soldier seems to furnish the story-teller with many an
anecdote. The following incident is said to have occurred at the battle
of Fontenoy, when the great Saxe was the marshal in command.

"The password is 'Saxe,'" said the officer of the guard, as he sent off
an Irish trooper with a message; "don't forget the word."

"Sure I won't, sir," was the reply. "Sacks--my father was a miller."

When he came to the sentinel and was challenged, the Irishman looked
wise, and whispered,

"'Bags,' you spalpeen; let me through!"





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, October 27, 1896, by Various