[Pg 549]

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

HOW TO START IN LIFE.

RANCHING.

BY HON. THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

There are in every community young men to whom life at the desk or behind the counter is unutterably dreary and unattractive, and who long for some out-of-door occupation which shall, if possible, contain a spice of excitement. These young men can be divided into two classes—first, those who, if they get a chance to try the life for which they long, will speedily betray their utter inability to lead it; and, secondly, those who possess the physical capacity and the peculiar mental make-up necessary for success in an employment far out of the usual paths of civilized occupations. A great many of these young men think of ranching as a business which they might possibly take up, and what I am about to say is meant as much for a warning to one class as for advice to the other.

Ranching is a rather indefinite term. In a good many parts of the West a ranch simply means a farm; but I shall not use it in this sense, since the advantages and disadvantages of a farmer's life, whether it be led in New Jersey or Iowa, have often been dwelt upon by men infinitely more competent than I am to pass judgment. Accordingly, when I speak of ranching I shall mean some form of stock-raising or sheep-farming as practised now in the wilder parts of the United States, where there is still plenty of land which, because of the lack of rainfall, is not very productive for agricultural purposes.

The first thing to be remembered by any boy or young man who wishes to go West and start life on a cattle ranch, horse ranch, or sheep ranch is that he must know the business thoroughly before he can earn any salary to speak of, still less start out on his own accord. A great many young fellows apparently think that a cowboy is born and not made, and that in order to become one all they have to do[Pg 550] is to wish very hard to be one. Now, as a matter of fact, a young fellow trained as a bookkeeper would take quite as long to learn the trade of a cowboy as the average cowboy would take to learn the trade of bookkeeper. The first thing that the beginner anywhere in the wilder parts of the West has to learn is the capacity to stand monotony, fatigue, and hardship; the next thing is to learn the nature of the country.

A young fellow from the East who has been brought up on a farm, or who has done hard manual labor as a machinist, need not go through a novitiate of manual labor in order to get accustomed to the roughness that such labor implies; but a boy just out of a high-school, or a young clerk, will have to go through just such a novitiate before he will be able to command a dollar's pay. Both alike will have to learn the nature of the country, and this can only be learned by actual experience on the ground. Again, the beginner must remember that though there are occasional excitement and danger in a ranchman's life, it is only occasional, while the monotony of hard and regular toil is not often broken. Except in the matter of fresh air and freedom from crowding, a small ranchman often leads a life of as grinding hardness as the average dweller in a New York tenement-house. His shelter is a small log hut, or possibly a dug-out in the side of a bank, or in summer a shabby tent. For food he will have to depend mainly on the bread of his own baking, on fried fat pork, and on coffee or tea with sugar and no milk. Of course he will occasionally have some canned stuff or potatoes. The furniture of the hut is of the roughest description—a roll of blankets for bedding, a bucket, a tin wash-basin, and a tin mug, with perhaps a cracked looking-glass four inches square.

He will not have much society of any kind, and the society he does have is not apt to be over-refined. If he is a lad of a delicate, shrinking nature and fastidious habits, he will find much that is uncomfortable, and will need to show no small amount of pluck and fortitude if he is to hold his own. The work, too, is often hard and often wearisome from mere sameness. It is generally done on horseback even on a sheep ranch, and always on a cow ranch. The beginner must learn to ride with indifference all kinds of rough and dangerous horses before he will be worth his keep.

With all this before him, the beginner will speedily find out that life on a Western ranch is very far from being a mere holiday. A young man who desires to start in the life ought, if possible, to have with him a little money—just enough to keep body and soul together—until he can gain a foothold somewhere. No specific directions can be given him as to where to start. Wyoming, most of Montana, the western edge of the Dakotas, western Texas, and some portions of the Rocky Mountain States still offer chances for a man to go into the ranch business. In different seasons in the different localities business may be good or bad, and it would be impossible to tell where was the best place to start. Wherever the beginner goes, he ought to make up his mind at the outset to start by doing any kind of work he can. Let him chop wood, hoe, do any chore that will bring him in twenty-five cents. If he is once able to start by showing that he is willing to work hard and do something, he can probably get employment of some kind, although this employment will almost certainly be very ill paid and not attractive. Perhaps it will be to dig in a garden, or to help one of the men drive oxen, or to do the heavy work round camp for some party of cow-punchers or lumberers. Whatever it is, let the boy go at it with all his might, and at the same time take every opportunity to get acquainted with the kind of life which he intends ultimately to lead. If he wishes to try to ride a horse, he will be given every chance, if for no other reason than that he will continually meet men whose ideas of fun are met by the spectacle of a tenderfoot on a bucking bronco.

By degrees he will learn a good deal of the ways of the life and of the country. Then he must snatch the first chance that offers itself to take a position in connection with the regular work of a ranch. He may be employed as a regular hand to help cook on the ranch wagon, or taken by a shepherd to do the hard and dirty work which the shepherd would like to put off on somebody else. When he has once got as far as this his rise is certain, if he is not afraid of labor, and keeps a lookout for the opportunities that offer. After a while he will be given a horse himself, and employed as a second-rate man to do the ordinary ranch work.

Work on a sheep ranch is less attractive but more profitable than on any other. A good deal of skill must be shown by the shepherd in managing his flock and in handling the sheep dogs; but ordinarily it is appallingly dreary to sit all day long in the sun, or loll about in the saddle, watching the flocks of fleecy idiots. In time of storm he must work like a demon and know exactly what to do, or his whole flock will die before his eyes, sheep being as tender as horses and cattle are tough.

ON A CATTLE RANCH—AN UNRULY STEER.

With the work of a cow ranch or horse ranch there comes more excitement. Every man on such a ranch has a string of eight or ten horses for his own riding, and there is a great deal of exciting galloping and hot riding across the plains; and the work in a stampede at night, or in line-riding during the winter, or in breaking the fierce little horses to the saddle, is as exciting as it is hard and dangerous. The wilder phases of the life, however, are steadily passing away. Almost everywhere great wire fences are being put up, and no small part of the cowboy's duty nowadays is to ride along the line of a fence and repair it wherever broken. Moreover, at present the business of cattle or horse raising on the plains does not pay well, and, except in peculiar cases, can hardly be recommended to a boy ambitious for his future.

So much for the unattractive reality of ranch life. It would be unfair not to point out that it has a very attractive side also. If the boy is fond of open-air exercise, and willing to risk tumbles that may break an occasional bone, and to endure at need heat and cold, hunger and thirst, he[Pg 551] will find much that is pleasant in the early mornings on the great plains, and on the rare days when he is able to take a few hours' holiday to go with his shot-gun after prairie-chickens or ducks, or, perchance, to ride out with a Winchester rifle to a locality where on one of his working days he has seen a small band of antelope standing in the open, or caught a glimpse of a deer bounding through the brush. There is little temptation to spend money, unless he is addicted to the coarsest kind of dissipation, and after a few years the young fellow ought to have some hundreds of dollars put up. By this time he should know all about the business and the locality, and should be able to gauge just what he can accomplish.

For a year or two perhaps he can try to run a little outfit of his own in connection with his work on a big ranch. Then he will abandon the latter and start out entirely on his own account. Disaster may overtake him, as it may overtake any business man; but if he wins success, even though of a moderate kind, he has a pleasant life before him, riding about over the prairie among his own horses or cattle or sheep, occasionally taking a day off to go after game, and, while working hard, not having to face the mere drudgery which he had to face as a tyro. The chances are very small that he will ever gain great wealth; and when he marries and has children of his own there are many uncomfortable problems to face, the chief being that of schools; but for a young man in good health and of adventurous temper the life is certainly pleasanter than that of one cooped up in the counting-room, and while it is not one to be sought save by the very few who have a natural liking for it and a natural capacity to enjoy it and profit by it, still for these few people it remains one of the most attractive forms of existence in America.

BIOGRAPHY OF A STARBOARD ANCHOR.

BY H. PERCY ASHLEY.

The big Anchor rested on the smooth green lawn in front of the house, all glistening in the sunshine with its new coat of white paint, and there was nothing about it to show how it had once taken a very important part in the lives of the youngsters who were even then playing around on the grass not far away. But the old Bo's'n came along one day, and he knew the story, and as near as I can remember it, this is what he said the Anchor told him:

I came out of the ground a great many years ago, and my appearance at the time was somewhat crude. I was put on a train and taken to a place where they gave me a bath, and afterwards I was melted, hammered, and pounded until it seemed as if my last days had come. I had a chance to cool off after this ordeal, however, and a new suit of galvanized clothing was given to me. I felt very proud a few days later as I lay in state at the door of a large ship-chandler's shop on South Street in New York city. Frequently men who passed by in the crowd would stop to look at me, and some of them would remark upon my beauty and my strength, which made me expand with pride and give them one of my brightest looks. Those were the days, you must remember, when I was new and foolish, for up to that time I had never seen the ocean, except for the occasional glimpses I caught over the corner of the dock and through the tangle of shipping.

Spring came, and all was hurry and bustle in the shop behind me. One particularly fine morning a truck backed up against the sidewalk, and some men loaded me on to it, and took me away and transferred me to a steam-freighter, which landed me the next day at Newport. Soon afterward I was shipped to the bow of a large schooner yacht. As long as I live I shall never forget how the Captain and the mate looked me over; and as they patted my arms and flukes they remarked that I was very well made. Mr. Summerville, the owner of the yacht, also came forward to admire me, and after him ran two of the prettiest children I had ever seen. Laying his hand upon my arm, he said:

"Children, this is the new Right Bower. We all place a great deal of dependence upon him."

I was so much overcome at this that I could not speak, but I extended my palm and gave them my very best bow.

I did not meet my associate Anchor until several days afterwards, since he was on duty at the bottom of the bay; but the Chain, to which he was very much attached, gave me his respects. A few days after my arrival, my future chum, Patent Link Chain, came aboard, and we were introduced by the mate. Patent Chain extended his shackles in a friendly way, and I grasped them firmly in my ring. Little did we foresee the many trials before us.

It is needless for me to relate how I nearly fainted when thrown overboard for the first time, and how my dear friend Patent Chain never lost his hold upon me. Nearly all my duty was at night, for I was very much stronger than the Port Bow Anchor. There was another Anchor on board, called Kedge, but my partner and I did not take very kindly to him, as he seemed to be stuck up, and spent most of his time aft. We therefore let him severely alone, and we learned that he remarked to the Chains one day that the Kedge family were called upon to do duty only on special occasions, and to be rowed about in small boats.

The Chains of this yacht for some reason never seemed to get along very well together, and frequently when two of them were on duty at the same time they would get in a tangle, and the mate would have to go out on the bob-stay and chastise them with a marlinspike before they could be separated. But, as my friend Patent Chain frequently remarked, the other chain was very common and had a bad heart. Events proved his opinion was well founded.

We were on a cruise toward Maine when the turning-point in my life occurred. As we sailed along one day I heard the mate say that bad weather was ahead. That evening we came to anchor early in a sheltered bay, and night came on dark and stormy. The wind increased, and sighed and moaned in the rigging. Port Anchor had gone overboard several hours before, but they soon found it necessary to send me down with him. I felt a kind of foreboding of evil as I plunged into the water, and when I reached the bottom I sank one of my arms as deeply into the mud as possible, and groped with my fluke for solid rock. Patent Chain told me he had not reached for such a length before, and he added that the Kedge had been brought forward in case he might be needed.

The storm increased to a hurricane, and soon Port Anchor cried out to me that he felt his strength was giving way. Poor fellow! he seemed to realize that he was too old to stand the terrific strain that he was now being called upon to endure, and his Common Chain couldn't be counted on to hold. Already some of the links were making preparations to part. I called back words of cheer, but received no reply, and a moment later I experienced a terrible shock, for Common Chain had broken, and poor old Port Anchor had been left to his fate in the mud. I felt myself dragged through the stones and the rocks along the bottom, and wondered what was going to happen, for my good friend Patent Chain was telling me that they were praying on deck that I might hold. Little Kedge sank down near me, and tried hard to get a grip on the rocks, but he was so small that he could do but little. Patent Chain shrieked in agony that he was being torn apart, but entreated me at the same time to make final and desperate efforts to save the yacht. Up above the Captain, the mate, and the crew were working frantically to get the storm try-sail set, and they had lashed two hempen cables to Patent Chain so that he could go out further. In the mean time, however, I had found a ledge of rocks, to which I seized with my flukes as well as with my stock, and Patent Chain, spreading himself full length in the mud, clung to the bottom.

How long this dreadful tension lasted I shall never know, but it seemed years to me. It was probably only a few hours. And when I was finally assisted to the surface by old Windlass the next morning, I found the yacht was under way in tow, and headed for the nearest shipyard. She had sustained considerable damage from the hurricane, and as I reached the deck I was surrounded by awed and sympathetic faces. Everyone said I had saved the yacht; and that is why I am placed here and why I am so well treated.

[Pg 552]

BOY TROOPERS.

BY RICHARD BARRY.

Illustrated by Instantaneous Flash-light Photographs of "Troop A" Cadets.

he cavalry has always been the most popular branch of army service in song and story, and, beyond doubt, in the mind of the public. To a boy who has a leaning towards military things it has an absolute fascination, and if he likes a horse (and what boy does not?) it is his choice beyond all others.

In New York city there exists a troop of boy cavalry that has been drilling and exercising faithfully, and under such able direction that it may be taken as a model for what a boys' organization of this kind should be. Soldiering means really serious work, whether it is in the service of a State, a country, or merely entered into for the love of it, and a boy who has not the proper spirit cannot long remain a member of "Troop A" Cadets. It is astonishing to find how quickly and how well the boy recruit learns to ride, how much he learns about a horse, and how his muscles and his eye and his self-reliance develop under the drill. The writer has seen riding that no cowboy need be ashamed of done by a boy of fourteen who a year before had never thrown his leg over anything but a Shetland-pony, and many of the young troopers never mounted a horse at all until they first made their appearance in the tan-bark ring of the troop riding-school. If a boy is a "muff," he does not stay at it long; it takes a lad with the "proper stuff" in him, as the riding-master tells you, to stand the thumping and sometimes the falls of the first month's drill. A horse is a very complicated piece of machinery to the novice, and he must be managed by the eye, the whole body, and the mind. He knows when the rider on his back is timid or determined, and he often acts accordingly. Horses have an individuality that bicycles haven't, and the young trooper must learn to govern besides learning merely to guide and "stay on."

But to take in order what a boy cavalryman must learn. In the first place he must be strong and willing, and quick to listen; that is a great thing—listening. He will find out a great deal about himself, and if he has the right stamina and spirit he improves in every way most wonderfully.

DRESS PARADE.

As soon as the recruit has been proposed for membership, which is done in the same way it is done in the National Guard—that is, his name is proposed by two members in good standing, then voted on by a committee, and lastly by the whole troop—as soon as all this is done he takes his first lesson. It is not on horseback—that comes later—but on foot; the setting-up exercise has to be gone through with. This is quite a trial, for it means standing erect, and going through various exercises with the arms, the legs, the whole body; bending over with knees stiff, and touching the ground until he wonders where so many aching muscles come from.

Then he learns the facings and marchings, a good deal like an infantryman. But at last a sabre is put in his hand, and he is taught to use it, standing firm on his out-stretched legs, and making wonderful cuts and points to right and left—"cut at head, cut at body, at infantry, at cavalry," etc., over and over. At first some of his wonderful strokes in strange directions would cleave his horse in two, and others would relieve him of his head or mayhap his tail; but soon he learns the proper positions of all these things, and acts as if he were on horseback. When this has been accomplished he is taught the drill with the carbine, loading and firing, and the manual on foot. The lieutenant in charge of the cadets informed me that boys learn quicker and improve much more rapidly than grown men in all this, and that they seldom remain in the "awkward squad" for any length of time. But now comes the riding, and a great deal more; for the cavalryman must look after his own mount, and be able to saddle and bridle.

The first lesson means much. It is a good thing that grace does not count, for it is hard to be graceful or at ease on a bumping, thumping nag with nothing on his back but a blanket. In a little time one learns to hang on with the knees and balance with the body, and then it looks more like fun—the instructor lets go of the bridle-rein and ceases his everlasting words of advice, and the recruit "goes it alone." When he sits in a saddle after undergoing a long course of tan-bark drill, he feels as comfortable as if he was in a chair, and wonders how he ever thought it hard to do.

IN COLUMN OF FOURS.

Now comes the drill on horseback at a walk, a trot, and a gallop. If the horse is an old hand he helps the new trooper out amazingly; he seems to understand the orders, and whisks into place and dresses into line promptly as could be wished for.

After the trooper gets out of the awkward squad for[Pg 553] good and all, the drills become exciting; every meeting is a series of games on horseback; he learns to cut at the ball on the wooden post—"the Turk's head"; he slashes at imaginary enemies afoot and mounted; he learns "tent-pegging," which is riding full tilt down the arena at a wooden peg driven into the ground, which he endeavors to pick up on the point of his sabre, and soon he becomes part of his horse. It is exciting to see three troopers playing the "ribbon chase." One of them has a knot on his right arm, and the other two (they are all mounted without saddles) try to get this ribbon off. It can only be taken off from the left side, and they play tag and manœuvre every which way to get a position. If the one who is "it" is clever, he dodges and doubles, turns and backs, and if he can keep his ribbon for three minutes he wins. But the others push him hard, and here it is where good riding tells. I have seen a little shaver who had to be helped up on to a fifteen-hand horse do some riding that would be credit to a Comanche Indian. They wrestle—these boy troopers—on horseback, and I have seen one leap from his own horse astride that of his opponent, and then succeed in dismounting him. All this brings out the best thing in a boy; it teaches him to be self-reliant and quick in judgment, and it makes his big brother feel proud of him—if he has a big brother.

WRESTLING.

When they grow old enough (most of them are between fifteen and seventeen) they generally get into the troop itself, and their preliminary work puts them on a par with the best of the older troopers.

Of course it costs something to organize and maintain a squadron of mounted men, and the members pay yearly dues which cover the expense of horse hire. Their uniforms they own themselves, and they cost about twelve dollars.

In any good-sized town or city it is perfectly possible for a number of boys, with the help of their fathers, to organize such a troop if they go about it in earnest and work in a systematic way.

First of all a competent instructor must be obtained, and every one should realize that money cannot be judiciously saved in his salary. He should be the best man obtainable after a somewhat extended search. Usually he is an old cavalry officer, or perhaps some cavalry officer who has retired. Such men are to be had after some search, and apart from their knowledge of cavalry movements they are valuable because they take a personal interest in all that has to do with their work.

Having secured the instructor a hall is then necessary, and this is by far the most difficult thing to find of the whole outfit. Few towns and not many cities have any hall the ground-floor of which can be used for horses. If the troop is to be a serious affair, and it is impossible to organize one unless it is to be serious, the cheapest way in such cases is to build a huge shed with the earth for a flooring. Here is a proportionately large expense, and the result is that most cavalry cadet troops will have to be formed under the auspices of National Guard troops, which already have armories for cavalry practice.

Once you have an armory and an instructor, the rest is merely detail. Much objection is made of late to military drill and the encouragement of the love of war. Boy troopers have nothing to do with war. They should not wish to fight, even to grow up to fight some day, except in defense of their country. There is no more question of war in a cadet troop than there is in a bicycle club. It is merely that the discipline, the training, the exercise that are good for boys can be obtained in this healthy, manly way, and cannot be obtained with equal efficiency in any other way.

[Pg 554]

AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]

BY MARION HARLAND.

CHAPTER III.

It was only half past eight when the search party left Greenfield, but it would be no darker at midnight. The two negroes who led the way down the avenue and out into the public road carried blazing lightwood knots—that is, long thick pieces of "fat" pine cut from the heart of the tree, and, when lighted, burning for hours with a fierce flame fed by the turpentine and resin which were the sap of the tree.

Close behind the torch-men rode Mr. Grigsby, the dogs trotting beside him, and almost upon his horse's heels was the "top gig" containing the Major and Mr. Tayloe. The scene was striking and even solemn, and except that the Major and his companion now and then exchanged a sentence in subdued tones, not a word was uttered until they arrived at the open space surrounding the school-house. There Mr. Grigsby dismounted and Major Duncombe and Mr. Tayloe got out of the gig. The negroes were left with the horses, Mr. Grigsby and the Major taking their torches.

They trod lightly, and the soaked ground made no noise under their feet. Pushing the door further open, they entered, holding their torches high to throw the light into the room. The glare reached the figure of the sleeping girl in the far corner, and with a whispered congratulation to the father, the Major led the way to her. She lay upon her side, facing them, her head pillowed upon her book, her hand under her cheek. She slumbered soundly and sweetly, not stirring when the full blaze of the fat pine struck her closed eyelids.

At the second glance both men exclaimed in horror. Coiled right across her naked ankles and feet was what looked like a striped gray and brown rope. The spectators knew it instantly for a moccasin snake, next to the rattlesnake and copperhead the most deadly of Virginia reptiles. Attracted by the warmth of the child's body, he had curled himself up for his nightly rest, and, raising an ugly head, hissed viciously as the light was reflected from a pair of wicked eyes. Then, instead of striking at the unconscious sleeper, he dropped to the floor and glided swiftly under the benches to a darker corner. Mr. Grigsby sprang after him and planted his heel upon his head. Had he missed him or put his foot upon any other part of the snake, he must have been bitten. He ground his heel into the creature's head with all his might until the convulsed body, that had wrapped itself about his leg and writhed up and down like a curling whip lash, ceased to twist and quiver.

"Bravely done!" said Mr. Tayloe, in honest admiration. "But you ran a great risk."

"I did not think of that," answered the Scotchman, briefly.

He was deadly pale, and his jaw was rigid. The sweat dropped from his chin as he stepped off the dead snake and turned back to the bench where his child lay. It was strange that the exclamations and stamping had not aroused her. Had she been bitten, and was this heavy sleep the stupor of death? The same thought was in the minds of the others while they watched him in breathless silence. He knelt down by the still figure and laid his hand gently upon her head.

"DAUGHTER! FATHER'S LASSIE!" HE SAID, HIS LIPS CLOSE TO HER EAR.

"Daughter! Father's lassie!" he said, his lips close to her ear.

His voice was husky and unnatural, but she knew it in her sleep. Her eyes unclosed slowly upon his face, and widened as she saw Major Duncombe and Mr. Tayloe behind him. Still dreaming, she smiled slowly and lifted her hand to wave it. It was all a part of the examination day. She was still "playing ladies."

"You do me too much honor, I assure you, sir," she murmured.

She had not been bitten by the moccasin. But for the necessity of ascertaining this, she would not have been told what danger she had escaped. Short work was made with explanations, and no time was lost in hurrying her from the place. Major Duncombe lifted her with his own hands to her seat in front of her father upon his broad-backed horse, and insisted upon sending one of the torch-bearers all the way home with them. Flea was wrapped to her heels in a shawl that had been put into the gig by Mrs. Duncombe's order. It was soft and fluffy and thick, and the folds felt like a caress to her chilled limbs. Her father's arm held her close to his breast; her head lay against his strong shoulder—how strong and safe she had never guessed until now.

Flea never forgot that ride and her awed enjoyment of each feature of it. Her father's silence did not surprise her. He was never talkative, and assured by his gentleness at the moment of her awakening, and the clasp of his arm about her now, that he was not displeased, she was glad to lean back in his embrace and indulge the fancies born of the night's event. She was almost sorry when the dogs ran before them as they neared the house, and the clamor of the welcome they received from the dogs who had staid at home drew out Chaney and Dick from the kitchen, and was the signal for the opening of the front door. It was full of heads, seen blackly against the lighted interior, and Mrs. Grigsby's high-pitched voice rang out, shrilly: "Got her, 'ain't you, pa?"

"Ay, ay! all's right!" he answered.

Carrying the muffled form in his arms, he walked up the path leading from the yard gate, into the house, and set her down before the chamber fire as he might a roll of carpet.

"Don't you look too funny!" laughed Bea, as Flea began to disengage herself. "Lor'! if you 'ain't got on Mrs. Duncombe's winter shawl!"

"An' trouble enough she has given, I'll be boun'!" scolded the mother, heedless of her husband's gravity and silence. "I should 'a' thought yer pa would 'a' left you at Greenfiel' 'tel mawnin'."

"Peace, wife," interposed Mr. Grigsby, sternly. "All of you come in here and be still."

They trooped into the chamber, Chaney, Dick, and the Greenfield negro bringing up the rear, all curiosity and expectation, subdued by his tone and action. For he had taken a well-worn Prayer-book from the mantel shelf, and was turning the leaves while he spoke. Finding what he sought there, he put out his arm to draw Flea to his side, and knelt with her in the middle of the room.

"Let us pray!"

Everybody knelt where he or she chanced to be standing—Mrs. Grigsby by the cradle of her sleeping baby, Bea and Calley at the foot of the bed, Dee before a chair, the negroes crouching upon the floor. The candles flared and guttered, the blaze in the fireplace was beaten this way and that by the damp wind pouring in through the open doors, the drip and dash of the rain without were a low accompaniment to the father's voice, weighted with emotion. While he prayed he kept his hand upon Flea's head.

"Almighty God and Heavenly Father, we give Thee humble thanks that Thou hast been graciously pleased to deliver from great danger the child in whose behalf we bless and praise Thy name in the presence of Thy people. Grant, we beseech Thee, O gracious Father, that she, through Thy help may both faithfully live in this world according to Thy will and also may be partaker of everlasting glory in the life to come, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

When all had risen he told in few and strong words where and how he had found the child, now sobbing with excitement in his arms.

"Now," he concluded, "we will talk no more of this matter to-night, and I will have no questions asked this child. She is tired and nervous. In nothing is she to blame. We have great cause for thankfulness for her safety. Mother, have you had supper while we were away?"

He never called her "ma." Flea was the only one of the children who imitated him in this respect. Mrs. Grigsby was fussy, and in many things foolish, but she obeyed her husband's orders in not questioning the runaway, and wiping her eyes more than was quite necessary, led the way[Pg 555] meekly to the dining-room. It was an unusually silent meal, the father setting the example of saying little while he ate. When supper was over he kissed Flea, which he seldom did to any of the children, and bade her, "Go right up to bed," and not to forget to say her prayers.

"And you, Beatrice, when you go up, do not talk to her. She needs rest and sleep."

He was a sensible man, and his behavior on this occasion was what seemed wise and becoming according to his judgment. If he had intended to establish poor Flea in her dignity as an important personage, and stuff her head with absurd notions, he could not have done it more surely. When her bare feet trod the short crooked staircase leading to her bedroom, it was with the measured pace of one who has a position to fill and means to fill it. She was almost surprised that the glass to-night reflected the face she was used to seeing in it.

Bea followed her shortly, brimming over with curiosity and resolution to hear all there was to tell.

"Say," she said, in a half-whisper, coming up to her sister, "how big was the moccasin? It must have felt mighty heavy on your feet. What did pa kill him with?"

Flea looked at her with owl-like seriousness, and laid her finger upon her lip.

"Don't be a fool!" returned the other, contemptuously. "Pa can't hear us."

Whereupon the newly made heroine lifted her hand and pointed upward, rebukingly.

"God can hear you," was what she meant.

"Bah!" sneered Bea. "You needn't preach to your betters. Keep your old story to yourself. I ain't a-going to put up with your airs. Mother ain't, neither. Any runaway nigger can go to sleep in the woods and wake up with a snake lyin' 'longside o' him. 'Tain't as if you had done anything."

This was rough talk, but Flea was, in her own opinion, so high above her sister's level that she could afford to despise it. Long after Bea had fallen asleep the younger girl lay listening to the drip, drop, drip, of the rain overhead, her cheeks on fire, her brain in a whirl, and her eyelids feeling as if they were buttoned back and would not shut.

She was a heroine. The former life had slipped off and away from her as her friend the moccasin had shed his skin last spring. She must recast her thoughts and her manners, make them over through and through in order to live up to her new character. She hoped the rain would hold up by morning, so that she could go to church.

In imagination she saw how every head would turn toward her when she should walk up the aisle. How people would stare and nudge one another during the service, and crowd around her when it was over! Perhaps—and she thrilled all over with merely thinking of it—Mr. Slaughter, the rector, would return thanks publicly for her deliverance. It would be just like Major Duncombe to ask him to do it. A church prayer, said in a white surplice, with all the congregation saying "Amen" at the end, was not too great an honor for a girl who had had an adventure.

That was what the Major had said—"an adventure." She went carefully over every word of his speech, remembering each word.

"We are only too thankful to an overruling Providence that our little heroine's adventure was not also a catastrophe, Mr. Grigsby."

He had rolled it out in a grand, solemn way, quite as he read prayers every morning and night at Greenfield.

Everything had conspired to turn the little maid's brains topsy-turvy. Her head felt actually light at her awakening from the sound sleep that had finally overcome her. There was a queer strained aching all through her, and she had never been crosser in her life.

It was still raining. The ground was sodden; the trees drooped miserably under the weight of wet leaves; the sky was one sullen, obstinate cloud, heaviest and most obstinate toward the west faced by her bedroom windows.

No church or Sunday-school to-day. No show of her famous self to an admiring congregation. Dreams and hopes came down with a cruel thump to the realities of every-day home life. True, she put on, of her own accord, stockings and shoes, and there were always clean clothes for Sunday, but there were week-day clothes, and there were fried middling and corn bread for breakfast, just as if nothing had happened. The coarse food stuck in her throat; the common crockery—white, with fluted green edges—the pewter spoons, the tin coffee-pot, the heavy grayish-blue mug out of which she drank her "hot-water tea" (i.e. milk and water sweetened), had not offended her taste yesterday, or ever before. Now they were disgusting and humiliating.

"You ain't eatin' nothin'!" remarked the mother, as the girl sat back in her chair after a vain attempt to behave as usual. "Do you feel sick?"

"No, ma'am. I'm just not hungry. I don't know why. I reckon I'll go up stairs and lie down."

"Let her alone. She'll be all right after a while," said her father, as her mother began to scold, and Flea got herself out of the room as quickly as possible.

She could never be all right in this house, she was sure. Nobody understood, or sympathized with her. She was stifled and cramped. So far as the discouraged heroine could foresee, every day to come would be like this and all those that had gone by—all rag carpet, and green-edged crockery, and sugar-raggy babies, and Bea's old frocks made over and let down, and fault-finding—

"Flea!" screamed her mother, from the bottom of the stairs, "ain't you coming down to-day? Here's your sister with all the things to wash up and put away."

Flea was lying face downward on the unmade feather bed, dry-eyed and wretched, when the call came. In sinking and sickness of heart she obeyed the summons, the very click of her shoes on the stairs expressive of unwillingness. Nothing she had read or heard of heroinic behavior helped her to go through with the drudgery of scraping plates, rinsing, washing, and wiping crockery and pewter.

"I don't see why mother don't use her silver spoons every day," she grumbled to Bea, wiping and laying down a pewter spoon disdainfully.

"She's goin' to leave 'em to me when she dies," returned that prudent young person. "I'm glad she doesn't wear 'em out, or maybe get one of 'em lost, before then."

There were only six teaspoons in all, and Mrs. Grigsby kept them in a locked drawer. It was all of a piece with the mean, skimpy, tiresome round of her daily life. There was no help for it—none.

The day dragged on more wearily and slowly than ever day had gone before. Her father could have told her, if she had confessed her misery to him, that much of it was the reaction after last night's excitement. As she did not speak of it, he paid little or no attention to her sober face and unwonted silence. She performed her share of dish-washing, table-setting, and table-clearing listlessly, but without complaint, and when not thus employed spent most of her time upstairs. Nobody asked what she did there; still less was anybody concerned to know what she felt there.

Dee—which is by interpretation David—had had a stupid day too. The Grigsby Sunday rules bore hard upon story books and toys, and an active boy of ten was soon at the end of his resources. His mother had scolded him a dozen times for making a noise and getting in her way, and boxed his ears twice.

After the last buffet Dee took refuge in the barn and the society of Dick and the horses. His father would not have approved of it, but his father was not at home. Coming in at dusk, the boy stole up stairs on tip-toe and peeped into his sister's room. The sun was fighting bravely with the bank of clouds on the horizon, and the world was bathed in lurid mist. By this flushed fogginess Dee could see Flea lying in a sort of crumpled heap on the floor by the window. She started up at the noise he made in entering.

"What do you want?" she demanded, crossly.

"You needn't get mad about it," returned her brother. "I'm just sick of Sunday, and I reckon you are too. Monday's worth fifty of it, if you do have to go to school. Ma's cross as two sticks, and pa's gone to look after things up at 'the house,' and Bea's on her high horse, and the young[Pg 556] ones are worse'n a pack of bees for noise 'n' swarmin'." He sat down sociably upon the floor by his sister. "I say, Flea, what you s'pose you were sparred for?"

"Spared for? What are you talking about?"

"Dick says that Chaney says that ma says you were sparred for somethin' real big. Hadn't 'a' been for that, the moccasin would 'a' bit you sure, and you'd been dead before anybody could 'a' got to you for to draw the p'ison out. What you s'pose they meant? What you goin' to do?"

Flea sat upright, looking straight out of the window. As Dick stopped speaking she raised the sash and let in a wave of warm, sweet, damp air. The pink light streamed in with it, flooding the girl's figure and face. Her hair was tousled, and the dust of the bare boards had mixed with her tears to streak her cheeks. Yet the boy stared at her, open-mouthed and puzzled. Light that did not come through the window shone in her face; her eyes were two stars; her fingers were knotted tightly upon one another.

"You are sure that you are not fibbing, Dee? Did they really say that?"

"Certain sure. And Dick says it's true as gawspil. He know'd a baby oncet they thought was clean dead, and all on a suddint it come to, and sot up 'n' walked—like a maracle, you know. And his mother, she said right straight off, 'He will be somethin' wonderful.' And so he was. He fit in the las' war, an' killed, oh, thousands of the British, but girls can't fight, you know. That's 'cause why I arsked you what you s'posed you could 'a' been sparred for."

Flea put her arm about her brother's neck, and pulled the rough head to her shoulder. She and apple-cheeked, slow-witted Dee always got on well together.

"I love you, Dee," she said, in a gush of tenderness. "No matter how great a lady I get to be—and I'm going to be something very great some day—you and I will always be good friends. You won't tell anybody if I tell you a secret?"

The much-impressed Dee gave the desired promise.

"Then—I'm a heroine, Dee!"—sinking her voice—"a sure-enough heroine. And wonderful, beautiful things always happen to heroines. Like Miranda, and Olivia, and Portia, and Cordelia, and Perdita, and Juliet, and Hermione, and Rosalind, and ever and ever so many more ladies I've read about. I'll tell you about some of them to-morrow. They are not Sunday stories, you know."

Neither, for that matter, was that Sunday talk into which she now launched, holding the boy spellbound while the sun went down clear, and the bright clouds grew pale, then dark. Into Dee's greedy ears she poured the tales of what she meant to do and to be in the wondrous To-Come of her dreams.

The talk with her brother, the hopes rekindled by it, and his faith in her and her future made the out-goings of the unhappy day to rejoice. She laid her head upon her pillow that night in tolerable content with home and kindred. They had sung hymns together, as was the Sunday-night custom, and recited each a psalm and three questions in the Church Catechism to their father, who had then granted them the treat of a long story of his early life in Glasgow.

No misgivings as to to-morrow held her eyes waking as she nestled down under the patch-work coverlet she and Bea had put together and helped their mother quilt last winter. The school-room would be her own territory. As the only girl in the school who knew Mr. Tayloe, and had been particularly recommended to him by his patron (she had borrowed that word from an English story-book), she would be foremost in his esteem. In "playing ladies" before sleep got fast hold of her she saw herself introducing less-favored scholars to his favorable notice.

"My sister Beatrice, Mr. Tayloe," she would say. Perhaps he would answer, "I hope she is as intelligent and industrious as her sister."

Flea's was a generous nature, but she did feel that that would pay off Bea well for certain things she had said to her in days past. As for Dee, who was dull at his lessons, her heart warmed and yearned over him in the thought of the good she could do him through her influence with the teacher. Mr. Tayloe looked as if he might be severe with a dull pupil. She would stand between Dee and trouble. He was such a loving little fellow, and her best crony, even if he did not care for books.

Bea was going to wear a white frock to school if the weather were warm enough. Flea's frock, a brown calico with round white spots on it, with an apron of the same, was new and strong and clean. As the prize scholar she could afford to be indifferent to dress. One of these days she would make people who now laughed at her plain clothes open their eyes with her satins—and—laces—and—India cotton stockings—and—oh yes! the pink sash should be just the color of a peach blossom—and—have—fringed—

Flea was clean off to Slumberland, where nobody expects to dream of sensible and probable happenings.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 557]

RICK DALE.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHASING A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT.

The commander of the revenue-cutter had received from his Lieutenant a detailed description of the sloop Fancy, together with what information that officer had gathered concerning her destination, lading, and crew. As a result of this interview it was determined to guard all passages leading to the upper sound; and during the hours of darkness the cutter's boats, under small sail, cruised back and forth across the channels on either side of Vashar Island, one of which the sloop must take. They showed no lights, and their occupants were not allowed to converse in tones louder than a whisper. While half of each crew got what sleep they might in the bottom of the boat, the others were on watch and keenly alert. In the stern-sheets of each boat was an officer muffled in a heavy ulster as a protection against the chill dampness of the night.

The night was nearly spent and dawn was at hand when the weary occupants of one of these patrol-boats were aroused into activity by two bright lights that flashed in quick succession for an instant well over on the western side of their channel which was the one known as Colros Passage.

"It is a signal," said the officer, as he headed his boat in that direction. "Silence, men! Have your oars ready."

Shortly afterwards another light appeared on the water in the same general direction, but further down the channel. It showed steadily for a minute, and was then lost to view, only to reappear a few moments later. After that its continued appearance and disappearance proved most puzzling, until the officer solved the problem to his own satisfaction by saying:

"The careless rascals have come to anchor, and are sending their stuff ashore in a small boat. That light is the lantern they are working by; but I wouldn't have believed even they could be so reckless as to use it. Douse that sail and unship the mast! So. Now, out oars! Give 'way!"

As the boat sprang forward under this new impulse, its oars, being muffled in the row-locks, gave forth no sound save the rhythmic swish with which they left the water at the end of each stroke.

The row was not a long one, and within five minutes the boat was close to the mysterious light. No sound came from its vicinity, nor was there any loom of mast or sails through the blackness. Were they close to it after all? Might it not be brighter than they thought, and still at a distance from them? Its nature was such that the officer could not determine even by standing up, and for a few moments he was greatly puzzled. He could now see that the land was at a greater distance than a smuggler would choose to cover with his small boats when he might just as well run his craft much closer. What could it mean?

Suddenly he gave the orders: "Way enough! In oars! Look sharp there for'ard with your boat-hook!"

The next moment the twinkling light was alongside, and its mystery was explained. It was an old lantern lashed to a bit of board, that was in turn fastened across an empty half-barrel. A screen formed of a shingle darkened one side of the lantern so that, as the floating tub was turned by wind or wave, the light alternately showed and disappeared at irregular intervals.

That the Lieutenant who was the victim of this simple ruse was angry goes without saying. He was furious, and could he have captured its author at that moment, the ingenious person might have met with rough usage. But there seemed little chance of capturing him, for although the officer felt certain that this tub had been launched from the very smuggler he was after, he had no idea of where she now was, nor of what direction she had taken. All he knew was that somebody had warned her of danger in that channel, and that she had cleverly given him the slip. He could also imagine the "chaff" he would receive from his brother officers on the cutter when they should learn of his mortifying experience.

[Pg 558]

When, after cruising fruitlessly during the brief remainder of the night, he returned to his ship and reported what had taken place, he was chaffed, as he expected, but was enabled to bear this with equanimity, for he had made a discovery. On the shingle that had shaded the old lantern he found written in pencil, as though for the passing of an idle half-hour, and apparently by some one who wished to see how his name would look if he were a foreigner:

"Philip Ryder, Mr. Philip Ryder, Monsieur Philippe Ryder, Signor Filipo Ryder, Señor Félipe Ryder, and Herr Philip Ryder."

"It's the name of the young chap who led me such a chase in Victoria, and finally gave me the information I wanted concerning the sloop Fancy," said the Lieutenant to his commanding officer, in reporting this discovery.

"Which would seem to settle the identity of the sloop we are after, and prove that she is now somewhere close at hand," replied the commander.

"Yes, sir; and it also discloses the identity of the young rascal who is responsible for this trick, though from his looks I wouldn't have believed him capable of it. He is the one I told you of who was so scented with cologne as to be offensive. I remember well seeing the name Philip Ryder on his dunnage-bag."

The sun was just rising, and at this moment a report was brought to the cabin, from a mast-head lookout, to the effect that a small sloop was disappearing behind a point a few miles to the southward.

"It may be your boat, and it may be some other," said the commander to the third Lieutenant. "At any rate, it is our duty to look him up. So you will please get under way again with the yawl, run down to that point, and see what you can find. If you meet with your young friend Ryder either afloat or ashore, don't fail to arrest and detain him as a witness, for in any case his testimony will be most important."

The Fancy had hauled out of her snug berth soon after sunset that same night, and fanned along by a light breeze, held her course to the southward. Both our lads were stationed forward to keep a sharp lookout, though with a grim warning from Captain Duff that if either of them fell overboard this time, he might as well make up his mind to swim ashore, for the sloop would not be stopped to pick him up.

"Cheerful prospect for me," muttered Alaric. "Never mind, though, Mr. Captain, I'm going to desert, as did the Phil Ryder of whom you seem so fond. I am going to follow his example, too, in taking your first mate with me."

As on the previous night, the lads found an opportunity to talk in low tones; and filled with the idea of inducing Bonny to leave the sloop with him, Alaric strove to convince him of the wickedness of smuggling.

"It is breaking a law of your country," he argued; "and any one who breaks one law will be easily tempted to break another, until there's no saying where he will end."

"If we didn't do it, some other fellows would," replied Bonny. "The chinks are bound to travel, and folks are bound to have cheap dope."

"So you are breaking the law to save some other fellow's conscience?"

"No, of course not. I'm doing it for the wages it pays."

"Which is as much as to say that you would break any law if you were paid enough."

"I never saw such a fellow as you are for putting things in an unpleasant way," retorted the young mate, a little testily. "Of course there are plenty of laws I couldn't be hired to break. I wouldn't steal, for instance, even if I was starving, nor commit a murder for all the money in the world. But I'd like to know what's the harm in running a cargo like ours? A few Chinamen more or less will never be noticed in a big place like the United States. Besides, I think the law that says they sha'n't come in is an unjust one, anyway. We haven't any more right to keep Chinamen out of a free country than we have to keep out Italians or anybody else."

"So you claim to be wiser than the men who make our laws, do you?" asked Alaric.

Without answering this question, Bonny continued, "As for running in a few pounds of dope, we don't rob anybody by doing that."

"How about robbing the government?"

"Oh, that don't count. What's a few dollars more or less to a government as rich as ours?"

"Which is saying that while you wouldn't steal from any one person, you don't consider it wicked to steal from sixty millions of people. Also, that it is perfectly right to rob a government because it is rich. Wouldn't it be just as right to rob Mr. Vanderbilt or Mr. Astor, or even my—I mean any other millionaire? They are rich, and wouldn't feel the loss."

"I never looked at it in that way," replied Bonny, thoughtfully.

"I thought not," rejoined Alaric. "And there are some other points about this business that I don't believe you ever looked at, either. Did you ever stop to think that every Chinaman you help over the line at once sets to work to throw one of your own countrymen out of a job, and so robs him of his living?"

"No; I can't say I ever did."

"Or did it ever occur to you that every cargo of opium you help to bring into the country is going to carry sorrow and suffering, perhaps even ruin, to hundreds of your own people?"

"I say, Rick Dale, it seems to me you know enough to be a lawyer. At any rate, you know too much to be a sailor, and ought to be in some other business."

"No, Bonny, I don't know half enough to be a sailor; but I do know too much to be a smuggler, and I am going to get into some other business as quick as I can. You are too, now that you have begun to think about it, for you are too honest a fellow to hold your present position any longer than you can help. By-the-way, what would happen if a cutter should get after us to-night?"

"That depends," replied the first mate, sagely, glad to feel that there were some legal questions concerning which he was wiser than his companion. "They might fire on us, if we didn't stop quick enough to suit 'em, and blow us out of the water. They might capture us, clap us into irons, and put us into a dark lock-up on bread and water. The most likely thing is that we would all be sent to the government prison on McNeits Island."

"And I suppose if we ever got out we would always be watched and suspected," suggested Alaric, who had listened to all this with almost as much dismay as though it were an actual sentence. "Well, I'll never be caught, that's all. I'll drift away in the dinghy first." In saying this the boy threatened to do the most desperate thing he could think of.

"I believe I'd go with you," said Bonny. "Now, though, I must go and get ready our private signal, for we are getting close to the most dangerous place."

CHAPTER XIV.

BONNY'S INVENTION, AND HOW IT WORKED.

Bonny walked aft, exchanged a few words with Captain Duff, and then disappeared in the cabin, where he remained for some minutes. When he again came on deck he bore a box in which was a lighted lamp provided with a bright reflector. Only one side of the box was open, and this space the lad carefully shielded with his hat. The sloop was just entering Colros Passage, between Vashar Island and the mainland, and was nearer the western shore than the other.

Holding his box as far down as he could reach over the landward side of the vessel, Bonny turned its opening toward the shore, and allowed the bright light to stream from it for a single second. Then by quickly reversing the box the light was made to disappear. A moment later it was shown again, this time with a piece of red glass held in front of the lamp. This red light, after appearing for a single second, was also made to vanish, and another quick flash of white light took its place. A minute or so later the whole operation was repeated, and the white, red, and white signal was again flashed to the wooded shore. At the fourth time of displaying the signal it was answered by two white flashes from the shore.

[Pg 559]

There was a moment of suspense, and then Bonny exclaimed, in a low tone, "Great Scott! They're after us!"

BONNY'S INVENTION STARTED ON ITS JOURNEY.

Extinguishing his light, he again dived below, this time into the forecastle. When he reappeared he bore the float and lighted lantern already described. Alaric had noticed this queer contrivance the day before, and while wondering at its object, had amused himself by idly scribbling on a smooth shingle that he found inside the tub. Now this same shingle was hastily lashed to the lantern, and the whole affair was launched overboard. At the same time the sloop was put about, and leaving this decoy light floating and bobbing behind her as though it were in a boat, she sped away toward the eastern side of the channel.

When Bonny rejoined Alaric at the lookout station he asked, with a chuckle: "What do you think of that for a scheme, Rick? It's my own invention, and I've been longing for a chance to try it every trip; but this is the very first time we have needed anything of the kind. I only hope the light won't get blown out, or the whole business get capsized before the beaks capture it. My! how I'd like to see 'em creeping up to it, and hear their remarks when they find out what it really is!"

"What does all this flashing of lights and setting lanterns adrift mean, anyway?" asked Alaric, who was much puzzled by what had just taken place.

"Means there's a revenue-boat of some kind waiting for us in the channel, and that we are dodging him. The lights I showed made our private signal, and asked if the coast was clear. Skookum John didn't get on to 'em at first, or maybe he wasn't in a safe place for answering. When he saw us and got the chance, though, he flashed two lights to warn us of trouble. Three would have meant 'All right, come ahead'; but two was a startler. It was the first time we've had that signal; also it's the first chance I've had to test my invention."

Ever since leaving the dancing light Bonny had not been able to take his eyes from it, so anxious was he to discover whether or not it served the purpose for which it was intended. It grew fainter and smaller as the sloop gained distance on her new course. Then all at once it seemed to rise from the water, and an instant later disappeared.

"They've got it, and lifted it aboard," cried Bonny, delightedly; and in his exultation he called out, "The beaks have doused the glim, Cap'n Duff!"

"Douse your tongue, ye swab, and keep your eyes p'inted for'ard!" was the reply muttered out of the after darkness.

"What an old bear he is!" muttered Alaric, indignantly.

"Yes; isn't he?—a regular old sea bear? But I don't mind him any more than I would a rumble of imitation thunder. I say, though, Rick, isn't this jolly exciting?"

"Yes," admitted the other, "it certainly is."

"And you want me to quit it for some stupid shore work that'll make a fellow think he's got about as much life in him as a clam?"

"No, I don't; for I am certain there are just as exciting things to be done on shore as at sea, and if you'll only promise to come with me, I'll promise to find something for you to do as exciting as this, and lots honester."

"I've a mind to take you up," said Bonny, "and I would if I thought you had any idea how hard it is to find a job of any kind. You haven't, though, and because you got this berth dead easy you think you'll have the same luck every time. But we must look sharp now for another light from Skookum John."

By this time the sloop had again tacked, and was headed diagonally for the western shore.

"Who is Skookum John?" asked Alaric.

"Skookum? Why, he's our Siwash runner, who is always on the lookout for us, and keeps us posted."

"What is a Siwash?"

"Well, if you aren't ignorant! 'Specially about languages. Why, Siwash is Chinook for Indian. There's his light now! See? One, two, three. Good enough! We've given 'em the slip once more, and everything is working our way."

As it grew lighter Bonny pointed out the now distant masts of the cutter they had so successfully passed a short time before, and said, with a cheerful grin: "There's the old kettle that thought she could clip the Fancy's wings, and bring her to with a round turn."

Captain Duff laid all the blame of their late arrival on poor Alaric.

"If it hadn't been for your fool antics of two nights ago," he said, "we'd made this port a good hour afore sun this morning. You're as wuthless as ye look, and ye look to be the most wuthless young swab I ever had aboard ship, barring one. He was another just such white-faced, white-handed, mealy-mouthed specimen as you be. Couldn't eat ship's victuals till I starved him to it, and finally got me into the wust scrape of my life. Now I shouldn't be one mite surprised if you'd put me into another hole mighty nigh as deep. So you want to quit your nonsense and 'tend strictly to business, or I'll make ye jump. D'ye hear?"

Alaric acknowledged that he heard, and then walked forward to light the galley fire.

The sloop rounded a long point and came to anchor in a wooded cove, apparently as wild as though they were its discoverers. A couple of Chinamen, who had evidently camped there all night, waited to greet their countrymen on the beach, to which Bonny at once began to transfer his passengers, a few at a time, in the dinghy. As fast as they were landed they were led back into the woods and started toward Tacoma, which was but a few miles distant.

Alaric managed to get his canvas bag on deck unseen by Captain Duff, and slip it into the dinghy as the boat was about to make its last trip.

"Hide it on shore for me, Bonny," he said.

"All right; I will if you'll promise not to skip until we've had another talk on the subject."

"Of course I promise; for I'm not going without you."

"Then perhaps you won't go at all," laughed Bonny.

So the bag was taken ashore and concealed in a thicket a little to one side, and Bonny came back to prepare breakfast, for which Alaric had the water already boiling.

When this meal was nearly ready, and as the boys were sniffing hungrily at the odors of coffee and frying meat, Captain Duff suddenly appeared on deck.

"Go up on that point, you foremast hand—I can't remember your thundering name—and watch the cutter while me and the mate eats. After that one of us'll relieve ye. Ef she moves, or even shows black smoke, you let me know, d'ye hear?"

Alaric managed to secure a couple of hard biscuits with which to comfort his lonely watch, and then Bonny set him ashore.

Picking up his bag and carrying it with him, the boy clambered to the point, and selecting a place from which he could plainly see the cutter, began his watch, at the same time munching his dry biscuit with infinite relish. Much of the water intervening between him and the cutter was hidden from view by nearby undergrowth, and the necessity for scanning it never occurred to him.

After a while Bonny came to relieve him and allow him to go to breakfast.

"Have you really made up your mind to desert the ship?" asked the young mate, noticing that Alaric had his bag with him.

"Yes, I really have," answered the other, "and you will come with me, won't you, Bonny?"

"I don't know," replied the latter, undecidedly. "Somehow I can't make it seem right to desert Captain Duff and leave him in a fix. Seems to me we ought to stay with him until he gets back to Victoria, anyway. Besides, I'd lose my wages, and there must be nearly thirty dollars due me by this time. But you go along to your breakfast, and after that we'll talk it all over. Haven't seen anything, have you?"

"No, not a sign, but— Hello! What's that?"

"Caught, as sure as you're born!" cried Bonny, in a tone of suppressed excitement.

Then the two lads, peering through the bushes, watched a boat, flying the flag of the United States Revenue Marine and filled with sturdy bluejackets, enter the cove and dash alongside the smuggler Fancy.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 560]

A HOMELY WEED WITH INTERESTING FLOWERS.

BY W. HAMILTON GIBSON,

Author of "Highways and Byways," "Sharp Eyes," "Pastoral Days," etc.

he recent article from my pen on the "Riddle of the Bluets," and which showed the important significance of its two forms of blossoms, suggests that a few more similar expositions of the beautiful mysteries of the common flowers which we meet every day in our walks, and which we claim to "know" so well, may serve to add something to the interest of our strolls afield. It is scarcely fair to assert that familiarity can breed contempt in our relations to so lovely an object as a flower, but certain it is that this every-day contact or association, especially with the wild things of the wood, meadow, and way-side, is conducive to an apathy which dulls our sense to their actual attributes of beauty. Many of these commonplace familiars of the copse and thicket and field are indeed like voices in the wilderness to most of us. We forget that the "weed" of one country often becomes a horticultural prize in another, even as the mullein, for which it is hard for the average American to get up any enthusiasm, and which is tolerated with us only in a worthless sheep pasture, flourishes in distinction in many an English or Continental garden as the "American velvet plant."

The extent of our admiration often depends upon the relative rarity of the flower rather than upon its actual claims to our appreciation. The daisy which whitens our meadows—the "pesky white-weed" of the farmer—we are perfectly willing to see in the windrows of the scythe or tossed in the air by the fork of the hay-maker. The meed of our appreciation of the single blossom becomes extremely thin when spread over a ten-acre lot. How rarely do we see a bouquet of daisies on a country table? And yet, strange inconsistency! the marguerite of our goodwife's window-garden, almost identical with the daisy and not one whit prettier, is a prize, because it came from the "florist's," and cost twenty-five cents, with five cents extra for the pot.

A certain thrifty granger of the writer's acquaintance was recently converted from the error of his attitude toward the "tarnal weeds and brush." He was one of the tribe of blind, misguided vandals who had always deemed it his first duty "after hayin'" to invade with his scythe all the adjacent roadside, to "tidy things up," reducing to most unsightly untidiness that glorious wild garden of August's floral cornucopia, that luxuriant tangle of purple eupatorium, the early asters, goldenrod, vervains, wild-carrot, and meadow-rue.

He was converted in the sanctuary, where one August Sabbath he beheld by the side of the pulpit, dignified by a large beautiful vase, a great bouquet of this very tall purple thoroughwort, meadow-rue, and wild-carrot of his abomination, and which had actually fallen before his scythe on the evening previous. "Well, there!" he exclaimed; "I didn't realize they was so pretty!"

The beauty of the commonplace often requires the aid of the artist as its interpreter, a fact which Browning realized when he expressed, through Fra Lippo Lippi:

"We're made so that we love
First when we see them painted, things which we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times, nor cared to see."

An illustration of the truth of this axiom was afforded in a recent incident in my experience. Sitting at the open window of my country studio one summer day, engaged in making a portrait of a common weed, a friendly farmer, chancing "across lots," seeing me at work, sauntered up to "pass the time o' day." As he leaned on the window-sill his eye fell upon the drawing before me.

"My!" he exclaimed, "but ain't that pooty?"

"What!" I retorted,[Pg 561] "and will you admit that this drawing of a weed is pretty?"

"Yes, your draft thar is pooty, but you artist fellers alliz makes 'em look pootier 'n they ought to."

So much for the mere attributes of manifest outward beauty without regard to consideration of "botany" or the structural beauty of the flowers. The "botanist" finds beauty everywhere, even among the homeliest of Flora's hosts. But in the light of the "new botany," which recognizes the insect as the important affinity of the flower—the key to its various puzzling features of color, form, and fragrance—every commonest blossom which we thought we had "known" all our lives, and every homely weed scarce worth our knowing, now becomes a rebuke, and offers us a field of investigation as fresh and promising as is offered by the veriest rare exotic of the conservatory; more so, indeed, because these latter are strangers in a strange land, and divorced from their ordained insect affinities. The plebeian daisy now becomes a marvel of a flower indeed—five hundred wonderful little mechanisms packed together in a single golden disk. The red clover refuses to recognize us now unless properly introduced by that "burly bumblebee" with which its life is so strangely linked.

The barn-yard weeds need no longer be considered uninteresting and commonplace, because their mysteries have not yet been discovered, and I can do no better in my present chapter than to select one of their number and redeem it from its hitherto lowly place among them—one of the homeliest of them all, and whose blossoms are scarce noticed by any one except a botanist.

In my initial illustration is shown a sketch of the Figwort, or scrophularia, a tall spindling weed, with rather fine luxuriant leaves, it is true, but with a tall, curiously branching spray of small insignificant purplish-olive flowers, with not even a perfume, like the mignonette, to atone for its plainness. But it has an odor if not a perfume, and it has a nectary which secretes the beads of sweets for its pet companion insects, which in this instance do not happen to be bees or butterflies, but most generally wasps of various kinds, as these insects are not so particular as to the quality of their tipple as bees are apt to be. But the figwort has found out gradually through the ages that wasps are more serviceable in the cross-fertilization of its flowers than other insects, and it has thus gradually modified its shape, odor, and nectar especially to these insects.

Let us then take a careful look at these queer little homely flowers, and for the time being consider them as mere devices—first, to insure the visit of an insect, and second, to make that insect the bearer of the pollen from one blossom to the stigma of another. Here we see a flower with three distinct welcomes on three successive days.

A FLOWER WITH THREE WELCOMES.

A. First Day's Welcome—Stigma at the Doorway.

A¹. First Day—Sectional View.

B. Second Day's Welcome.—Stigma bent downward beneath two withered Stamens at Doorway.

B¹. Second Day—Sectional View.

C. Third Day's Welcome.—Four Stamens at Doorway.

D. Fourth Day.—Fall of Blossom. Its Mission fulfilled.

E. Fifth Day.—Pod Enlarging.

The flower bud usually opens in the morning, and shows a face as at A, which must be fully understood by looking at the side section shown at A¹.

The anthers and pollen are not yet ripe, but the stigma is ready, and now guards the doorway. To-morrow morning we shall see a new condition of things at that doorway, as seen at B and B¹. The stigma has now bent down out of the way, while two anthers have unfolded on their stalks and now shed their pollen at the threshold. The third morning, or perhaps even sooner, the other pair come forward, and we see the opening of the blossom as at C. Blossoms in all these three conditions are to be found on this cluster.

Fig. 1.

Fig. 2.

Fig. 3.

A small wasp is now seen hovering about the flowers, and we must now turn our attention to him as seen in Figs. 1, 2, and 3. The insect alights, we will assume, on a blossom of the second day (Fig. 1), clinging with all his feet, and thrusting his tongue into the heads of nectar shown at A¹ and B¹. He now brings his breast or thorax, or perhaps the under side of his head, against the pollen, and is thoroughly dusted with it. Leaving the blossom, we see him in flight, as at Fig. 2, and very soon he is seen to come to a freshly opened flower, which he sips as before. The pollen is thus pushed against the projecting stigma, as shown at Fig. 3, and thus, one by one, the flowers are cross-fertilized.

[Pg 562]

The stigma, after receiving pollen, immediately bends downward and backward, as shown in B¹, to give place to the ripening anthers, and shortly after the last pair of them have shed their pollen, the blossom, having then fulfilled its functions, falls off, as shown at D. This may be on the afternoon of the third day, or not until the fourth. If not visited by insects it may chance to remain the longer time; but more than one tiny wasp gets his head into such a blossom, and is surprised with a tumble, his weight pulling the blossom from its attachment.

The result of that pollen upon the stigma is quickly seen in the growing ovary or pod, which enlarges rapidly on the few succeeding days, as in E.

Many species of hornets and wasps, large and small, are to be seen about the figwort blooms, occasionally bees, frequently bumblebees, which usually carry away the pollen on the under side of their heads.

Who shall any longer refer to the figwort as an "uninteresting weed"?

SINGULAR METHOD OF BRANCHING AND FLOWERING.

GRANDFATHER'S ADVENTURES.

CALIFORNIA GOLD-HUNTERS.

"It seems to me, Grandpop, that you have had every kind of exciting experience except a fight with Indians," said Ralph Pell.

Captain Sterling laughed. "Don't be so sure that I haven't had that kind thrown in too by way of variety, my boy," answered the old sailor.

Ralph was all agog in an instant. "There, Grandfather, I know you must have a story to tell about them, or you wouldn't answer me in that way; so please tell it, and I'll learn to box the compass backwards to-morrow to repay you," cried the eager lad.

"All right, Ralph," was the pleased rejoinder; "it's a bargain. And now for my yarn:

"When the California gold fever set the world aflame 'way back in '49, I caught the craze, and determined to dig a big fortune out of old Mother Earth in short order, instead of reefing topsails in winter gales of wind and chewing upon salt junk for a living; so I shipped in a big vessel named the San Juan, that had loaded mining-tools for a cargo, and set sail for the Golden Gate.

"Three months after leaving New York we dropped anchor off San Francisco; but it was not then the great city of to-day, with thousands of noble buildings, paved streets, and electric lights, but a town of tents and hovels thrown together on either side of rough wagon-tracks, and these streets were only here and there faintly lit up at night by the sickly glow of smoky lamps and tallow candles that shone out from the open doorways and the turned-back flaps of dirty canvas huts.

"Although all hands had considerable money due them in the way of wages, it was counted as nothing compared with the bags of gold nuggets that we confidently expected to possess later on, so we all dropped overboard one night while the officers were asleep, and swam ashore. Each man had carefully retained a portion of the advance money paid to him before sailing, in order to buy a shovel, pickaxe, and provisions, and as the miners' stores always remained open until late at night, we supplied ourselves with what we required immediately after landing, and by sunrise were well on our way into the interior, safe from pursuit and capture as deserters.

"Our outfit was the most meagre, but it had taken every cent we had to purchase it, for pickaxes and shovels were five dollars each, and the provisions, which were of the poorest quality, were paid for at a corresponding price.

"There was no mistaking the way to the gold regions, for the trail was defined clearly enough in the way of broken-down and abandoned wagons of every variety, while small straggling parties and large organized companies either passed or were passed by us every few miles. Everybody and everything was colored with the magic suggestion of gold; even the atmosphere seemed to taste of the precious yellow metal, and there was but one thought, one ambition, one incessant subject of conversation from the gray-haired man to the youngster trotting along by his side, and that was gold! gold! gold!

"At last, after many hardships, we reached the gold country, where thousands of men, representing almost every nationality, were feverishly digging into the soil, sifting the sands of river-beds, and picking into the rocky sides of mountains, extracting the wealth that had been zealously hoarded by nature since the beginning of the world.

"It would make too long a story if I attempted to tell you of our work, our hopes, disappointments, and success. From one cause or another we kept separating, some to plunge deeper into the fastnesses of the mountains, some to associate with new partners, and others to try their fortunes alone. At last I found myself paired off with a man who had been my chum on board the San Juan—a manly young fellow, as brave as he was clever, and with whom I shared all the danger, trouble, and fortune that were met with during the time that we remained in the country.

"We tried every kind of work in the way of digging, washing, and searching for pockets in the rocks, treasuring our little finds carefully, and holding on to them as long as we could; but living of the cheapest kind was expensive, and in spite of all our frugality the store of gold in the leather belt-bags that we carried strapped about us would ebb and flow about as regularly as the ocean tides. Often would we work from sunrise to sunset, and then find ourselves rewarded by only just enough gold dust to exchange at the sutler's tent for a little flour and a piece of bacon on which to make our supper, while perhaps the men on either side of us had 'struck it rich,' and before our covetous eyes would exhibit a handful of yellow lumps or a tin cup brimming to the top with golden flecks of metal.

"One night as we sat rather disconsolate on a ledge of rock just outside the cave in which we kept house, and which we had dug for ourselves in the side of a steep hill, Jim Richards, my partner, exclaimed:

"'Luck's against us here, Sterling, and I'm for cutting loose and trying it back in the mountains, where we won't find ten men to every picayune bit of metal. What do you say?'

"'That's all right about the men part of it, Richards,' I answered, 'but how about Indians? They don't trouble us down here because we're too many for them; but wouldn't they make things rather lively for us back there?'

"We talked the subject over pretty thoroughly, and at last decided to risk our scalps. In the morning we parted with our entire stock of gold in exchange for two rifles, some ammunition and provisions; then shouldering our picks, we struck out for the range of mountains off in the eastward, whose summits could be faintly seen through the blue haze that enveloped them.

"For several weeks we worked unmolested, seeing nothing of the hostile red men; and it seemed that fortune, having become tired of remaining in hiding, at last condescended to show us her fickle, smiling face, for we discovered quite a few modest pockets, from which we took varying numbers of pure golden lumps, and our weighty, bulging belts became at times the subject of our laughing complaints. But the weather had commenced to grow cold, and we were warned by it that winter was approaching and that our work must soon end. While fortune[Pg 563] lasted, however, we were reluctant to leave, and kept postponing our departure from day to day. At last one morning Jim came creeping back within the shelter that we had made, telling me to throw off my blanket and look out. The ground was covered with a white mantle, and the flakes continued to fall. There was only one thing to do, and that was to be done quickly. Before all landmarks were gone we were to get out of the mountains, and make all haste to the mining camp twenty miles away. We left our tools behind us, and rapidly made our way down the valley that emerged into a plain, and ten miles across which our old camp was to be reached.

"As we rounded a spur of rock, Jim, who was in the lead, stopped so suddenly that I pitched up against him. There was no necessity to ask for an explanation. Not more than fifty yards ahead of us several Indian tepees were erected, and from around the poles at their tops smoke was curling, showing that the savages were keeping warm beside the fires kindled within the tents.

"We walked backward until the spur of rock was again between us and our foes, and with fast-beating hearts discussed the situation. There was no escape from the valley except through the pass in which the Indians were camped. If we turned back, it was to die of cold and want in the mountains. Jim crept forward and peered around the ledge. Finding that the redskins were yet within their tepees, we decided on the daring plan of stealing past them and gaining the plain, which we could see a short distance beyond, trusting that the snow would not allow our foot-falls to be heard.

"Holding our breath, we commenced our hazardous way through the little village. We had reached the last tepee undiscovered, when a chorus of yelps told us that the Indian dogs had at last detected our presence. As we broke into a mad run a series of savage war-whoops was all the knowledge we wanted that the fiends were after us.

"'Get out on the plain!' yelled Jim. 'It's our best chance!'

"We made the best of our little start, covering the snow-carpeted ground like hunted deer, and reached the open just as a flight of arrows struck all about us. Suddenly Jim stopped, wheeled about, and discharged his rifle, toppling over the foremost Indian. I was about to follow suit when my companion cried out to me to hold my fire until he loaded, for if the redskins knew that both guns were empty they would come on and cut us down while we were helpless, whereas being armed with bows and arrows only, they were at a disadvantage, and could be held off if we played our game skilfully.

"Never will I forget that ten-mile retreat over the field of snow, holding the bloodthirsty crew at a distance as they circled about us with cries of rage, trying every artifice known to their warfare to get us in their power. More than one reckless warrior went down in the attempts they made, and it was not until the camp was almost reached that they left us.

"'Sterling,' said Jim to me that night, as we sat as guests within the shelter of a miner's hut, 'I think I've got enough of gold-hunting. I'm going back to the States.'

"'Jim,' I replied, 'you're not going alone.'"

A BRAVE YOUNG SCHOOL-TEACHER.

In a town in the Rockies, a short while ago, a young girl, who taught in the little school-house of the place, performed an act of heroism worthy of the highest commendation. One of her small scholars had a pet antelope, a sweet, docile, little creature, that followed its mistress to school, remaining quietly near the door during class hours. One day it lay as usual near the door, lazily basking in the sunlight, while the children pored over their studies. Suddenly there came a light thud and a scream. There, with his fore feet crushing the little creature, crouched a big mountain-lion, savagely switching his tail from side to side, and eying the children. The little tots, screaming wildly, ran to the furthest corner, huddling there in a heap.

The teacher, although pale with fear, did not for a moment lose her nerve, but searched the room for some means of rescuing her little scholars. Hanging on the wall near the door was a shot-gun, and she determined to obtain it, although to do so she had to pass the lion. Summoning all her courage, she advanced down the room, facing the savage beast, who stopped tearing at the antelope and growled ominously. Nothing deterred in her purpose, however, she passed by him and took the gun from off the pegs. The lion turned his head, and curiously watched her as she retreated up the room again. The gun being empty, it was necessary to return to her desk to procure some shells and load it. Savage with blood, the lion left the antelope, and prepared to spring upon the group of children. He made one leap over the benches, which landed him in front of the teacher's desk, and his eyes catching sight of her, he changed his purpose, and swinging around, was about to spring upon her. Noticing this, the teacher, who had been watching for a good opportunity to shoot, instead of waiting for him to make the leap, walked quickly up to him, and before the astonished brute could recover she placed the muzzle of the gun in his ear and pulled both triggers. The recoil knocked her over, and she fell to the floor senseless. The gun did its work, however, for the lion's head was almost blown to pieces, and the brute lay a quivering heap on the floor. The children ran screaming down the road, and men hastened to the school-house, to find the brave girl recovered, but wildly trembling. After learning the circumstances, they seized a chair, and seating the girl in it, carried her, with the dead lion, through the town, cheering and praising her brave act.

FREDDY'S FIRST-OF-APRIL RESOLUTIONS.

"One by one our good old customs are going to the wall,"
Said little Fred, "and pretty soon we'll have none left at all;
So I'm going to keep All-Fools' day, just because I think we should
Not idly let it lapse into innocuous desuetude.

"I'm going to see that father gets a paper one year old;
The napkins I am going to pin up tight in every fold;
The sugar I shall mix with salt, and see that Bridget bakes
Some batter-covered flannel disks to serve for griddle-cakes.

"A purse upon the sidewalk then quite unobserved I'll fling,
And when folks stoop to pick it up I'll yank it with a string.
I've cut a lot of strips of cloth to pin to passers-by,
And every pompous man I see I'll make look like a guy.

"Beneath a battered ancient 'tile' I'll slyly place a brick
To stub the toes of thoughtless men who give a passing kick;
I'm going to tell the teacher a new boy has come to school,
And when he asks the pupil's name I'll call out 'April Fool!'

"I think a little nonsense of this harmless home-made kind
Is just as good for growing boys as some that's 'more refined,'
Affected by the modern race of little school-boy prigs
Who look with scorn on tag and tops and kites and Guinea pigs."

H. G. Paine.

[Pg 564]

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

X.—FROM JACK TO BOB.

Mountain House, July —, 189-.

My Dear Bob,—We fellers had that mass-meeting to complain about the eagle-eyed head-waiter that won't let us take all the nuts and raisins we want out of the hotel dining-room, but the proprietor won't discharge him because he doesn't dare to. The trouble is the head-waiter isn't like other head-waiters you meet. Head-waiting isn't his regular business. He's a college man and he pays for his education with what he makes here in the summer-time, and as he's centre rush in his college football team the proprietor's afraid of him. I knew the minute I saw him that he was something of that sort, because his hair reaches down over his collar, and he said something about me in Latin once; and I heard him tell one of his college mates that came through here on a bicycle that the place wasn't perfect. "They haven't any nats or merskeeters," he said, "but it swarms with small boys that's worse."

He isn't so bad though when he isn't on duty. He told me a lot about things you learn studying one day when I met him coming down the road. He'd been out taking a little exercize on a bicycle. I had my wheel out too, and we rode along a little ways together, and he asked me if I was going to college. I told him of course I was, and he wanted to know where, and I told him I didn't know, but I thought I'd go to Yale if she didn't stop winning everything there was going. I want to be on the winning side, I said. That's a good idea, he said, everybody ought to want to do that, but of course everybody couldn't, because if everybody was on the winning side nobody'd be on the losing side, which would be a bad thing for the world. He's a queer fellow, the way he looks at things. He said bicycling up hill was always more fun than coasting, because when you got to the top of the hill you were glad it was over, while when you had coasted to the foot of it you were sorry it was all over. It's the same way in football, he said. There's more fun in getting beaten in a stiff game than winning in a walkover. And then he told me to always take a man of my own size.

"Why don't you?" said I. "I'm not a man of your size, but you've been fighting me about those nuts and raisins I take away."

He only laughed when I said that, and then he said he took 'em away from me because he wanted me to be a man of his size some day, which I wouldn't be if I eat so many nuts and raisins, and I guess he's right, and I told him I'd quit. When I got back to the hotel I told that Chicago boy about it, and he said he didn't take any stock in head-waiters, and he wasn't going to quit for ten of 'em, but that night he wished he had, because just to be brave as he put it, he slipped three bananas, two oranges, six bunches of raisins, two handsful of nuts, and a peach into his blouse, but the head-waiter caught him and took him straight to his Pop. His Pop turned him upside down, took him by the heels and gave him a shake, and all the things tumbled out on the floor, so that now he's not allowed to have anything of the kind at all even in the dining-room.

Sandboys likes the head-waiter very much, and says there isn't very much use in boys trying to fool him, because it hadn't been very long since he was a boy himself and he's up to all their tricks, and his game of football is the finest that ever was. One time two years ago when he was in school his team had been forced back almost to the goal line, Sandboys says, when all of a sudden he got the ball and ran half way down the field with it before he was stopped, and then, with both his own and the other eleven sitting on his back he crawled the rest of the way and made a touch-down and won a goal.

"I don't see how that could be though," I said.

"Neither do I," said Sandboys, "but that's what he did."

Unfortunately Sandboys forgot what school it was he went to, and the head-waiter when I asked him about it, only laughed and said Sandboys was a great man.

There was a slight-of-hand man here last week doing tricks in the parlor, and I tell you he was fine. He could do anything with anything. He asked if some little boy in the audience wouldn't come up on the platform and let him see if he couldn't find some money in his ears. That made everybody laugh, and I thought I'd go up, but I wish now I hadn't. If I'd only gone outside and shook my head I'd have been ten dollars in, because when I got up on the platform he grabbed hold of my ear and got ten silver dollars out of it. I never was more surprised in my life, and Pop thought he'd be smart and have fun with the man. He got up and said he recognized those ten dollars by the feathers on the eagles on the back of 'em. He said he'd left them under his pillow the night before, and he supposed that they'd slipped into my ear when I climbed over into his bed. The man said all right he could have 'em, and when Pop went up to get 'em they'd disappeared into the piano, and when he went there to get 'em they'd disappeared into Sandboys' pocket, and so on until Pop gave up chasing them, and said the prestidigitter could keep 'em for himself. Everybody thought that was a great joke on Pop, and he got very red, but later on when the man passed his hat around for people to put quarters and dimes in for him, Pop told him there was a four dollar bill in my eye he could have. This made everybody laugh, which put Pop in a better humor, and I saw him give the man two dollars and a half later on.

Besides this there hasn't been anything going on here that's worth writing about. I asked Sandboys to give me some kind of an idea about what to tell you that would be interesting, and he asked me why I didn't tell you about the fourteen-pound pickerel I caught in a lake last week. Why, I said, I didn't catch any fourteen-pound pickerel. What difference does that make? he asked. You can tell him about the one you would have caught if you'd caught it, which I think was rather funny. Somehow or other I'm beginning to believe that Sandboys has lots of things happen to him that never happened, and I'm going to be careful about what I believe. I asked the proprietor about that bear story he told, and the Colonel said he'd never heard of it, and all the satisfaction I could get out of Sandboys later was that the Colonel was like all very prosperous personages. His memory was short.

Give my love to anybody you think would like to have it, and if you meet any Kings or Queens don't forget to talk right up to 'em like a real American.

Yours affectionately,

Jack.

[Pg 565]

R. W. MOORE.

There was not much record-breaking at the Interscholastic Games in the Madison Square Garden a week ago Saturday night, doubtless on account of the heavy track; but there was good sport and plenty of it, and better in-door games than these have never been seen in New York. Not only did the local schools turn out in full force, entering their strongest teams, but the winners of the recent B.A.A. games came down from Boston, and the leagues of Connecticut, New Jersey, Long Island, and Philadelphia sent some of their best men—men who proved so clever that the New-Yorkers managed to secure only five firsts out of the thirteen events, and but 49 points out of a possible 117. With such an aggregation the games became truly representative of school athletics, in the East at least, and they foreshadow a brilliant success for the National Games next June. If we can get as representative a gathering on that occasion, there need be no fear for the future of the Association.

St. Paul's School has good reason to feel pride in the achievement of her team, for it was as a team that the lads of Garden City won success rather than as individuals. The development of track athletics at St. Paul's during the present year is really worthy of note. At the Long Island League games last May, the Garden City team ranked fourth with 20 points, the winner of the day being Adelphi Academy with 39. At the Inter-City games the week following, St. Paul's held eighth place with 6 points—Barnard leading with 21. At the recent in-door games of the Long Island League in Brooklyn, St. Paul's showed her newly developed strength by ranking third, and her team took the same place at the Berkeley games a week later, Berkeley and Barnard being ahead of her in both instances. But St. Paul's has fewer stars and a better general average than these two New York schools, and for this reason was able to roll up 19 points, and take first place at the New Manhattan Athletic Club games, the athletes from out of town robbing both Berkeley and Barnard of several firsts which they can usually count upon in local contests.

W. S. HIPPLE.

Beers of De La Salle is the only man who scored a double win at the Garden, and he deserves praise for his work. He won his heat in the hurdles in 7-3/5 sec., and then took the final after a hot race with Bien of Berkeley over a course that was far from ideal for hurdling. In the broad jump he displayed the best form of any of the contestants. This may not sound very complimentary to those who saw the display of form that evening, for it was wretched; but Beers's performance gave evidence of his having done systematic work. The box was doubtless responsible for a good deal of the floundering that the jumpers indulged in when they landed, and the runway no doubt had little spring; but neither of these disadvantages can account for some of the marvellous mid-air gyrations that most of them executed in their flights.

Broad-jumping is an event that we seldom have at in-door meets, and the performances in the Garden on this occasion showed very well why this event has to be abandoned. It is impossible, of course, to jump on a board floor. At the N.M.A.C. games the board floor had been covered with a pretty heavy layer of clay and dirt, but as soon as a man landed in the jumping box where this layer had been turned over, he slid, and in nine cases out of ten fell backward. This could not be helped, and was just as great an obstacle for the success of one man as it was for another, and consequently Beers's performance of 19 ft. 2½ in. is most creditable. The N.Y.I.S.A.A. out-door record, made by Pell in 1891, is little better, being 21 feet 5 inches.

[Pg 566]

N.M.A.C. INTERSCHOLASTIC GAMES, MADISON SQUARE GARDEN, MARCH 28, 1896.

W. M. ROBINSON.

The prettiest performance of the evening, taking everything into consideration, was Mills's running of the mile. Mills was one of the Boston contingent, and at the B.A.A. games the week before he took the 1000-yard run in 2 min. 33 sec. He is a very fast man for long distances, being better at a five-mile event than at one. He is a well-built young athlete, has a beautiful stride, and runs in much better form than any scholastic competitor that has ever appeared in local games. It was plain to see as soon as the race had been started that Mills was to have everything his own way. He contented himself with remaining at the rear of the bunch for the first lap or so, letting others set the pace, and waiting for the crowd to straggle a little before he tried to take the lead. Then he got into his stride, and trotted to the front as if the rest were standing still, and kept on increasing his lead at every lap. It soon became evident that the race was to be merely a contest for second place, but the Boston boy's running was of such a high grade that most of the spectators watched him, and seemed to lose interest in the real struggle, which was practically between Manvel of Pingry's, Turner of Cutler's, and Bedford of Barnard. Manvel had sized up Mills very early in the race, and did not allow himself to be drawn away too fast, but ran consistently for second place. Bedford, however, worked a little too hard in the early stages, and did not even secure a place at the end.

R. G. PAULDING.

Mills's time was 4 min. 56 sec., and if the track had not been so heavy I feel certain he could have knocked off at least ten seconds. If he had been pushed at all he would have done better still. In the University team race Orton was hard pushed by Grant of Harvard, but his time was only 4 min. 52-3/5 sec., a little over three seconds faster than Mills's time in the mile; and Orton is one of the cracks among American amateurs. It would be interesting to see a race between Mills and Orton.

The heavy track precluded any record-breaking or good time in the sprints. W. M. Robinson, of Worcester Academy, took his heat in the 50-yard dash in 5-4/5 sec. At the B.A.A. games he ran the 40-yard dash in 4-4/5 sec. Moore of Barnard, however, met Robinson in the finals, and his winning time was 6 sec., Robinson being unable to repeat the work he had done in his heat. Another Robinson, he of St. Paul's, in the Junior 50-yard ran his first heat in 6 sec., and then won the final in 5-4/5 sec., doing better according to the summarized record than the Senior winner.

In the half-mile run, Dow, one of the Boston athletes, was considerable of an unknown quantity, but he was not fast enough to defeat Hipple of Barnard. The Bostonian took the pole at the start, and went off with an easy stride, Hipple hanging back in third place; but at the third round the New-Yorker began to catch up, and the race with Dow was neck and neck into the stretch, where Hipple burst ahead and won by several yards. Hall of St. Paul's, who had not been working so hard, then quickly passed Dow, and took second honors. Irwin-Martin of Berkeley had little trouble in his quarter-mile heat, but when it came for the decisive encounter he had to work for his points. He did not get to the front until the last lap, and even then he had to do his best to defeat Van Wagenen of St. Paul's.

A. F. BEERS.

The hurdle races were too short to be interesting, and the performers knocked over the hurdles so consistently that this usually pretty race was a good deal of a failure.

Next to the mile run, the mile walk was as exciting as any of the events of the evening. There was a good field, and in it were two good men—Walker of Berkeley and O'Toole of Boston. O'Toole walked in faultless form, and was content to remain in the middle of the bunch for the first lap; after that he made long strides for the front. Myers kept close to him, and Walker worked hard the entire distance to secure the lead. At the fourth lap the Berkeley lad did get to the front, but O'Toole immediately put on more steam and gained several yards. Ware of Packard Institute did steady work the entire distance, and came in second, with Walker close behind him. If Walker and O'Toole meet at the National I.S.A.A. games in June, it will be a very close contest, with the same advantage of physique in favor of the Bostonian; but both athletes are about equal in form and style.

Of the field events, the pole vault was perhaps the most interesting, narrowing down to a battle between Paulding of Black Hall and Johnson of Worcester. Paulding finally took first honors by clearing the bar at 10 feet. Both men would doubtless have done better if the conditions had been more favorable, the runway being soft and without spring. The shot went to Ingalls of Hartford, who put it 42 feet 1 inch; the broad jump went to Beers, as already stated; and the running high jump also went to Hartford, with Sturtevant, who cleared 5 feet 7½ inches. He is a very promising man.

The relay race was run off in the very excellent time of 4 minutes 2-1/5 seconds. The St. Paul's representative in the first quarter secured the lead, and the Garden City runners thereafter managed to increase their gain on every lap. In the last, Irwin-Martin started in for Berkeley and gained slightly on Hall, the St. Paul's man, but the latter had too great an advantage to be overcome, and five more points went to Garden City.

Two California schools are going to meet in a kind of single combat at an early date. It seems that the school paper of Oakland claimed that Cheek, Rosborough, Jenks, and Dawson could defeat the whole team the Berkeley High-School sent to the last A.A.L. field-meeting. The Berkeley athletes at once called upon the Oaklanders to descend from the house-tops, and sent a challenge for dual games, O.H.-S. to be represented by the four men she had so proudly vaunted, and B.H.-S. to be represented by four of her strongest athletes. The events in this duel will be the same as those at the regular A.A.L. field-meetings, including the relay race, which the four champions of each school are to run. This glorious tournament will doubtless[Pg 567] be held on April 18th, and I, for one, should like to see it.

The Secretary of the National Lawn-Tennis Association has announced the dates for this summer's tournaments, and according to his list the Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Columbia interscholastic tournaments will be held on May 2d. The Interscholastic Championships at Newport are scheduled for August 13th.

The schedule for the interscholastic cricket season in Philadelphia has been revised and definitely arranged as follows: May 6th, Episcopal vs. Penn Charter, Haverford vs. De Lancey; May 13th, Germantown vs. Haverford, De Lancey vs. Penn Charter; May 20th, Germantown vs. Episcopal, Penn Charter vs. Haverford; May 27th, Germantown vs. Penn Charter, De Lancey vs. Episcopal; June 1st, Germantown vs. De Lancey, Haverford vs. Episcopal.

The New England I.S. League took in a number of new schools as members at its recent meeting, and voted to join the National Association. There are now over thirty-five schools in the Boston Association. It ought to be able to send an almost invincible team to the national field-day in June.

The Graduate.

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

The illustrations of the "local" Confederates in this column excited some interest in the readers of the Round Table, and resulted in the finding of several of the rare and a large number of the common varieties.

Of late great interest is being paid to the North American British Colonies, and I illustrate the scarce Canada issue used between 1851 and 1859. With the exception of the Threepence they are all scarce, and the "Twelvepence" is one of the rarest stamps. Excluding minor varieties, their values are as follows:

Varieties on laid paper, and perforated copies are worth still more.

Quite a number of correspondents have called my attention to a difference in the color of the paper used in printing the current issue of U.S. stamps. An examination shows the paper to be the same. The seeming difference arises from the careless wiping of the steel plates during printing.

C. E. M.—No. It is worth bullion only, probably 50c.

A. Subscriber.—1813 cent is worth 35c., 1616 worth 10c.

E. B. Council.—No premium if you wish to sell. You can buy of dealers at about double face value.

G. F. Cohoon.—Canada coins are not collected in the U.S. The other things mentioned are tokens, not coins.

D. L. Delamarter.—I do not know the Weissinger & Bate stamp. The 18 kr. Wurtemburg unperforated is worth about $7.50.

L. K.—The newspaper stamps of 1865 are worth $2 for the blue 5c. with white border, $15 blue border, $6 each for the 10c. and 25c. Reprints are common.

H. Frost.—The coin is a Spanish dollar, worth 50c. Philately is growing stronger every day. The 24c. Treasury is priced $4 used, the 7c. $1.25 used. War Department set about $5 either used or unused.

P. L. Parsons.—The Missouri Defence Bond has no market value.

C. Bethune.—Some of the English colleges at one time issued stamps for postal purposes, but they are not collected in America.

J. D. Corbie.—The coin is Spanish and has no value. Many millions of these old Spanish coins are still in existence.

Alins.—No addresses of dealers are given in this column.

A. A. Krieger, 1531 New Broadway, Louisville, Ky., wants to exchange stamps.

W. K. Dart.—Foreign revenues are worth nothing in this country. The coin has no premium.

L. P.—Your stamp is from the centre row of the sheet, hence has no perforation on one side. No special value. The Philadelphia die has a double line; the Hartford a single line under the word "Postage."

W. F. Meeks.—The 1803 cent can be bought for 15c.

G. H. C.—No premium on the coins.

Sara L. Young.—The New York 5c. black of 1845 is worth $7.50 if in good condition.

D. W. W.—Old albums or catalogues have no value. The 10c. green on buff U.S. envelope, 1853, wide ends, can be bought for $5. Names of dealers, etc., not given in this column.

Philatus.

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

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

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

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

Harper & Brothers, New York.

[Pg 568]

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

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.

If you are in no hurry on your trip to Buffalo, it is well to spend a day or two in Syracuse, and take some of the rides in the vicinity of that city. The streets are very poorly paved in the city itself, with few exceptions, but on getting out of the immediate city limits the roads are moderately good. It is well for the tourist to remember that the Syracuse Athletic Association, on Jefferson Street near Salina, and the Century Cycling Club, at 319 James Street, will be glad to see at any time any member of the bicycling confraternity who goes through Syracuse.

On leaving the city by the west, proceed out Genesee Street, which is asphalt. To leave the city on the east, take East Water Street to Pine Street, and turn to the right into East Genesee Street, running out to the Genesee turnpike by keeping to the left again. To leave Syracuse on the south, run out to Onondaga on Salina Street, which is cobble-stones as far as Onondaga, and is brick to Burt. Further out than this it is macadamized. To leave Syracuse on the north—and this, by-the-way, is one of the pleasantest rides in the vicinity of Syracuse—cross the river at the swing bridge, thence, turning to the right, pass through James Street to Catherine, and proceed along this to Lodi; turn to the left into it, and again to the left into Pond Street. It is but one block to Litac Street, where you should keep to the left, and run another block to Kirkpatrick, thence turn into Alvord Street; proceed along this to Court Street, and thence proceeding to Park Street, turn left around the park itself, and proceed over the canal bridge to Liverpool. At Liverpool cross the bridge and turn to the right into the tow-path, which is left at the next bridge by turning to the left, whence you run to Long Branch. At the latter place proceed along the boulevard across the entire western side of Lake Onondaga through Maple Bay, Manhattan Beach, Rockaway Beach, Pleasant Beach, and Lakeview. Beyond Lakeview you run into the Marsh road at the end of the boulevard; thence turn left to Sand Street, where a turn to the right is made, and the run along Sand Street is continued until West Genesee Street is reached, whence it is easy to return to the swing bridge. This is a fifteen-mile ride, and is perhaps the pleasantest in the vicinity of Syracuse.

Continuing the journey towards Buffalo, leave Syracuse by the north on South Salina Street, and crossing the canal, turn into West Genesee Street. Again cross the canal bridge, and proceed direct out Genesee Street over the turnpike to Camillus. From Camillus to Elbridge there are some very bad hills, which are in places unrideable. Elbridge is fifteen miles from Syracuse. The run from Elbridge to Weedsport is direct except at a point about a mile and a half out, where a turn to the right must be made, and the turnpike followed to Weedsport direct. The road is in reasonably good condition, but is somewhat sandy. From Weedsport to Port Byron and Montezuma, and on through Clyde to Lock Berlin, the route follows the canal. In fact, most of the way from Port Byron to Clyde is on the canal tow-path, which, though it is three miles longer than by the road, is much better riding and much more picturesque and interesting. At Clyde take West Genesee Street, and proceed direct to Lock Berlin, forty miles distant from Syracuse. The road is good, and at the intersection of the four corners turn sharp to the left, cross the canal, pass under the railroad, and, taking the first turn to the right, again crossing the railroad and canal, proceed direct into Lyons, finally passing by a hill that is practically unrideable. The distance is about forty-three and a half miles.

[Pg 569]

Speaking of good manners, is it not worth while to think about how we behave in church? One mark of a thoroughbred girl is her air of repose, especially when she is in public. She avoids restlessness, she sits quietly, and she listens to the sermon. Other and ill-trained persons may observe to their neighbors that the contralto flats or the tenor's voice is cracked, but the well-mannered girl keeps unkind criticisms of the quartette and the choir strictly to herself. She does not whisper during service, nor look about her, for she knows that the place and the hour are sacred, and she would not like to disturb others, even if she were not in the proper spirit, on her own account. Whoever else is late, the girl I am thinking of is in good season, and she does not bring with her an atmosphere of haste and confusion into a house which should be quiet and tranquil.

But you will accuse me of preaching, and this is not my wish; so I will tell you of something else. A girl writes to me that she has a great ambition to become an editor, and wants to know how to begin her training for the profession. As she is still in the high-school, with four years of college to follow her present course, she is not pressed for time. If I were she I would practise the writing of bright, short, chatty paragraphs. Until you make the attempt, you will not believe how hard it is to write in two or three sentences the gist of an occurrence, to relate what is necessary in a story, to describe an event or a person, without using too many words. The girl who can write clever paragraphs will in good time find a newspaper which will use her work. As between producing paragraphs or poems, I advise the paragraph as by far the better factor in forming a really good style. But if, as with Daisy R—— and Alice F——, my girls like to write verses, there is no reason why they should not acquire so graceful an accomplishment.

As for earning money out of school hours, Belle S——, there are not many ways open to a girl. In the first place, the hours of a girl's life at school and at home are very full. She has her lessons to prepare, and there are usually some home duties which fall to her share. A school-girl must not overwork, for if she does she will neither do credit to her teacher nor to her own abilities. We insist in these days that the best students are those who are in good health, able to walk, to ride a wheel, to play golf and tennis, and to lend a hand at whatever is going on. Pallid, attenuated girls are out of fashion.

Still there are chances now and then for girls who need or who wish to add to their store of pocket-money, and if you will wait till next week, and then turn to the Pudding Stick, you will discover some of them. I have taken pains to find out things which young girls at school actually do, so that I will not be misleading you or extending false hopes, only to be disappointed when you read my report in the case.

At the same time, if you were my own daughter, I would rather have you wait, and not enter the lists with those who earn money until her school days were over.

E. T. C.—A girl of your age should not have headaches. Be careful of your diet. Avoid hot rolls and cake and candy, which you say you are fond of. If fresh air, exercise, and attention to your diet do not cure you, it is worth while to find out whether the trouble may not arise from your eyes. An oculist by fitting the eyes with the right glasses often drives away the cause of a persistent headache.

Bettie G.—I know of no way in which you can become a good performer on the piano without patient and very regular practice. There is no easy road to music. Do not believe any one who tells you there is.

Marguerite.—I am told by a music-teacher of eminence that too much practising is as bad as too little. Try breaking your time into four half-hours daily. With your studies, two hours a day is all you should devote to the piano.

Mart and Lill.—It is customary for girls to sign their full names in correspondence with strangers. You are Martha and Elizabeth to the world. The pet names are pretty for home use.

Marion.—I cannot tell you how to write a letter in which you have nothing to say. Wait till you have some reason for writing, and then you will not find the task hard, especially as you are fond of writing letters to the home people.

Eleanor Dana.—Any of Mary E. Wilkins's books will suit your friend; I think she would like A Humble Romance or Jane Field.

Winnie Lewis B.—Certainly it is right to wear cleaned gloves, and if the work is done well, and the gloves are of a light color, they may be cleaned several times before they are abandoned as past use.

Archie P.—Wear your hair in a long thick braid for the present.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

FINISH that WEARS

The enamel and nickel that are applied to Columbia Bicycles know no equal for beauty. Better still, this beauty is the same a year hence—two years hence. A rub of the polishing cloth, and Columbia enamel shines like new. In every detail you can be sure of Columbias—unequalled, unapproached.

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Columbias in construction and quality are in a class by themselves.

POPE MFG. CO., Hartford, Conn.

Columbia Art Catalogue, telling fully of all features of Columbias—and of Hartford bicycles, next best, $80, $60, $50—is free from the Columbia agent or is mailed for two 2-cent stamps.

LAUGHING CAMERA, 10c.

The latest Invention in Cameras. You look through the lens and your stout friends will look like living skeletons, your thin friends like Dime Museum fat men, horses like giraffes, and in fact everything appears as though you were living in another world. Each camera contains two strong lenses in neatly finished leather case. The latest mirth-maker on the market; creates bushels of sport. Catalogue of 1,000 novelties and sample camera 10c., 3 for 25c., mailed postpaid. Agents wanted.

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And other styles to suit all hands.

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Postage Stamps, &c.

STAMPS! 800 fine mixed Victoria, Cape of G. H., India, Japan, etc., with fine Stamp Album, only 10c. New 80-p. Price-list free. Agents wanted at 50% commission. STANDARD STAMP CO., 4 Nicholson Place, St. Louis, Mo. Old U. S. and Confederate Stamps bought.

$117.50 WORTH OF STAMPS FREE

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

C. W. Grevning, Morristown, N. J.

LOOK HERE, BOYS! 50 stamps and hinges, 15c.; 100, 25c. Cheaper packets if you want. Sheets on approval. List sent free. Send Postal Card.

W. C. SHIELDS, 30 Sorauren Ave., Toronto, Canada.

STAMPS.—20 different stamps free if you send for our approval sheets at 50 per cent. commission. Enclose 2c. stamp and give reference.

DIAMOND STAMP CO., Germantown, Pa.

125

dif. Gold Coast, Costa Rica, etc., 25c.; 40 U. S., 25c. Liberal com. to agents. Large bargain list free. F. W. Miller, 904 Olive St., St. Louis, Mo.

STAMPS! 100 all dif. Barbados, etc. Only 10c. Ag'ts w't'd at 50% com. List free. L. DOVER & CO., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.

FINE APPROVAL SHEETS. Agents wanted at 50% com. P. S. Chapman, Box 151, Bridgeport, Ct.

U.S. Stamps and Coins. 8 dif. large cents, 50c.

R. M. P. Langzettel, Box 1125, New Haven, Conn.

115 foreign stamps, Liberia, Borneo, Indo-China, etc., 7 cts. H. L. Ashfield, 767 Prospect Ave., N. Y.

Harper's Catalogue,

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

[Pg 570]

Writing Letters.

III.

Young persons—and old persons too, for that matter—ought to be careful what they put down in writing. Letters are permanent things—or likely to become so. Italian, Spanish, French, and Continental Europe business men are much more cautious about signing their names and about reducing business matters to writing than the same class of men in England and America. But if these Continental business men do sign anything, they live up to it. Americans are too much given to agree to almost anything, and then—regret having done so. Young men fall into this error.

In correspondence, be very sure that you know to whom the letter is going, that it reach him, and that it will then be promptly destroyed, before you trust to paper even that indignation which the world agrees in calling righteous. Trivial matters of a personal character that ought not to be said ought much less to be written. A good rule is: Never write anything that you would blush to have all the world read.

In constructing letters, give some advance thought to the task. Avoid details, be explicit, and polite. If you ask a reply and it is your business, enclose a self-addressed and stamped envelope, but do not put into it a sheet of blank paper. Say all you have to say before you sign your name. "N. B.'s" there is no excuse for. If you find one necessary, write your letter over again. Too much trouble? Not so. It is the least troublesome in the long-run, for, having taken it a few times, you acquire the habit of constructing your letters as you wish them, and ever after avoid both re-writing and "N. B.'s" If you enclose other papers in the envelope with your letter, say so, and specify what they are.

Do not imagine yourself to be your correspondent's only correspondent. If you are writing on a business matter, begin one letter where the last one ended. Give details of your business in order that your correspondent may learn at once what you are writing about. If your letter be an answer to another letter, answer all of the questions. Don't neglect to look at the letter and think you have answered. Consult the letter and be sure about it.

The Lake Worth Country.

I suppose there is not a tract of land in the United States that has increased in value so rapidly as that of the now famous Lake Worth Country. Twenty-five years ago there were no settlers there, and it was not until early in the '80's that it began to be attractive. Several years ago the finest piece of land on the lake could be bought for $250. Congressman Miner, of New York, was offered a portion, but refused. Last winter he was told that the same piece of property is now worth $50,000.

The improvements along the lake cost millions of dollars. Among the lovely places is that of C. L. Craigin, of Philadelphia. It cost more than $115,000. Mayor Swift, of Chicago, has a winter home overlooking the lake, situated on a high bluff. The most conspicuous place on the lake is the site of the Episcopal Church, Bethesda-by-the-Sea.

A part owner of the famous Hutchinson Land Grant is Colonel A. T. Lewis, a native of Mississippi. In 1836, during the Indian war, he marched from St. Augustine to Tampa Bay. He was in the fight that resulted in the death of the Indian chief Hoocha Billy. He also secured the title to the Spanish grant opposite Ancona, which he had been contesting since 1875.

Harry R. Whitcomb.
Umatilla, Fla.

At School in Germany.

I am an American boy, from the city of New York, but already three years have gone by since I last passed the Narrows on my way to Europe. I shall never forget my feelings as I saw the last of the well-beloved coast, which I knew I should not again see for many years. I had previously been over Lake Ontario (and in my whole life I was never in a worse boat), and a good way up the St. Lawrence; but still it was a curious sensation to see nothing for days but sky and ocean. Nevertheless, I enjoyed my trip pretty well. I was not troubled by seasickness, and arrived, after a journey of seven days, at Southampton. I passed a week in London, which I was very anxious to visit, but after having seen some of it, my curiosity quickly subsided. It is not half as nice as New York. Then I went to Cologne viâ Flushing, Venlo, and from there to Stuttgart, the capital of the kingdom of Würtemberg, where I still live.

One often mentions the beautiful position of this town, and it has indeed many advantages which we do not find in other German cities. Among other things Stuttgart is especially noted for its good schools, and of these the "Realgymnasium," which I frequent, is probably the best. Contrary to the so-called "humanistischen gymnasium" we are taught only Latin, not Greek and Hebrew, but a great deal of mathematics. There are three departments: lower gymnasium, first to third classes (primary); middle gymnasium, fourth to sixth classes (grammar school); the higher gymnasium, seventh to tenth classes (college). Of these again, classes one to seven have each three parallel classes, viz., a, b, c. The three highest, VIII., IX., X., have only one class each.

Our general hours for lessons (I am now in the VII.), are, in winter, from 8, in summer, from 7-12, and from 2-5. That's pretty long, but still when we get home our work is not nearly done, for we have a good deal of work to do at home. With mathematics—that is, geometry, algebra, and physics, I get on very well, thanks to the good grounding I received in America, but Latin is in some sense my stumbling-block. Still, I already appreciate the beauty of Latin literature. French I read with perfect ease and pleasure. I could tell you a good deal more about school, but I fear to weary my readers, so I will only mention how our bodily education is cared for.

Thrice a week we have gymnastics, once swimming, four times fencing (with foils now, afterwards with bayonet and sabre), and we also play a good deal of football, which has begun to spread in Germany during the last three years, and which, by the wish of the Emperor, has been introduced into all the higher schools. Like many other classes mine has also formed an eleven, of which I am captain. Our school library is very good, consisting of about eight thousand books of the best German, English, French, Latin, Spanish, and Italian authors. These form ample amusement for our leisure hours. Our summer vacation lasts from July 25th till the 6th or 7th of September, Christmas holidays from December 23d until 5th or 7th of January. At Easter we have two and a half weeks.

I am, comparatively speaking, a recent member of the Order of the Round Table, but a very old reader of Harper's Young People. I myself have had it since 1887, and before me my brother took it for several years. The volume of 1880, in which, if I remember right, Moral Pirates and Who was Paul Grayson? (I think that was the name) was printed, is still in my possession. I have followed with great interest the stories of Mr. Kirk Munroe—the Mates, Fur-Seal's Tooth, Snow-Shoes and Sledges, Fire Rangers, Road Rangers, and Sea Rangers. Of Captain King's stories I prefer Cadet Days to Corporal Fred.

This is my first trial of a letter to Harper's Round Table, and I much doubt if it will pass muster, but I hope I shall be allowed to try again, and to be more successful then. I always read the letters and questions, and if I could be of any use to a member I would do so with the greatest pleasure.

Paul Loesey, R.T.F.
Stuttgart, Germany.

Plants that Live on Insects.

The plant known as the Drosera, or Sundew, is very curious, and is well worth watching, for it is what is called insectivorous. That is, it eats insects for food. Its leaves are covered with bristles, and on the end of each bristle is a drop of sticky secretion which, when the sun shines on it, looks like dew, hence the common name. But if a fly or other insect lights on the leaf, he gets caught. Then the outer bristles turn towards him, and at last, although it takes about twelve hours, the leaf folds around him. The plant takes all the nutriment from the insect's body, and opens, ready for another catch. It has been proved that a plant fed on animal food is more vigorous than a plant that is not. This Drosera is very common in wet meadows and on the shores of ponds. It has a more expert cousin, the Dionæa. This closes its leaf very quickly, and the insect has no chance to escape.

Lincoln W. Riddle.
Jamaica Plain.

Legendary Geography.

CONCEALING RIVERS, CITIES, STATES, AND ISLANDS.

In the country beyond the mountains,(1) where we spent our summer vacation, a kind of fish(2) is caught by fish-spearing,(3) in the cold spring(4) between the rivers(5) by a husher or bully.(6)

Traces of the silver or lead ore(7) in the Green Mountains(8) on the cross shore(9) are distinctly seen in the bold rock(10) by the long lake,(11) where the tired and drowsy(12) fishermen, stopping for rest and refreshment, are lulled to sleep by the thunder of waters(13) rushing through the strait(14) near the islands of land turtles or tortoises.(15)

The country is rich in geographical interest and old Indian legends. It is a curious coincidence that the initials of the geographical names concealed by their definitions, when properly arranged, give a national holiday of historic importance.

Answers.—1, Housatonic River. 2, Tippecanoe River. 3, Androscoggin River. 4, Sandusky River. 5, Nashua. 6, Indiana. 7, Galena. 8, Vermont. 9, Yokohama. 10, Aleutian Islands. 11, Kennebec River. 12, Iowa. 13, Niagara. 14, Detroit. 15, Gallapagos Islands. Thanksgiving Day.

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

PHOTOGRAPHING THE STARS.

How many of our Camera Club have tried to photograph the stars? Of course, to make accurate pictures of the stars one must have special apparatus, and the camera must be adjusted by machinery so that it will move as the earth moves; but one may make very curious and also interesting pictures of star "tracks" with an ordinary camera. The winter-time is the best time of year for making such pictures, for the stars appear much brighter then than in warm weather.

Use a moderately quick plate and expose for fifteen or twenty minutes, pointing the camera toward that part of the heavens where there are stars of the largest magnitude. When the plate is developed, there will appear on it what seems like white marks, more or less distinct, according to the brightness of the stars which came within the compass of the lens.

If the camera is pointed toward that part of the sky which answers to the equator the lines will be straight, but if the camera is pointed toward the North star the lines will be curved. An interesting study may be made of one of the planets when in the vicinity of stars of first and second magnitude. The plate, when developed, will show that the planet travels in a different direction from that of the stars. The moon may also be photographed, and a much shorter exposure made than for the stars; indeed, one[Pg 571] can make an almost perfect photograph of the moon when it is full, or nearly so.

Of course the plates are of no special value except as curiosities; but one may be as fortunate as was one young amateur recently, who, when exposing a plate, caught the image of a large meteor which shot across the sky within the field of his lens. Several interesting pictures of comets have been made with an ordinary camera; but these celestial visitors come few and far between. Photographs may be taken on bright moonlight evenings, and are sometimes very artistic. It is necessary to expose the plate from half an hour to an hour, according to the quickness of the plate and lens used.

E. A. M., New York, wishes to know if blue prints may be made with a pocket kodak. Blue prints may be made from any negative, however small. Films make as good blue prints as glass plates.

J. Moultrie Lee, Jun., says that he cannot find the articles which are referred to in previous numbers. He says that he turns to the number of the book and pages, but finds nothing relating to camera work. This must be because he turns to the page and not the number of the Round Table. He asks for a formula for sensitizing paper. A formula for making plain salted paper will be found in No. 796 (January 29, 1895) and in No. 803 (March 19, 1895). This formula was also reprinted in the circular sent out in October last. Our correspondent also asks how to make a waxed paper negative from a print of which the negative is destroyed, and how to transfer the film from one plate to another. In answer to the latter question, a paper is already prepared giving direction for this process, and will appear in an early number of the Round Table. To wax a print, heat an iron hot enough to melt wax readily, but not hot enough to scorch. Take a piece of pure white wax, rub a little on the face of the iron, and iron the print lightly on the back. If the picture is a landscape do not wax the sky. After it is waxed enough to be transparent, rub the iron over the print to warm the wax, and take up all the excess of wax with a clean piece of blotting-paper. It can then be placed in the printing-frame, using a glass support, and printed from, the paper negative being waxed in the same way.

Lady Helen Garner wishes to know what a "kit" is, and what it is for. The "kit" used by photographers, which is probably what Lady Helen means, is a thin frame inserted in a plate-holder so that one may use a smaller plate than the one for which the holder was originally made. If one has a 5 by 8 plate-holder, a frame with an opening 4 by 5 or 3-1/4 by 4-1/4 may be placed in the holder, and by this simple arrangement the smaller sizes of plates used in the larger holder. A 5 by 7 plate is used in a 5 by 8 holder by using two thin strips of wood half an inch wide. Both the frame and the strips of wood are blackened.

Sir Knight Sprague Carleton wishes to know how to make good transparencies, as those which he has made lack detail and are not transparent enough. Directions for making transparencies were given in the Round Table No. 798 (February 12, 1895); but another paper will soon be published on this subject. If Sir Knight Sprague will tell what process he uses, time of printing, etc., we will be glad to suggest what remedy is needed. It would seem from the description that the transparencies were over-exposed.

Sir Knight K. Gregory says he is going to buy a small camera, and wishes to know how to develop and print his own pictures. He will find directions for beginners in recent numbers of the Round Table. The first paper was published May 21, 1895, and the others follow in order.

Sir Knight Fred E. Turner wishes to know if the process described in the Round Table for making prints with nitrate of uranium produces permanent prints. The prints made with the salts of uranium are, if properly treated, as permanent as the blue print, with perhaps the exception of the green, which sometimes loses the brilliant tone which it has at first. This is due to the development and fixing of the red print. This process was first practised by Niepce de St. Victor.

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PLAYS

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CARDS

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A NEW BOOK

TOMMY TODDLES

By Albert Lee. Illustrated by Peter S. Newell. Square 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

A more entertaining collection of nonsense has rarely been penned.—Boston Traveller.

This is primarily a book for boys, but it contains numerous chunks of wisdom for the delectation of older heads.—St. Louis Globe Democrat.

We have not seen anything of the kind more pleasing since "Alice in Wonderland."—N. Y. Press.

The story is intended to be juvenile, but it will appeal to thousands of grown-up juveniles better than to the juveniles themselves.—Boston Daily Advertiser.

This is one of the most charming bits of fairyland writing I have read in a long time. The boys and girls will delight in it, but the old folks, no matter how many years they carry, will find an equal pleasure.... It is a charming little volume.—George H. Hepworth in N. Y. Herald.

OAKLEIGH

A Story for Girls. By Ellen Douglas Deland. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

A story for girls, charmingly written, and illustrated throughout with pictures dainty enough to please the most fastidious damsel.... The incidents are full of life, the characters are very natural, and the conversations well sustained, so that the story is full of intense interest from beginning to end.—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

By W. J. HENDERSON

Afloat with the Flag. By W. J. Henderson, Author of "Sea Yarns for Boys," etc. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

Mr. W. J. Henderson's latest sea-story for boys is one of the best we have seen.... The story has been read with eager interest by thousands of Round Table readers, and it will have an additional charm to them and others in its present book form.—Boston Advertiser.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.

[Pg 572]

APRIL FOOLS AND APRIL SHOWERS.

"Oh, I'm an April Fool indeed, and here's the reason why:
I left my umbrella at home, supposin' 'twould be dry!"

IT SETTLED THE QUESTION.

The Colonel was the possessor of a fat colored man who was extremely lazy—so much so that everybody in the town had tried to do something to liven him up. They usually abandoned their effort after a trial.

There was quite a gathering at the Colonel's one afternoon, and the question of the lazy colored man came up. Finally one of the gentlemen asked leave to experiment, and to gratify him the Colonel sent for his lazy servant. It was some time before Sam put in an appearance. When he came, the gentleman addressed him thus:

"Sam, as I was coming up the garden path I noticed several snails down near the gate. I want to show these gentlemen some of their peculiarities, so catch one for me, please."

Sam scratched his gray wool and departed.

The Colonel and his friends smoked and chatted for a long while, and still no Sam and no snail.

"Well, that fellow is really lazy," said the gentleman who had sent him on the quest. "Colonel, would you mind sending for him, and see what on earth he is doing?"

The Colonel did so, and Sam entered the room.

"Well," said the gentleman, "did you catch one of those snails?"

"'Deed no, sah," replied Sam; "dey was too powerful quick fo' me. Ise couldn't catch up wid dem!"

That settled the question.

A NEW COUNTRY.

A party of tourists were examining one of the large trees of California. One of the party remarked:

"What a magnificent specimen! Surely it must be the oldest tree in the world!"

An Irishman who was with the party cried out: "Now, faith, how could that be?" and burst out into laughter. "Sure any one knows this is a new country, and how the mischief could that tree be ould?"

A LIGHT BREEZE.

During one of the recent windy days in New York a discussion arose between some gentlemen at dinner about the velocity of wind. Each related a boastful story of his own experiences. One of the party, a hardy Westerner, said he was once riding in a train through Kansas.

"There was what is called out there 'a light breeze' blowing. I had occasion to look out of the window, and the moment I put my head out off went my hat."

"What did you do?" asked one of the party.

"Well, gentlemen, several people told me not to worry, that the breeze was strong enough to take it there. I sort of wondered what they meant, but that hat was handed to me by the station-agent at our next stop, about forty miles from where it blew out of the window. We came along pretty fast, too—I guess about fifty miles an hour. But then eighty miles an hour for wind is called 'a light breeze' in that country, and the hat went by the eighty-mile route."

A HARD MACHINE TO RIDE.

"Papa, what is a bicycle, anyhow?" asked Jack.

"Why, it's a two-wheeled vehicle, the wheels being placed tandem. The word is derived from bi, meaning two, and cyclus, a wheel. If it had one wheel it would be a unicycle."

"I've ridden a unicycle many a time."

"You? Where?"

"In the garden—in the wheelbarrow."

A SMALL BOY'S NOTION.

"Oh, mamma," said little Willie, as he made his first close inspection of a bicycle, "this machine has got rubbers on to keep its wheels from getting wet!"

An Irishman and a Yankee were playing the forfeit game of Questions.

"How does the little ground-squirrel dig his hole and show no dirt at the entrance?" asked the Irishman.

"Give it up," said the Yankee at last.

"Sure, you see, he begins at the other end of the hole," declared Pat triumphantly.

"But how does he get there?" queried the Yankee.

"Oh, that's your question; answer it yourself," said Pat.

A BRAVE OFFICER'S ANSWER.

During Napoleon's campaign in Russia a young officer was very successful in defeating, with a handful of men, a large body of Cossacks who had been skirmishing along the line for some days, doing considerable damage. The officer risked his life in a daring deed of bravery, and Napoleon, hearing of it, sent for him and praised him.

"Sire," said the officer, "I am happy for your praise, but the Cross of the Legion of Honor would make me happier."

"But you are very young," said Napoleon.

"Sire," answered the brave officer, "we do not live long in your regiments."