The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table, July 7, 1896

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Title: Harper's Round Table, July 7, 1896

Author: Various

Release date: December 11, 2018 [eBook #58453]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire



[Pg 869]


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

published weekly.NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JULY 7, 1896.five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 871.two dollars a year.




The porch of Bishop's store—the heart, so to speak, of the Jim-Ned Creek settlement—was deserted, for the November day was bleak and raw. Half a score or more men lounged over the counters within, or sat silent and ruminant around the smouldering fire. Gideon Bishop, half hidden by his tall desk, was busy with his ledgers, but he glanced furtively and frowningly now and again at his guests.

The Outlaw came up the road at a leisurely pace. She was a small mare, blue-gray in color, with a flowing mane and tail of a fine glossy black, much matted with cockle-burs. She tossed her small head coquettishly in response to the neigh of welcome from the horses hitched to the saplings about the store, and picked her way daintily to the very edge of the porch, where she stood saucily expectant.

"Hullo! There's that blue mustang o' yourn!" exclaimed Sam Leggett, jumping down from the counter. "It's been nigh onto two year sence she vamoosed, ain't it, Uncle Gid? Where hez she been a-hidin' herse'f?"

Mr. Bishop picked up a wagon whip, took a lariat from its nail on the wall, and stepped out upon the porch.

"So! You've come back, have you, Lady?" he said, with a grim smile. He reached forward as he spoke and attempted to slip the rope over the mare's neck. She shook her mane gently, and dipping her pretty head, nipped his forearm with her strong white teeth.

At another time old Gid, stern and harsh as he was, might not have resented this playful salute, for the skin on his brown wrist was barely grazed, but he was in no mood for such fooling now. He started back with a quick step; his brow reddened angrily, and the fire leaped to his deep-set eyes. He lifted the whip; the long keen lash curled through the air, and descended with a stinging sound upon the[Pg 870] runaway's shining flank. She reared violently, uttering a cry almost human in its indignant protest; then she wheeled about, and galloped away in the direction whence she had come.

The men who had trooped out upon the porch at Mr. Bishop's heels gazed after her until she disappeared in the creek bottom; then they slouched back to their seats.

"Jack broke that mustang hisse'f," Joe Trimble presently remarked. "I mind the first time he ever backed her. Jing! how she bucked!"

"Speakin' o' Jack," Newt Pinson ventured, in an off-hand way, but not daring to look at Jack's father—"speakin' o' Jack, 'pears to me it's nigh about time we was huntin' that boy up."

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Bishop, in a loud, angry voice, "you 'tend to your own business, if—you—please. Jack Bishop is nineteen year old, and full able to take keer of hisse'f."

These words penetrated through a half-open door into the family living-room back of the store. On hearing them, Jack's mother burst into a fresh fit of weeping, which the kindly neighbors hovering about her tried vainly to soothe.

"He's just as oneasy about Jack as I am," she sobbed. "That onliest child of ourn is the apple of his father's eye. But it's Gid's pride as won't let him give up that a Bishop can get lost. And everybody's plumb afraid of him. Oh, my boy, my boy!"

"Don't ye worrit yo'se'f into a spazzum, Susy Bishop," said Granny Carnes. "I ain't afeard o' Gid Bishop, ner no other male creeter. An' I've give my orders to the boys a-settin' yander in the sto'. Ef Jack Bishop"—here she raised her voice to its highest and shrillest pitch—"ef Jack Bishop ain't inside this house befo' candle-lightin' to-night, them boys has got to tromp out an' find him, an' fetch him home, or not dassen to show their faces agin the len'th an' bre'th o' Jim-Ned."

"Amen!" said Mrs. Leggett and Mrs. Trimble together.

"Double an' thripple Amen!" added Mrs. Pinson, solemnly.

There was indeed no small cause for anxiety. Early on a Tuesday morning young Bishop had started out afoot, with dog and gun, for a few hours' hunting in The Rough—a belt of savage woodland which stretched away westward, with wide solitary prairies on either side, to the chain of hills some fifteen miles distant. It was now Friday, past noon, and he had not returned. Newt Pinson had met him at the crossing of Jim-Ned Creek half an hour after he had left home; he had not been seen nor heard of since. He had gone on alone; for the dog, a half-grown puppy, had turned and trotted back, unnoticed, behind Mr. Pinson.

"Oh, if Josh was only with him!" moaned Mrs. Bishop, already alarmed, at the close of the first day.

And Josh, the intelligent old hound, rubbed his head against her knee and whined softly.

The lad—everywhere a favorite—had never absented himself from home before; and when Wednesday, Thursday, Friday came and went without tidings of him, the neighbors from up and down the creek began to gather at the store.

They looked at the heavy sky, sunless and misty these four days past, and shook their heads ominously, whispering among themselves. The poor mother was wellnigh frantic with alarm. Uncle Gid alone maintained an air of obstinate confidence, in the face of which no one dared venture a move.

"Jack Bishop is full able to take keer of hisse'f," he repeated, proudly, in answer to Mr. Pinson's timid suggestions. "Jack Bishop knows every inch of ground betwixt Jim-Ned and Rattlesnake Gap."

"All the same, notwithstandin'," whispered Granny Carnes in Mrs. Bishop's ear, "I've give my orders for candle-lightin', honey."

But before candle-lighting Mr. Bishop's assumed stoicism gave way. About sunset he arose and took his rifle from the rack above the door. "Come on, boys," he said, with a catch in his throat. And a moment later they were hurrying down the rutty road.

At the Jim-Ned crossing the old man paused. "You go back, Susy," he said, with rough kindness, to the frail little woman following a pace or two behind him. "Go back, and stay with the women folks. You ain't nowise fitten for this sort o' thing."

Jack's mother pulled the red knitted shawl closer about her head, and moved steadily forward. "No, Gid," she said, quietly; "I'm not going back—not without my boy."

He put an arm about her without another word, and husband and wife presently entered together the mysterious gloom of The Rough.


An hour or two later Jack Bishop was lying on the open prairie, where he had thrown himself in a sort of dull despair. His loaded gun lay beside him; his empty wallet hung from his shoulder; his face looked pinched and wan in the vapory moonlight.

"I crossed Jim-Ned," he was saying to himself, mechanically, for the thousandth time; "I crossed the creek and came into The Rough. I left home Tuesday at sun-up.... That puppy ain't worth shucks; I wish I had brought old Josh!... I killed three jack-rabbits in Buck-Snort Gully. By the big cottonwood—what did I do by the big cottonwood? Oh, I ate my corn pone. Gee! how hungry I am!... Then I followed a deer and got into the prairie. Why, I know this prairie 'most as well as I know Jim-Ned! Yonder's Rattlesnake Gap, and yonder's The Rough.... And before I knew it, it was plumb dark.... I went back into The Rough, and tramped and tramped; and the first thing I knew I was out on the prairie again.... I've been doing the same thing ever since, over and over.... I haven't seen a soul.... If I could just glimpse the sun! But seems like the sun never will shine again.... I reckon I'm lost.... Yonder's Rattlesnake Gap, and yonder's The Rough—"

He got up and staggered a few steps, then sank down again. He was a manly lad, and he had borne with hopeful courage the hunger, cold, and loneliness of the long days and nights. But he was exhausted with fatigue, and weakened by want of food; and finally, overcome by a sense of terror and desolation, he covered his face with his hands and groaned aloud.

The painful throbbing in his ears sounded suddenly like the rhythm of advancing footsteps. Something cold and moist touched his cheek; a warm breath mingled with his own.

"Why, Lady!" he cried, springing to his feet. Weariness and hunger and cold had vanished in a trice. Laughing and crying by turns, he clasped his arms about the neck of the little mustang which he had fed and petted as a colt—the wilful Outlaw who had disappeared into The Rough two years before.

Fearful lest the mare should desert him again, he held her long mane with one hand, while with the other he groped, stooping, for his rifle. But the Outlaw apparently did not dream of flight. She stood quite still until the gun was secured and he had climbed with some difficulty upon her back.

"Now, Lady," he shouted, "take me to Jim-Ned! Carry me home!"

Lady threw up her head, neighed, and moved obediently forward. She went at a swift walk, breaking at intervals into the long, swinging, restful mustang lope.

"But—you are going in the wrong direction," remonstrated her rider, at the end of a few moments. He tugged at her mane, and endeavored to change her course. "You are carrying me through the Gap. Jim-Ned is on this side. Back, Lady—back!"

The mare shook herself impatiently, and pushed on between the pyramidal hills which loomed up on either side of the Gap, emerging into the open prairie beyond just as the moon, scattering the clouds at last, filled earth and sky with a flood of golden light.

"Well," said Jack, with a shiver of disappointment, "you'll take me somewhere, I reckon, Lady. I can't be any more lost than I've been for the last three days!"

[Pg 871]

After a while, however, things began to assume a strangely familiar look. "I've never been west of the Gap before," he muttered, "but—yonder looks like Comanche Mound. And, sure as shootin', here's Matchett's Pond! Ah!" he added, after profound reflection, "I am east of the Gap now. I must have been all this time, somehow, on the other side."

His conjecture was correct. Stumbling unwittingly through the narrow Gap in the darkness of the first night, and deceived by the prairie and woodland beyond, he had there continued the incessant and bewildered round into which he had fallen when he had first lost his bearings.

"It's all clear as daylight now," he cried, joyously. "You've got a heap more sense than I have, Lady! Couldn't fool you with roughs and prairies! And now I think I will stretch my legs a little, and rest you, my beauty."

He slid to the ground and limped along beside his four-footed friend, leaning against her, and chattering boyishly as he went.

"Tain't more'n ten miles to Bishop's store now. And mother'll be on the porch, late as it is, looking out for me. Poor mother, I know she's been fretting! And she'll have the coffee-pot on the coals. And father'll be pretending to scold. But, shucks! he won't mean a word of it. Seems like"—a lump arose in the boy's throat—"seems like I never understood father before, nor loved mother half enough!... Where have you been all this time, anyhow, Lady? Why, what a scratch you've got on your side! Run against a mesquit thorn, eh? It's all bloody. I'll doctor it the minute we get home. Hello!—"

One of his legs seemed all at once to have grown shorter than the other, a loud report rang in his ears, a thrill of intense agony racked his whole body, and he dropped fainting to the ground. He came to himself a moment later to find the blood pouring from a wound in his left shoulder, and when he attempted to rise and draw his leg from the deep rabbit-hole into which he had stumbled a sharp pain warned him that both knee and ankle were sprained or broken. He ceased his efforts and fell back, staring helplessly up at the sky.

The mustang, who had darted away at the discharge of the rifle, had returned, and was standing beside him.

"Don't go, Lady," he implored, catching at her mane. "I've shot myself, I reckon. I can't move my leg. Don't, don't leave me, Lady."

The mare thrust her nose reassuringly against his face.

The blood, which he tried vainly to stanch with his free hand, oozed from the gun-shot wound, and formed a red puddle about his head. He felt himself growing dizzy and nauseated.

It was now about an hour past midnight, and the vast moonlighted prairie was hushed and still. Suddenly a curious sound troubled the silence—a trampling, tearing noise, accompanied by a hoarse confused roar. Jack lifted his head a little and looked.

His heart stood still.

A small herd of cattle roving about the prairie, moved by the curiosity inherent in animals, had drawn near, and excited by the smell of blood, were pawing the earth, bellowing with rage, and circling ever closer and closer about the helpless lad. He could see their wide horns glistening in the moonlight. "Mother! Father!" he breathed; and dropping his head back upon the cold turf, he closed his eyes in instant expectation of death.

But he opened them again. For the Outlaw had whirled abruptly from her post beside him, and charged, with a snort, first into one section and then into another of the infuriated circle. Surprised and daunted, the cattle retreated a short distance, stopped, and stood still, uncertain and dumb.

Hardly, however, had the boy drawn a breath of thankfulness and relief, when there was another mad rush upon him; and again the gallant little mustang, plunging and snorting, held his assailants at bay.

Over and over this assault and repulse were repeated. The half-unconscious lad turned his terrified eyes from side to side, groaning with pain, and lifting his voice brokenly in encouragement of his protector.

But she too was beginning to be spent and exhausted. He stroked her trembling foreleg with his hand as she hovered over him in a moment of respite. "Poor Lady!" he whispered, faintly: "it's mighty nigh over with both of us, I think. You'd better save yourself now, Lady. You can't do anything more for me. Don't cry, Lady. Why, Lady, your eyes are just like mother's!"

And with a sob he lapsed into utter oblivion.


The searching party came out of The Rough in the early dawn, and stood huddled together, forlornly silent, on the prairie ridge that sloped gently away to Matchett's Pond. They were foot-sore and disheartened after their long night's fruitless quest.

"Ain't that Matchett's bunch o' cattle rampagin' an' bellerin' aroun' down yander?" demanded Joe Trimble, breaking the silence, and peering forward curiously, "What are they up to? Y-a-a-h!"

He burst into a loud yell and set off running at the top of his speed, discharging his pistol as he ran to scatter the herd.

Swift-footed as he was, however, a woman outstripped him; and by the time the others came up, Jack's mother was kneeling in the grass, and her arms were about her boy.

When Jack, after swallowing a mouthful of water, had revived a little, and the color had begun to come back into his poor pale face, his wound was dressed and his broken leg bandaged. Then he faltered out the story, with his head on his mother's bosom, and his hand held close in his father's strong grasp.

"I could feel the fire in their blazing eyes," he concluded. "I thought I would never see you and mother again, father. And if it hadn't been for Lady— Don't cry, mother, I'm all right now. Why, mother, your eyes are just like Lady's!"

Uncle Gid got up and walked over to where the Outlaw lay panting on the dry grass. He reeled like a fainting man as he went. At his approach the mare threw out her slender forelegs and tried to get up, but fell feebly back, quivering with terror. The old man dropped on his knees beside her, and laid his hand on the whelk that disfigured her flank. "Heaven forgive me for a sinful man!" he cried. "I struck you in anger, Lady; I struck you; and if it hadn't been for you, my son, my only son—" A sob choked his utterance, and he could not finish. But Lady turned her head toward him and whickered softly. She understood!

There was a moment of awed silence.

Then Mr. Pinson blew his nose, wiped his eyes, and stepped forward. "Gentlemen an' Mis' Bishop," he said, with an oratorical flourish. "Lady is a honor to her sect! The female sect, gentlemen an' Mis' Bishop, is ever faithful an' ever true. Lady, notwithstandin' she air a mare an' a Outlaw—"

"Three cheers for Lady!" interrupted Jack, with the old sparkle in his eyes, though his voice was a bit unsteady. "Hurrah for Lady! Hip, hip, hurr-a-a-h!"

And such cheers went ringing over the prairie and across The Rough that old Granny Carnes afterward declared she heard them at Bishop's store, ten miles away.


There was a man in our town
Who was so wondrous wise,
He didn't try the bramble-bush
And scratch out both his eyes,

But sat him in a big arm-chair,
Upon a schooner-yacht,
And said to those who jeered at him,
"I'd rather see than not."

[Pg 872]



(In Two Installments.)

In that happy hour or more after hammocks are piped down, and before tattoo is sounded on board ships of war, the sailor has his season of unvexed merriment. This leisure is a cherished one, and his pleasure runs the gamut of many physical bouts. He boxes, gives play with single-stick and quarter-staff, both vigorous, determined, and honestly punctuated with resounding whacks and grinning acceptances of pain. The bear is chased amid much license of noise, and Jack swims, dives, rows, wrestles, and dances. And how he dances! Save on board flag-ships, bands are extemporized affairs; for the sailor loves his music dearly, even when he has to pay his piper, and is a prentice hand with various instruments, though, I think, there is an unwritten law against the wheezy and soul-envenoming concertina and a respected prejudice concerning the piccolo.

I do not know that he hornpipes it so much as he jigs it, but when he does go in for form and style his traditional performance is filled with grace and honest delight.

It is at this hour, too, that the dumb pets of the crew have their rarest frolic; for, by the association—by the inspiration perhaps—of the same sentiment, this twilight season becomes to the sailor what the children's hour is to the luckier landsman in homes where love is sanctified by the tender witcheries of happy childhood. The isolation of the sailor, the craving during long years of exile for something that cares for him purely for himself, is a charm to conjure with, and lucky indeed is the dumb brute whose life falls in the pleasant places of the forecastle. Indeed, the fondness sailors show for their pets is proverbial, and so intimately are these associated with certain famous deeds of the sea that they have acquired a definite name and fame, and are as well known and as fondly remembered and lamented as are the races of bygone days by ancient jockeys and stable-boys.

With sailors this feeling often borders on a sincere affection, and in the early twilight of a second dog-watch I have seen weather-beaten, battle-scarred bluejackets fondling some pet as tenderly as a mother would her first-born; and then, when darkness fell, stowing it in a secure bed and bidding it a most affectionate good-night. The catalogue of sea pets would read almost like the Homeric enumeration of the ships, for these are of every description, from field-mice to bears. Those most generally found are dogs, cats, monkeys, and parrots. The accomplishments of the parrots are especially weird, and sometimes uncanny, and there is a tradition that sailors teach them to talk by feeding them with bread balls in which grains of red pepper are secreted. When the parrots taste the pepper they begin to scream and squawk most fiercely, and this is the apt season for their teachers to repeat fast and furiously the words they seek to have learned. In their rage the parrots repeat the words thus spoken, and by dint of mild torture and bad temper acquire a vocabulary which sometimes becomes very varied. Monkeys are usually dressed in ludicrous copies of foreign soldiers' uniforms, are taught to drill, and especially to salute and salaam profoundly at the word of command.

The west coast of Africa, Brazil, and the waters about the Asiatic station are famous for the queerness, variety, and cheapness of pets, and if the crews were not restrained the ship would soon become as riotous as a bear-garden and as clamorous as a menagerie. Among the animals that have been mustered among a ship's family are black pigs from Hong-kong; silvery gray squirrels from Shanghai; long-haired chrysanthemum-tailed dogs from Kobe; rabbits from Chin-kiang; bears, and quaint little black chickens with feathers that stick out like porcupine quills, from Nagasaki. From the mud shores of Yang-tse-kiang the sailors get "miners," birds of the crow family, which with patience and care soon learn to talk cleverly in the quaint dialect of the sea. At times more than one of these pets claims the allegiance of its owner. I recall an aged fore-mast-man of one of our sloops of war, the Vandalia, I think, who had collected a most interesting family, consisting of a dog, goat, cat, rabbit, hen, parrot, and monkey, all living in a harmony which put to shame the quarrelsome members of like households in stuffy museums. So well behaved and decorous were they that even the strictest of first lieutenants, watchful for holy-stone decks and shining paint-work, could not complain. Another of our war-ships mustered a pig, a bear, and a dog in its books.

These had become thoroughly sailorized, going at drum-beat to quarters, mustering with their divisions, and observing with a fine precision the routine of the day. By an unexplained but accepted assumption of rank, the pig took his station on the quarter-deck, the bear mustered amid-ships, and the dog clung to the eyes of the ship, each in the wake of his adopted guns' crew. Nothing was allowed to disturb this ceremonial precedence, not even the riot and roar and the slaughter sometimes when the ship was in action. At times the bear, with misty recollections of pine woods and underbrush, would cut adrift from the restraints of education and run amook in the gangways, more or less violently hugging members of the crew. He showed a fine discrimination between friend and foe, cherishing for days the remembrances of an affront, and never losing an opportunity of avenging it, as many a madcap youngster had occasion to remember.

Of all pets, none is better suited for ship life than the wily goat, and the traditions of the navy are jocund with quaint stories of this animal. Once in the good old days of tarpauling hats and true-lover's knots, a famous ship's company owned one that fell into evil ways, such as chewing tobacco, drinking grog, and challenging the best men in the ship to butting-matches. Indeed, he became a very rakish, swashbuckling, timber-shivering goat, who lived long and not well, and died after a prolonged debauch in a fit akin to what Jackie calls the "horrors."

Each day, by common consent, the men added a pint of water to the grog tub, and regularly in his turn Bill came for his tot. At seasons, when the master's mate of the spirit-room was disguised with over-much drink, the goat, like his two-legged messmates, doubled on the tub, securing a smuggled ration. He came to grief at last, for on an occasion when the grog was stiff to his liking he got well to windward of the tub, charged like a first boarder over a clear hammock rail at the mate and purser's clerk, took possession of the marine bar, and got so gloriously fuddled, so gloriously uncoo' fou, that he never recovered, but went overboard, in a middle watch, through sheer despair and misery.

Another goat was the prized shipmate of one of our vessels wrecked on the coast of India, fortunately in weather moderate enough to launch the boats and rafts. Each man was detailed for his place, and allowed to carry his bag of clothes or his hammock—no greater provision being needed, as the shore was close aboard. As the men slowly lowered themselves over the ship's side, the nanny-goat stood amongst the waiting ones, watching her master, the ship's cook, who stood irresolutely at the mast until his turn came. The cook was an old sailor, and his kit was very valuable to him—it was probably all he had in the world—but when his name was called, he dropped the bag, and touched his hat, and said:


"If you please, sir, I can't bear to leave Nanny behind.[Pg 873] I'll take her instead of the bag, for there isn't room for both." And then, appealingly, "Can I, sir?"

Nanny went over the side and landed with him, marched by him through the desert, and when relief came bleated her enjoyment in a way that repaid him for the sacrifice. For many years she browsed among the scrap-heaps and rare grass-plots of the Brooklyn Navy-Yard, where, surrounded by a numerous progeny, she doubtless told, with many butts, the yarn of the day when her cook and master saved her up Mozambique way.

I remember some pets of my sea-going days, cherished in life and mourned in death. One was a scraggy hen, of no known breed, raised in Polynesia, and given to one of our officers by a native woman in Nukahiva. Her abnormal thinness saved her from the steward's knife in the early days at sea; but finally all hopes of fattening her failed, and she was doomed for a ward-room ragout. One of the men, a queer character in his way, who had made a study of chickens, begged permission to keep her, and as we had fresh grub enough, Nell, as he called her, was saved. In a little while it was more dangerous than a Grain Coast fetich or a Hawaiian taboo to harm her, and Nell thrived and flourished.

She was carried through all the islands down to New Zealand and Australia, and back to Chili and Peru, improving daily, and displaying an intelligence that was marvellous. She was the queen-regnant of the coop, when she deigned to enter it, and was as jealous of her prerogatives as the King of Yvetot. Her cackle proclaimed the daylight, and then there was a row if Jemmy Ducks, guardian and feeder of sea poultry from time immemorial, didn't hobble aft to give her a morning ramble to leeward. The first of the corn and water was hers, and having the coigne of vantage beyond the coop bars, all the lesser chickens, save some favored chanticleer, suffered.

She displayed a passion for bananas and yams, had strong marked personal likes and dislikes, and though coquettish, manifested an affection that was not hampered by official rank, but ran by a descending scale of years—a white-haired quartermaster possessing more than a tender spot in her capacious heart, while the ship's boys were held in a contempt beyond expression. The men vowed by all the pet warrantees of their profession that she whistled and talked, and I know she was as good a storm-glass as any standard instrument on shipboard. Her favorite roost was over the ward-room skylight, her chosen time the dinner hour, and there she would perch, eying with respectful familiarity the senior lieutenant. Her interest gradually increased as the dessert stage approached, the appearance of the fruit awaking a cooing, beseeching cackle that invariably brought her the ripest banana or the juiciest mango.

She often kept the deck officers company in the middle watches, dozing to leeward of the mast until the bell struck, when she would straighten with an assertive air, as if she had never slept, and cooed a warning hail to the lookouts.

Poor Nell died during the Darien survey, from indigestion and old age, and when she was carried ashore for burial, in the neat coffin Chips, the Scotch carpenter's mate, had fashioned for her, we all felt that she had made a place in our lives and memories that some day deserved a record.

[Pg 874]




Drop Cap B

efore daybreak the next morning George came down stairs, Billy following with his portmanteau. Madam Washington, little Betty, and all the house-servants were up and dressed, but it was thought best not to waken the three little boys, who slept on comfortably in their trundle-beds. The candles were lighted, and for the last time for two months—which seems long to the young—George had family prayers. His mother then took the book from him and read the prayers for travellers about to start on a journey. She was quite composed, for no woman ever surpassed Madam Washington in self-control; but little Betty still wept, and would not leave George's side even while he ate his breakfast. There had been some talk of Betty's going to Mount Vernon also for Christmas; and George, remembering this, asked his mother, as a last favor, that she would let Betty meet him there, whence he could bring her home. Madam Washington agreed, and this quickly dried Betty's tears. Billy acted in a mysterious manner. Instead of being in vociferous distress, he was quiet, and even cheerful—so much so that a grin discovered itself on his countenance, which was promptly banished as soon as he saw Madam Washington's clear stern eyes travelling his way. George, feeling for poor Billy's loneliness, had determined to leave Rattler behind for company; but both Billy and Rattler were to cross the ferry with him, the one to bring the horse back, and the other for a last glimpse of his master.

The parting was not so mournful, therefore, as it promised to be. George went into the chamber where his three little brothers slept, who were not wide awake enough to feel much regret at his departure. The servants all came out, and he shook the hand of each, especially Uncle Jasper's, while Aunt Sukey embraced him. His mother kissed him and solemnly blessed him, and the procession started. George mounted his own horse, while Betty, seated pillion-wise behind him, was to ride with him to the ferry. Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey walked as far as the gate; and Billy, with Rattler at his heels and the portmanteau on his head, started off on a brisk run down the road.

"And it won't be long until Christmas," said George, turning in his saddle and pressing Betty's arm that was around him, as they galloped along briskly; "and if I have a chance of sending a letter, I will write you one. Think, Betty, you will have a letter all to yourself! You have never had one, I know."

"I never had a letter all to myself," answered Betty. For that was before the days of cheap postage, or postage at all as it is now, and letters were precious treasures.

"And it will be very fine at Mount Vernon—ladies, and even girls like you, wearing hoops, and dancing minuets every evening, while Black Tubal and Squirrel Tom play their fiddles."

"I like minuets well enough, but I like jigs and rigadoons better; and mother will not let me wear a hoop. But I am to have her white sarcenet silk made over for me. That I know."

"You must practise on the harpsichord very much, Betty; for at Mount Vernon there is one, and brother Laurence and his wife will want you to play before company."

Mistress Betty was not averse to showing off her great accomplishment, and received this very complaisantly. Altogether, what with the letter and the white sarcenet, she began to take a hopeful rather than a despairing view of the coming two months.


Arrived within sight of the ferry, George stopped, and lifted Betty off the horse. There was a foot-path across the fields to the house, which made it but a short walk back, which Betty could take alone. The brother and sister gave each other one long and silent embrace—for they loved each other very dearly—and then, without a word, Betty climbed over the fence and walked rapidly homeward, while George made for the ferry, where Billy and the portmanteau awaited him. One of the small boats and two ferrymen, Yellow Dick and Sambo, took him across the river. The horse was to be carried across for George to ride to the inn where Lord Fairfax awaited him, and Billy was to take the horse back again.

The flush of the dawn was on the river when the boat pushed off, and George thought he had never seen it lovelier; but like most healthy young creatures on pleasure bent, he had no sentimental regrets. The thing he minded most was leaving Billy, because he was afraid the boy would be in constant trouble until his return. But Billy seemed to take it so debonairly that George concluded the boy had at last got over his strong disinclination to work for or think of anybody except "Marse George."

The boat shot rapidly through the water, rowed by the stalwart ferrymen, and George was soon on the opposite shore. He bade good-by to Yellow Dick and Sambo, and mounting his horse, with Billy still trotting ahead with the portmanteau, rode off through the quaint old town to the tavern. It was a long low building at the corner of two straggling streets, and signs of the impending departure of a distinguished guest were not wanting. Captain Benson, a militia officer, kept the tavern, and, in honor of the Earl of Fairfax, had donned a rusty uniform, and was going back and forth between the stable and the kitchen, first looking after his lordship's breakfast, and then after his lordship's horses' breakfasts. He came bustling out when George rode up.

"Good-morning, Mr. Washington. 'Light, sir, 'light. I understand you are going to Greenway Court with his lordship. He is now at his breakfast. Will you please to walk in?"

"No, I thank you, sir," responded George. "If you will kindly mention to Lord Fairfax that I am here, you will oblige me."

"Certainly, sir, certainly," cried Captain Benson, disappearing in the house.

The travelling-chariot was out and the horses were being put to it under the coachman's superintendence, while old Lance was looking after the luggage. He came up to George, and giving him the military salute, asked for Mr. Washington's portmanteau. George could scarcely realize that he was going until he saw it safely stowed along with the Earl's under the box-seat. He then determined to send Billy off before the Earl made his appearance, for fear of a terrible commotion, after all, when Billy had to face the final parting.

"Now, Billy," said George to him, very earnestly, "you will not give my mother so much trouble as you used to, but do as you are told, and it will be better for you."

"Yes, suh," answered Billy, looking in George's eyes without winking.

"And here is a crown for you," said George, slipping one into Billy's hand—poor George had only a few crowns in a purse little Betty had knitted for him. "Now mount the horse and go home. Good-by, Rattler boy—all of Lord Fairfax's dogs, of every kind, shall not make me forget you."

Billy, without the smallest evidence of grief, but with rather a twinkle in his beady eyes, shook his young master's hand, jumped on the horse, and whistling to Rattler, all three of George's friends disappeared down the village street. George looked after them for some minutes, and sighed at what was before Billy, but comforted himself by recalling the boy's sensible behavior in the matter of the parting. In a few moments Lord Fairfax came out. George went up the steps to the porch, and making his best bow, tried to say how much he felt the Earl's kindness. True gratitude is not always glib, and was not with George, but the Earl saw from the boy's face the intense pleasure he experienced.

"You will sit with me, Mr. Washington," said Lord Fairfax,[Pg 875] "and when you are tired of the chariot I will have one of my outriders give you a horse, and have him ride the wheel-horse."

"Anything that your lordship pleases," was George's polite reply.

The Earl bade a dignified farewell to Captain Benson, who escorted him to the coach, and in a little while, with George by his side and the outriders ahead, they were jolting along towards the open country.

The Earl talked a little for the first hour or two, pointing out objects in the landscape, and telling interesting facts concerning them, which George had never known before. After awhile, though, he took down two books from a kind of shelf in the front of the coach, and handing one to George, said:

"Here is a volume of the Spectator. You will find both profit and pleasure in it. Thirty years ago the Spectator was the talk of the day. It ruled London clubs and drawing-rooms, and its influence was not unfelt in politics."

The other book, George saw, was an edition of Horace in the original. As soon as the Earl opened it he became absorbed in it.

Not so with George and the Spectator. Although fond of reading, and shrewd enough to see that the Earl would have but a low opinion of a boy who could not find resources in books, what was passing before him was too novel and interesting, to a boy who had been so little away from home, to divide his attention with anything. The highway was fairly good, but the four roans took the road at such a rattling gait that the heavy chariot rolled and bumped and lurched like a ship at sea. So well made was it, though, and so perfect the harness, that not a bolt, a nut, or a strap gave way. The country for the first thirty miles was not unlike what George was accustomed to, but his keen eyes saw some difference as they proceeded towards the northwest. The day was bright and beautiful, a sharper air succeeding the soft Indian-summer of the few days preceding. The cavalcade made a vast dust, clatter, and commotion. Every homestead they passed was aroused, and people, white and black, came running out to see the procession. George enjoyed the coach very much at first, but he soon began to wish that he were on the back of one of the stout nags that rode ahead, and determined, as soon as they stopped for dinner, to take advantage of Lord Fairfax's offer and to ask to ride.

They had started soon after sunrise, and twelve o'clock found them more than twenty-five miles from Fredericksburg. They stopped at a road-side tavern for dinner and some hours' rest. The tavern was large and comfortable, and boasted the luxury of a private room, where dinner was served to the Earl and his young guest. When the time came to start George made his request that he be allowed to ride a horse, and he was immediately given his choice of the four bays. "Do not feel obliged to regulate your pace by ours," said the Earl. "We are to sleep to-night at Farley's tavern, only twenty miles from here, and so you present yourself by sundown it is enough."

George mounted and rode off. He found the bay well rested by his two hours' halt, and ready for his work. He felt so much freer and happier on horseback than in the chariot that he could not help wishing he could make the rest of the journey in that way. He reached Farley's tavern some time before sundown, and his arrival giving advance notice of the Earl, everything was ready for him, even to a fine wild turkey roasting on the kitchen spit for supper. Like most of the road-houses of that day, Farley's was spacious and comfortable, though not luxurious. There was a private room there, too, with a roaring fire of hickory logs on the hearth, for the night had grown colder. At supper, when there was time to spare, old Lance produced a box, out of which he took some handsome table furniture and a pair of tall silver candlesticks. The supper was brought in smoking hot, Lance bearing aloft the wild turkey on a vast platter. He also brought forth a bottle of wine of superior vintage to anything in the tavern cellar.

The Earl narrowly watched George as they supped together, talking meanwhile. He rightly judged that table manners and deportment are a very fair test of one's training in the niceties of life, and was more than ever pleased the closer he observed the boy. First, George proved himself a skilful carver, and carved the turkey with the utmost dexterity. This was an accomplishment carefully taught him by his mother. Then, although he had the ravenous appetite of a fifteen-year-old boy after a long day's travel, he did not forget to be polite and attentive to the Earl, who trifled with his supper rather than ate it. The boy took one glass of wine, and declined having his glass refilled. His conversation was chiefly replies to questions, which were so apt that the Earl every moment liked his young guest better and better. George was quite unconscious of the deep attention with which Lord Fairfax observed him. He thought he had been asked to Greenway out of pure good-nature, and rather wished to keep in the background, so he should not make his host repent his hospitality. But a feeling far deeper than mere good-nature inspired the Earl. He felt a profound interest in the boy, and was enough of a judge of human nature to see that something remarkable might be expected of him.

Soon after supper occurred the first inelegance on George's part. In the midst of a sentence of the Earl's the boy suddenly and involuntarily gave a wide yawn. He colored furiously; but Lord Fairfax burst into one of his rare laughs, and calling Lance, directed him to show Mr. Washington to his room. George was perfectly willing to go; but when Lance, taking one of the tall candlesticks, showed him his room, his eyes suddenly came wide open, and the idea that Lance could tell him all about the siege of Bouchain, and marching and starving and fighting with Marlborough, drove the sleep from his eyes like the beating of a drum.

Reaching the room, Lance put the candle on the dressing-table, and standing at "attention," asked,

"Anything else, sir?"

"Yes," said George, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "How long will it be before my Lord Fairfax needs you?"

"About two hours, sir. His lordship sits late."

"Then—then—" continued George, with a little diffidence, "I wish you would tell me something about campaigning with the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, and all about the siege of Bouchain."

Lance's strong, weather-beaten face was suddenly illuminated with a light that George had not seen on it before, and his soldierly figure unconsciously took a more military pose.

"'Tis a long story, sir," he said, "and I was only a youngster and a private soldier; it is thirty-five years gone now."

"That's why I want you to tell it," replied George. "All the books are written by the officers, but never a word have I heard from a man in the ranks. I have read the life of the great Duke of Marlborough, and also of Prince Eugene, but it is a different thing to hear a man tell of the wars who has burned powder in them."

"True, sir. And the Duke of Marlborough was the greatest soldier of our time. We have the Duke of Cumberland now—a brave general, sir, and brother to the King—but, I warrant, had he been at the siege of Bouchain and in the Low Countries, he would have been licked worse than Marshal Villars."

"And Marshal Villars was a very skilful general too," said George, now thoroughly wide awake.

"Certainly, sir, he was. The French are but a mean-looking set of fellows, but how they can fight! And they have the best legs of any soldiers in Europe; and I am not so sure they have not the best heads. I fought 'em for twenty-five years—for I only quitted the service when I came with my Lord Fairfax to this new country—and I ought to know. My time of enlistment was up, the great Duke was dead, and there had been peace for so long that I thought soldiers in Europe had forgot to fight; so when his Lordship offered to bring me, I, who had neither wife nor child, nor father nor mother, nor brother nor sister, was glad to come with him. I had served in his Lordship's regiment, and he knew me, because I had once— But never mind that, sir."

"No," cried George. "Go on."

"Well, sir," said Lance, looking sheepish, "I shouldn't[Pg 876] have spoke of it, but the fact is that once when we were transporting powder from the magazine the wagon broke down and a case exploded. It was a miracle that all of us were not killed; three poor fellows were marked for life, and retired on two shillings a day for it. There were plenty of sparks lying around, and I put some of them out, and we saved the rest of the powder. That's all, sir."

"I understand," answered George, smiling. "It was a gallant thing, and no doubt you saved some lives as well as some powder."

"Maybe so, sir," said Lance, a dull red showing under the tan and sunburn of more than fifty years. "My Lord Fairfax made more of it than 'twas worth. So, when he had left the army, and I thought he had forgot me, he wrote and asked if I would come to America with him, and I came. Often, in the winter-time, the Earl does not see a white face for months, except mine, and then he forgets that we are master and man, and only remembers that he is my old commander and I am an old soldier. The Earl was a young cornet in 1710-12, and was with the armies in the Low Countries, where we had given Marshal Villars a trouncing, and he gave Prince Eugene a trouncing back, in exchange. So, sometimes, of the long winter nights, the Earl sends for me, and reads to me out of books about that last campaign of the Duke of Marlborough's, and says to me, 'Lance, how was this?' and, 'Lance, do you recollect that?' Being only a soldier, I never did know what we were marching and counter-marching for, nor so much as what we were fighting for; but when the Earl asks me what we were doing when we marched from Lens to Aire, or from Arleux to Bachuel, I can tell him all about the march—whether 'twas in fine or rainy weather, and how we got across the rivers, and what rations we had; we often did not have any, and the mounseers were not much better off. But, Mr. Washington, a Frenchman's stomach is not like an Englishman's. He can sup on soupe maigre and lentils after a hard day's march, and then get up and shake a leg while another fellow fiddles. But an Englishman has to have his beef, sir, and bacon and greens, and a good thick porridge with beans in it. I think all the nourishment the Frenchmen get goes into their legs, for they will march day and night for their Grand Monarque, as they call him, and are always ready to fight."

"I hope we shall not have to fight the French up in Pennsylvania to make them keep their boundaries," said George, after a while, in a tone which plainly meant that he hoped very much they would have to fight, and that he would be in the thick of the scrimmage. "And now tell me how the Duke of Marlborough looked in action, and all about Prince Eugene and the siege of Bouchain, until it is time to go to the Earl. But first sit down, for you have had a hard day's travel."

"Thank you, sir," said Lance, sitting down stiffly, and snuffing the candle with his fingers.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 877]



Author of "Snow-shoes and Sledges," "The Fur-Seal's Tooth," "The 'Mate' Series," "Flamingo Feather," etc.



Drop Cap I

t was late in the afternoon when the train reached Tacoma, and the logging boss discovered that the lads whom he had been especially instructed to bring with him had disappeared. As he could not imagine any reason why they should do such a thing, he was thoroughly bewildered, and waited about the station for some minutes, expecting them to turn up. He inquired of the train hands and other employees if they had seen anything of such boys as he described, but could gain no information concerning them.

The revenue officer was merely an acquaintance whom he had met by chance on the train, and who now waited a few minutes to see how this affair would turn out. Finally he said:

"Well, Linton, I'm sorry I can't help you, but I really must be getting along. I hope, though, you won't have any such trouble with your missing lads as we had in trying to catch two young rascals of smugglers, whom we lost right here in Tacoma last summer. We wanted them as witnesses, and thought we had our hands on them half a dozen times; but they finally gave us the slip, and the case in which they were expected to testify was dismissed for want of evidence. Good-by."

Thus left to his own devices, the boss could think of nothing better than to call upon the police to aid him in recovering the missing boys, and so powerful was the name of the President of the Northwest Lumber Company, which he did not hesitate to use, that within an hour every policeman in Tacoma was provided with their description, and instructed to capture them if possible. In the hope that they would speedily succeed in so doing, Mr. Linton delayed meeting the President, and telegraphed that he could not reach the hotel to which he had been directed to bring the boys before eight o'clock that evening.

In the mean time Alaric and Bonny, without an idea of the stir their disappearance had created throughout the city, were snugly ensconced in an empty freight car that stood within a hundred yards of the railway station. They had dropped from the rear end of their train when it began to slow down, and slipped into the freight car as a place of temporary concealment while they discussed plans.

"We've got to get out of this town in a hurry, that's certain," said Alaric, "and I propose that we make a start for San Francisco. You know, I told you that was my home, and I still have some friends there, who, I believe, will help us. The only thing is that I don't see how we can travel so far without any money."

"That's easy enough," replied Bonny, "and I would guarantee to land you there in good shape inside of a week. What worries me, though, is the idea of going off and leaving all the money that is due us here. Just think! there's thirty dollars owing to me as a hump-durgin driver, thirty more as interpreter, and fully as much as that for being a smuggler—nearly one hundred dollars in all. That's[Pg 878] a terrible lot of money, Rick Dale, and you know it as well as I do."

"Yes," replied Alaric; "if we had it now, we'd be all right. But I'll tell you, Bonny, what I'll do. If you will get me to San Francisco inside of a week, I promise that you shall have one hundred dollars the day we arrive."

"I'll do it!" cried Bonny. "I know you are joking, of course, but I'll do it just to see how you'll manage to crawl out of your bargain when we get there. You mustn't expect to travel in a private car, though, with a French cook, and three square meals a day thrown in."

"Yes, I do," laughed Alaric, "for I never travelled any other way."

"No, I know you haven't, any more'n I have; but just for a change, I think we'd better try freight cars, riding on trucks, and perhaps once in a while in a caboose, for this trip, with meals whenever we can catch 'em. We'll get there, though; I promise you that. Hello! I mustn't lose that ball. We may want to have a game on the road."

This last remark was called forth by Alaric's baseball, which, becoming uncomfortably bulgy in Bonny's pocket as he sat on the car floor, he had taken out, and had been tossing from hand to hand as he talked. At length it slipped from him, rolled across the car, and out of the open door.

Bonny sprang after it, tossed it in to Alaric, and was about to clamber back into the car, when, through the gathering gloom, he spied a familiar figure standing in the glare of one of the station lights.

"Wait here a few minutes, Rick," he said, "while I go and find out when our train starts."

With this he darted up the track, and a moment later advanced, with a smile of recognition and extended hand, toward the stranger whom he had so pitied in the logging camp the day before. The man still wore a shabby suit, and the hat Bonny had given to him. He started at sight of the lad, and exclaimed:

"How came you here so soon? I thought you weren't due until eight o'clock?"

"How did you know we were coming at all?" asked Bonny, in amazement.

"Oh, that's a secret," laughed the other, instantly recovering his self-possession, and assuming his manner of the day before. "We tramps have a way of finding out things, you know."

"Yes, I've always heard so," replied Bonny, "and that's one reason why I'm so glad to meet you again. I thought maybe you could help us."

"Us?" repeated the stranger. "Who is with you?"

"Only my chum, the other hump-durgin driver, you know."

"You mean Richard Dale?"

"Yes—only his name isn't Richard, but Alaric. I say, though, would you mind stepping over in the shadow, where we won't be interrupted?"

"Certainly not," replied the other, with a quiet chuckle. "I expect it will be better, for I'm not anxious to be recognized myself just now."

When they had reached what Bonny considered a safe place, he continued:

"You see, it's this way. My chum and I did a little business in the smuggling line last summer, and got chased for it by the 'beaks.'"

"Just like 'em," growled the other.

"Yes," said Bonny, wrathfully. "We hadn't really done anything wrong, you know; but they made us skip 'round lively, and came mighty near catching us, too. We gave 'em the slip, though, and thought the whole thing had blown over, till to-day, when they got after us again."

"Who did?"

"The revenue fellows. You see, the boss up at camp is one of 'em, and we suspicioned something was wrong as soon as he told us we were wanted in Tacoma. We were certain of it when we saw another revenue man, one of the cutter's officers, join him on the train, and so we just gave them the slip again, and have been hiding ever since over in that freight car."

"Indeed!" remarked the stranger, interestedly. "And what do you propose to do next?"

"That's what I'm coming to, and what we want you to help us about. You see, my chum's folks live in San Francisco, and I rather think he ran away from 'em, though he hasn't ever said so. Anyhow, he wants to get back there, and as we haven't any money, we've got to beat our way, so I thought maybe you could put us up to the racket, or, at any rate, tell us when the first south-bound freight would pull out. Of course, you understand, we've got to start as quick as we can, for it isn't safe for us to be seen around here."

"Of course not," agreed the stranger, with another chuckle; for the whole affair seemed to amuse him greatly. "But what are you going to do for food? You'll be apt to get hungry before long."

"I am already," acknowledged Bonny; "and that was another thing I was going to ask you about. I thought maybe you wouldn't mind giving us some pointers from your own experience in picking up your three little square meals a day when you were on the road."

At this point the stranger burst into what began like uncontrollable laughter, but which proved to be only a severe fit of coughing. When it was over he said, "Your name is Bonny Brooks, isn't it?"

"Yes; but don't speak so loud."

"All right, I won't. But, Bonny Brooks, you were mighty kind to me yesterday—kinder than any one else has been for a long time. By-the-way, did you bring my old hat with you?"

"No, of course not."

"No matter. I said I would redeem it, and I am going to do so by putting you on to a mighty soft snap. I'm bound to the southward myself, and, as it happens, there is a sort of a boarding-car going to pull out of here for somewhere down the line in about half an hour. It is in charge of the cook, and as he and I are on what you might call extra good terms, he is going to let me ride with him as far as he goes. There won't be a soul on board but him and me, unless I can persuade him to let you two boys come along with us. What do you say?"

"I say you are a trump, and if you'll only work that racket for us, I'll share half the money with you that I'm to get from Rick as soon as we reach San Francisco."

"Oh ho! He is to give you money, is he?"

"Yes; that is, he has promised me one hundred dollars to make up for the wages I leave behind, if I'll only get him there."

For the next half-hour that shabbily attired stranger was the busiest man in Tacoma, and he kept a great many other people busy at the same time. Finally, just as the boys were beginning to think he had forgotten them, he appeared at the door of the freight car, and said, in a loud whisper: "Come, quick. I think they are after you."

As the boys scrambled out, he started on a run toward a single car that, with an engine attached, stood on a siding in the darkest corner of the railroad yard. Here he hurriedly whispered to them to crouch low on its rear platform until it started, when the cook would open the door. Then he disappeared.

In another moment the car began to move, and directly afterward the door was opened. There seemed to be no light in the interior, and, without seeing any one, the boys heard a strange voice, evidently that of a negro, bidding them come in out of the cold.

They entered the car, Alaric going first, and were led through a narrow passage into what was evidently a large compartment. They heard their guide retreating through the passage, and were beginning to feel rather uneasy, when suddenly they were surrounded and dazzled by a great flood of electric light.




As the brilliant light flooded the place where the boys stood, they were for a minute blinded by its radiance. Bonny was bewildered and frightened, and even Alaric was greatly startled. Gradually, as their eyes grew accustomed to the brightness, they became aware of a single figure standing[Pg 879] before them, and regarding them curiously. Alaric looked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Then he sprang forward with a great shout.

"Dad! you dear old dad! I never was so glad to see any one in my life!"

"Rick! you young rascal!" cried Amos Todd. "How could you play your old father such a trick? Never mind, though; you've won your game, and at the same time made me the very happiest and proudest man on the coast this night. Stand there, sir, and let me have a good look at you."

With this the proud father held his stalwart son off at arm's-length and gazed at him with loving admiration.

"The very neatest trick I ever heard of—the most impudent, and the most successful," he murmured. "But don't you ever be guilty of such a thing again, you young smuggler."

"Indeed I won't, dad, for I know I shall never have any reason or desire to repeat it," replied Alaric, promptly, his voice trembling with joyful excitement. "But, dad, you mustn't forget Bonny; for whatever I have gained or learned this past summer, I owe to him."

"God bless the lad! Indeed I will never forget what he has done both for you and for me," cried Amos Todd, stepping forward, and seizing Bonny's hand in a grasp that made him wince.

Poor bewildered Bonny, standing amid the glitter of silver and plate-glass, surrounded by furnishings of such luxurious character as he had never imagined could exist in real life, vaguely wondered whether he were under the spell of some beautiful enchantment or merely dreaming. There must be some reality to it all, though, for the stranger in the shabby garments, whom he had befriended only the day before, and still wearing the hat he had given him, was surely holding his hand and saying very pleasant things. But who could he be? He certainly was not acting like a tramp, or one who was greatly in need of charity.

Alaric came to the puzzled lad's relief. "He is my father, Mr. Amos Todd," he cried. "And, Bonny, you will forgive me, won't you, for not telling you before? You see, I was afraid to let even you know that I was the son of a rich man, because I wanted you to like me for myself alone."

"You know I do, Rick Dale! You know I do!" exclaimed Bonny, impulsively, finding his voice at last. "But, Rick," he added, almost in a whisper, "are you sure there isn't any mistake about it all? Amos Todd, you know, is President of the Northwest Company, and the richest man on the coast. They do say he is a millionaire."

"It's all right, Bonny. I expect he is a millionaire," answered Alaric, joyously. "But we won't lay it up against him, will we? And we'll try not to think any the less of him for it. I didn't know he was President of the Northwest Company, though. Are you, dad?"

"I believe I am," laughed Amos Todd. "And I certainly have cause to be grateful that I hold the office, for it was while making my official inspection of the camps yesterday that I ran across you boys. I didn't know you, though, Rick—'pon my word, I didn't. You bore a faint resemblance to my little 'Allie' as you came riding those logs down the skid-road, but I knew you couldn't be he, for I was certain that he was on the other side of the world by this time. And so you shook the Sontaggs, and let them run away from you. It was wrong, Rick, very wrong, but I don't blame you—not one bit, I don't. I'd have done the same thing myself."

"But, dad, how did you come to find me out? I don't understand it at all."

"By your own letter to Esther, lad. She forwarded it to me in France; but I had gone when it reached there, and so it was sent to San Francisco. I left Margaret on the other side for the winter, and came back by way of Montreal and the Canadian Pacific, intending to stop here and inspect the lumber camps on my way home. I telegraphed John to send this car and all my mail up here, and they came last night. As soon as I read your letter I felt pretty certain that it was you whom I had seen doing the circus act on those logs. I wasn't quite sure, though, and didn't want to make any mistake, so I just sent word to Linton to fetch you in, that I might take a good look at you."

"So it was you who sent for us?"

"Certainly. And you thought it was the revenue officers, and so decided to give 'em the slip, and beat your way home to claim protection of your old dad—eh, you rascal? And Bonny here took me for a fellow-tramp who could put him on to the racket. Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! Oh my! I shall die of laughing yet at thinking of it. It was all the hat, though, wasn't it, Bonny? I hated to cut it up, for I only bought it in Paris the other day, and hadn't another with me; but I wanted to inspect the camp without being known, and it was the only disguise I could think of. But, boys, what do you say to supper? If you are as hungry as I am, you must be more than ready for it."

Indeed they were ready for supper, and when they sat down to that daintily served meal in the exquisitely appointed dining-room of President Todd's own private car, Bonny at last realized why Alaric had ordered that strange lot of supplies for the sloop Fancy.

After supper they returned to the saloon, where Amos Todd lighted a cigar, and listened to the wonderful story of trial and triumph, privation and strange vicissitude, that had transformed his pale-faced weakling into the strong, handsome, self-reliant youth upon whom he now gazed so proudly. When the long story was ended, he asked, quietly,

"How much have you earned by your summer's work, son; and what have you to show for it?"

"If you mean in money, dad, not one cent; and all I have to show, besides what you've already noticed, is this." Here Alaric held out a dilapidated baseball, at which his father gazed curiously. "With that ball," continued Alaric, "I took my first lesson in being a boy, and it has led me on from one thing to another ever since, until finally, this very evening, it brought me back to you. So, dad, I should say that it stood for my whole summer's work."

"I am thankful, Rick, that you haven't earned any money, and that through bitter want of it you have learned its value," said Amos Todd. "I am thankful, too, that there is still one thing for which you have to come to your old dad. More than all am I thankful for what you have gained without his help, or, rather, in spite of him; and had I known last spring what that baseball was to do for you, I would gladly have paid a million of dollars for it."

"You may have it now, dad, for one hundred, which is just the amount I owe Bonny."

"Done!" cried Amos Todd; and thus he came into possession of the well-worn baseball that, set in a plate of silver and enclosed in a superb frame, hung above his private desk for many years afterwards.

Here our story properly ends, but we cannot help telling of two or three things that happened soon after the disappearance of our hump-durgin boys from camp No. 10, and as a direct result of their having lived there. To begin with, Mr. Linton felt himself so insulted by the manner in which President Todd made his inspection that he resigned his position, and, on the recommendation of Alaric, Buck Raulet was given his place. On the strength of this promotion the big "faller" went East to marry the girl of his choice, and both Alaric and Bonny were present at the wedding.

Through the liberality of Amos Todd, the ex-hump-durgin boys were enabled to present the camp with their shack, converted into a neat little library building and filled with carefully selected books, in which the occupants of the camp are greatly pleased to discover many of the tales already told to them by Rick Dale.

A certain famous and badly used up hat, carefully removed from the camp, belongs to Bonny Brooks, and adorns a wall in one of a beautiful suite of rooms that he and Alaric occupy together at Harvard. Here Alaric is taking an academic course, while Bonny, whom Amos Todd regards almost as an own son, is sturdily working his way through the mathematical and chemical labyrinths of the Lawrence Scientific School. They entered the university just one year after completing their studies as hump-durgin boys;[Pg 880] and while they were still Freshmen, the splendid baseball-player, who, though only a Sophomore, was captain of the 'varsity nine, happened to be badly in need of a catcher.

"I can tell you of one who can't be beat this side of the Rocky Mountains," suggested his classmate and pitcher, Dave Carncross.

"Who is he?"

"Rick Todd, a Freshman."

"Son of Amos Todd, your San Francisco millionaire?"


"Then I don't want him. Millionaires' sons are no good."

"This one is, though," insisted Carncross; "and I ought to know, for I taught him to catch his first ball. You just come over to Soldiers' Field this afternoon and size him up."

The captain needed a first-class man behind the bat so badly that, in spite of his prejudices, he consented to do as his pitcher desired. He was amazed, delighted, and enthusiastic. Never had he seen such an exhibition of ball-catching as was given by that Freshman. Finally he could contain himself no longer, and rushing up to his classmate, he exclaimed:

"Carncross, I tell you he's a wonder! Introduce me at once."

"Rick Todd," said Dave Carncross, "permit me to present you to my friend Phil Ryder, captain of the 'varsity nine."

As the two lads grasped each other's hands, there came a flash of recognition into each face, and both remembered where they had met each other last.

the end.




Drop Cap T

he name of Queen Elizabeth is dear to loyal English hearts, and her reign is named to-day as second only to that of the gentle and gracious Victoria. She was strong and wise, ready to sacrifice small things for a great end, and all things for the good of her subjects. The many portraits of her I have seen are much like the pictures of George Eliot: red hair, a pale high forehead, keen dark eyes, a nose hooked like the beak of an eagle, sharp chin. Such is not the face to win admiration, much less to waken love; yet, when nearly seventy—an age which no art can conceal—she listened to the soft flatteries of her courtiers as tributes to her beauty which they could not repress. When one shaded his eyes at her approach, as though the lustre of her face dazzled his sight like the sun, and said "he could not behold it with a fixed eye," she was delighted with the foolish speech, as a young girl with the roses of her first ball. One can hardly keep from laughing at the idea of high-born youths of twenty-five or thirty hanging breathless on her withered smiles and pretending worship of her charms. Such was her daily portion from the shining train of courtiers surrounding her, and she never tired of it. One said of her red hair: "A poet, madam, might call it a golden web wrought by Minerva; but to my thinking it was paler than even the purest gold—more like the last parting sunbeam of the softest day of spring."

The great ruler never learned to rule her own spirit. She swore at her maids of honor, and boxed the ears of the Lord-Lieutenant for appearing before her in muddy boots, and sent him in disgrace to the Tower. She vowed that England was her husband, whom she loved with a perfect love, and she would have none other; she had wedded herself to the kingdom at the coronation by the ring then placed upon her finger: in remembrance thereof she wished engraved on her tombstone these words: "Here lies Elizabeth, who lived and died a Maiden Queen."

There was another ring, of which I shall presently tell, more precious than that which went with the crown, because life and death were in its keeping.

It was her custom to select from her courtiers one on whom she lavished a fickle love and transient favor. When the court was beginning to tire of Raleigh, Leicester, a former favorite, introduced his step-son, Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex, in hope of weakening the influence of Raleigh. Essex was a spirited boy of seventeen, fresh from Oxford, with handsome face and graceful mien. Clad in the pictorial dress of the period, wearing crest and plume, badges and ribbons of honor, he was a figure to claim the glance of a king as he greeted his sovereign, and it is not strange that the susceptible virgin felt the fascination of such a presence, although she was then fifty years old.

Before he was twenty he fought gallantly with the English army in Holland, and was foremost in the battle of Zütphen, where Sir Philip Sidney fell. On his return to court the Queen's fancy deepened into dotage, and, fond and foolish, she would hardly let him quit her presence. This became so irksome that he ran off to the war in Spain, and refused to return when she sent an officer after him. When he was pleased to come back she forgave all, and redoubled her favors in hope of keeping the wanderer; but in a short time he again disappeared, and secretly married the widow of Sir Philip Sidney. The Queen could never endure the marriage of her courtiers, still less that of a favorite. She banished him; but he reappeared in a few months, and only regained the Queen's grace by neglecting his fair, sweet wife, who lived in seclusion in the country while he shone at court.

When Essex was about twenty-nine years old he set out with the royal army for Cadiz, and at parting Elizabeth[Pg 881] gave him a ring, telling him, "whatever crimes his enemies might accuse him of, or whatever offences he may have committed against her, if he sent it to her she would forgive him." The precious gift was probably a true-love-knot, set with a gem that means unchanging; for the time was rich with sentiment in trinkets, and we may be sure the compact was sealed with vows and kisses on the proffered hand. He returned from Spain unsuccessful, and although the Queen still petted him, from this time on they quarrelled. Essex was haughty and insolent; and she, violent and exacting with him, yet forgiving in the end.

When she decided to appoint a Lord-Deputy for Ireland, then in a state of revolt, she called to her private room three of her court officers—Cecil, the Clerk of the Seal, and Essex. He expected the appointment, but failed to get it, spoke angrily to the Queen, and turned his back on her. She boxed his ears, and told him to "go and be hanged." So furious was he that his hand reached for his short sword, but Cecil stepped between them; and Essex said, with an oath, "that he would not have taken that blow from King Henry, her father, and it was an indignity he neither could nor would endure from any one." Then muttering something about "a king in petticoats," he rushed madly from her presence. In any one else such conduct would have been death.

Again the Earl disappeared from court, and he and Elizabeth never were good friends afterwards, although a peace was patched up, and she made him Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. His enemies persuaded her that the Lord-Lieutenant wanted to make himself King of Ireland; spies were sent to watch him, but one of them was kind enough to warn Essex of his danger. With his usual rashness, on learning this he at once returned to London, without permission of the Queen—an act in itself treason—and finding court adjourned to "Nonesuch" in the country, he rode at speed through mud and mire to anticipate his enemy, Lord Gray, who had heard of his arrival, and started in haste to give his version of the affair before Essex could reach her. Gray had been closeted with the Queen's councillors a half-hour when he arrived. Hearing this, Essex lost all sense of propriety, hurried unannounced to the Queen's apartments, and not finding her in the outer reception-room, pushed on into her private bedroom. Her maid was combing her hair, which, gray and thin, was hanging about her bony shoulders—for she had not yet made choice of her eighty wigs of many colors for the day—nor were her paint and powder on, and patches pasted over the wrinkled cheek.

He threw himself at her feet, covered her hand with kisses, poured out his story with oaths of fidelity, vowing that he had ever borne in his heart the picture of her beauty, completely winning the "most sweet Queen" to him. He retired to dress, and in an hour was recalled to an audience, and was again well received. But by night the fitful maiden had changed her mind, influenced by the Cecil faction, and perhaps by thinking how ugly she must have looked in the morning. She was then sixty-eight years old, and as vain as in youth. When he again offered respectful homage she received him with great sternness, and commanded him to confine himself in his apartments until sent for to appear before her council the following day. His ever-active enemy Cecil brought against him many charges—not least, "his over-bold going to her Majesty's presence in her bedchamber."


The Queen then ordered him to be held a prisoner at York House, where he remained many months. He pretended to be sick—a trick he had to gain forgiveness when his royal mistress was out of humor; but it did not move her this time, although it soon became reality. His wife was not permitted to visit him, nor even write to him. He had only one true friend at court, the gentle Lady Scroope, his cousin, and sister of the Countess of Nottingham. She wore mourning for him, and endured bad treatment from Elizabeth on his account, but stood faithful to the end.

Yet the lovesick woman could not entirely banish thought of her proud favorite, although her mind was constantly filled with suspicions by Cecil and Raleigh. To forget him she had bear-baitings, jousts at the ring, and a splendid tourney in honor of her coronation day. These frivolities filled the weeks that poor Essex passed alone and wretched in one room at York House. Elizabeth would not listen to the prayers of his sisters and Lady Scroope for his release, but she accepted the costly presents they offered, among them a gown worth £500 (about $2500). Essex finally fell so ill that his life was despaired of. On hearing his pitiable state the Queen wept, and sent him her own physician, and had prayers read for him in all the churches of London, but something changed her mood again, and she was harsher than ever. Not until March 16, 1600, did she allow him to go to his own home, Essex House on the river and the Fleet, first sending away his family and all the servants but two. Essex was kept there prisoner for seventeen weeks, when the Queen removed his keeper and allowed him to become a prisoner on parole.

During this time he was examined before a commission of his enemies, appointed for the purpose, and was treated most cruelly. They let him stand, occasionally leaning for rest against a cupboard, from nine in the morning till[Pg 882] eight at night; and when accused of treason, he replied:

"I should do God and mine own conscience wrong if I do not justify myself as an honest man. This hand shall pull out this heart when any disloyal thought shall enter it."

The following August his tyrant again summoned him to York House, where he was told that her Majesty was pleased to give him his liberty, but he must not enter her presence nor come to court. Though free, he was constantly spied upon. Through the remainder of the summer his friends appealed to the Queen to restore him to favor. Essex wrote her imploring letters, that brought no answer. He brooded over his fall and loss of power, until he grew desperate, and gathered about him at Essex House all the disaffected people of London, among them a host of Puritans. They formed many wild schemes—at one time a plan to capture the Tower and palace; at another, to march to the court and compel Essex's enemies to give him a hearing. The Queen remained cold and silent. He talked of her and of his own wrongs, and said "she was an old woman crooked both in body and in mind." Sir Walter Raleigh insisted that this speech sealed his doom; for spies reported everything he said and did.

His last piece of folly was to raise a riot one morning in the streets of London with three hundred followers, declaring that "the kingdom was sold to Spain by Cecil and Raleigh." The mob was quickly dispersed, and Essex slipped back to his house alone in a small boat. He had shut up as prisoners there some officers of the court who had been sent to talk with him and bring him to reason. He had hoped to secure his own safety by giving these as hostages, but Sir Ferdinando Georges, one of his own men, had liberated them, and as he had already been proclaimed traitor, there was nothing to be done but to barricade the house. It was surrounded by the Queen's troops, and he held out till 10 o'clock at night, and only surrendered then because "he was sore vexed with the tears and incessant screams of the ladies." He was confined that night in Lambeth Palace, and on Monday, February 9, 1601, together with his followers, was taken to the Tower. When the boat glided through the Traitors' Gate beneath St. Thomas's Tower, he must have realized the hopelessness of his case, for those who went in by that low dark tunnel rarely came out again.

The apartment to which he was committed was only nineteen feet in diameter, the walls eleven feet thick, and, in memory of the chivalric Earl, it is to this day called Devereux Tower. When he passed the ponderous door his brightness of soul was yet undimmed, but a short while in that chill lone chamber would subdue it to silence if not to resignation. Love of life cannot long endure in such a prison, and rapid changes in the career of soldier, statesman, courtier, had taught him the uncertainty of fortune which hangs on the caprice of king or queen.

On the 19th of the same month he and Southampton were brought to trial, and, as usual, he was unfairly treated. Even Lord Bacon, to whom he had given an estate, and who was not of the Queen's counsels, appeared against him. One lawyer compared him to a crocodile; another called him an atheist and papist, when it was well known he was a Puritan. The trial lasted from nine o'clock in the morning to six o'clock in the evening. He was sentenced to death, and on hearing it, said: "I am not a whit dismayed to receive this doom. Death is welcome to me as life. Let my poor quarters, which have done her Majesty true service in divers parts of the world, be sacrificed and disposed of at her pleasure."

As he marched through the streets to the Tower, with the edge of the headsman's axe carried toward him—the custom when prisoners were condemned to die—he walked swiftly, with his head hanging down, and made no answers to persons who frequently spoke to him from the crowds. He was allowed six more days to prepare for death. It is said that Elizabeth signed his death-warrant firmly, and with even more than the customary flourishes, but she wept and hesitated about appointing the execution.


Meanwhile where was the gay gold ring given to him in the bloom of his youth, as he marched to Spain with the beauty of banners and roll of drums, under no shadow deeper than the folds of the royal standard? Many times Essex must have looked at the amulet, and in the long, slow waiting sickened for gracious message or friendly sign, but none came. And Elizabeth, too, must have wondered what had become of the token; and why did not he, so wildly loved and deeply mourned, send the pledge and claim the pardon?

Early one morning while this time was passing, not knowing whom to trust, he chanced to see from his window, which overlooked the street, a lad with an honest, open face, which so pleased him it won his confidence. He managed to throw down a small bribe and the ring, and told him to take it to his good cousin Lady Scroope, and she would send it to the Queen. The boy took the keepsake, but gave it into the hand of the wife of one of Essex's worst enemies, the Countess of Nottingham, who passed it to her husband.


How terrible must have been the suspense of Essex, for, in spite of everything, he trusted the word of his sovereign. The day broke that was to see his execution. Still no sign of pardon or reprieve. Calmly he prepared for death, and dressed with his usual care and elegance. He wore a long black cloak of wrought velvet over a satin suit, which consisted of a doublet of brocade with ruffles of lace in the sleeves, a silken scarf confining it at the waist, short breeches of satin, silken hose, and leather buskins. Usually with this costume a jewelled sword was worn, and an immense ruff of lace around the neck. On this occasion both were omitted. His picture shows a well-turned head, with dark curling hair, straight nose, brown eyes, a mustache, and the pointed beard affected at that period.

Essex had begged as a last privilege that he might have a private execution. The poor petition was granted, and he was permitted to suffer death on Tower Hill. The Earl was then in his summer prime—only thirty-three years of age. Valor, beauty, fortune had been his from birth, but failed to avert his fate. The place of execution was hallowed by the best blood of England, and there two fair queens had laid their young heads on the block to satisfy the brutal rage of Elizabeth's father.

Ash-Wednesday, February 25, 1601, at 8 o'clock in the morning, he was led to the fatal block. As he knelt to place his head in position he showed no fear, and three strokes of the axe, the first one mortal, severed his head from his body. They were buried in the Tower Chapel, though some believed the Queen kept the skull in her own private room. Notwithstanding it was a cold gloomy day, one hundred gentlemen sat near the scaffold, and Sir Walter Raleigh secretly watched the execution from a window of the armory, little thinking that thirteen years later he would meet the same fate in the same place. During this tragedy Queen Elizabeth amused herself playing on the spinet. But there came an hour of repentance bitter as death.

About two years afterward the Countess of Nottingham was taken with an illness, which proved her last. She begged to see the Queen; she could not die in peace without it. Elizabeth came, and when the Countess confessed having kept the ring of Essex, the Queen wept, and then flew into a fury, and shook the dying woman in her bed, crying, "God may forgive you, but I never can!"

This disclosure affected her so she could neither sleep nor eat. The dreadful secret pressed on her soul, and the old love and longing came back with remorse for tenderness turned to hate.

Dreams of Devereux in his morning beauty kneeling at her feet must have risen to her sight. The hand whose touch had made her pulses quicken, that never drew sword except for England's glory, was laid low; the brilliant nobleman—a headless corpse—was buried among criminals in Tower Chapel, when a word from her would have saved him.

Who may tell her anguish when she lay on the palace floor ten days and nights, refusing to be comforted, haunted by memories of crime unpardonable, till death came to close the scene?

[Pg 883]



"I tell you, Cousin Bess, there is everything in the way garden-beds are arranged. There is that old couple who live next door, so old they have to just hobble out to their flowers, and what do you suppose they've done?"

"I have no idea, but if I may judge from your tone, something very queer," and Cousin Bess laughed lightly, while she laid the book she had been reading on the table, and then looked up at Charlie.

"Well, around each bed they've put white stones, just about the size of this," and the boy picked up an ostrich egg, "and so close that one stone touches the other."

"Have you never seen that before?"

"Never, Cousin Bess; but it makes their yard look fine; and as for ours—well, the contrast is simply awful. I've come to you for points. Our ramshackle fence and half-rotten flower-bed boards are too much. I am ashamed, and simply will not let those two old people outstrip me. I'm bound to go right ahead and even up with them if I can."

And Cousin Bess looked into the boy's eager face before she replied: "That's a good resolution. I am glad to hear you say so." And then followed the words:

"'Go make thy garden fair as thou canst;
Thou workest never alone;
Perchance he whose plot is next to thine
Will see it, and mend his own.'

"But pardon my moralizing. I know, Charlie, you are impatient to get to work. Let's begin with the fence. Cover that with wild-cucumber vine."

"Plant it all around?"

"Oh no. Sow the seed, and almost before you will know it the fence will be a mass of green foliage. And a few days later buds and blossoms will appear, and the yard will be perfumed with sweet-scented flowers.

"Dig up your rotten bed-boards and burn them. Sow a narrow line of sweet-alyssum along the edge. It is of easy culture, and will produce a similar effect to your neighbor's white stones. Should you prefer a complete change, however, edge your beds with low-growing coleus plants. They come in many colors. I would advise bronze.

"You should also group your plants, putting the lilies all together, the pansies, the pinks, and so on. The old-time method of having a patch here, a patch there, divided by other flowers, is not nearly as effective as to mass them.

"The most unique, and also the most beautiful, small garden I ever saw was at Cape Vincent. The owners were French people, and it was altogether of blossoms. There was not a blade of grass nor a foot-path visible anywhere. Nevertheless, there were spaces through which a single individual might walk; but these were wellnigh hidden by the nodding flowers. It was a perfect wilderness of bloom, and the air was laden with sweetness.

"You may have just such a garden, and it will be a beautiful enchantment. But you must be careful about blending complementary colors, and also to place your tall and short plants effectively."


(As told in Letters from different Members of Willie's Family.)



From Willie's Sister to Willie's Mother.

Washingtonville, July 4.

MY DEAREST MAMMA,—Something awful has happened. Willie has been burned pretty nearly all over, I guess. You know, this is the Fourth of July, and we have had such a time! You can't know how nervous I am, and I hope you will never go away again and leave me to look after Willie when there is going to be a Fourth of July. He simply would not mind one thing I said to him, just because he is a year and a half older than I am—the idea!—when he knows I have better judgment than he has. Boys never have any judgment, anyhow, on Fourth of July—that's been my experience. Why, Willie's judgment was worse than Carlo's—he knew enough to be scared, and Willie didn't. The poor dog just sat in the wood-shed all day and barked, and to-night he is so hoarse that I am going to put a flannel around his neck. And poor darling Miss Mouser, I don't know where she is. I would be very much alarmed about her if I hadn't seen two big yellow lights under the barn, which I hope and trust were her eyes.

Of course Aunt Lou helped me to look after Willie a good deal, but I'm very sorry to tell you that he didn't always mind her. As for papa, I think he was 'most as bad as Willie. Not that he let off fire-crackers in his hat, or had any horrid fireworks go off in his pocket, but he would just let Willie go on awfully, and never say a word to him. But he was frightened when Willie got burned. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you about that. I don't know how it happened hardly, but there was a lot of boys and a bushel of fire-crackers and torpedoes and fireworks and everything, and it all went off together, and Willie was right down in it. I was dreadfully frightened, and Aunt Lou screamed, and Carlo barked, and papa just took Willie by the collar and lifted him right out. We had two doctors. Harry Austin got burned too, half an hour later, but I believe they had only one doctor. I must stop and go and look after Miss Mouser.

Ever your loving little Mollie.


From Willie's Aunt Lou to Willie's Mother.

Washingtonville, July 4.

My Dear Sister,—I fear I cannot hold a pen to write, I am so nervous after all we have gone through with to-day. Willie began to celebrate at three o'clock this morning, and did not pause till five this afternoon, when there came near being a terrible accident. I do not know how it came about, but he was considerably, though not seriously, burned. I had been scolding him all day for his noise, but when he was brought in you may be sure I forgave him all. Poor little darling, I fear it hurt him a good deal. He is in the large bed, with three pillows, and I have been with him until just now. I must close, as he is asking for matches, and I must see that he does not get them. Do not be alarmed, as we shall take the best care of him. Both Dr. Barlow and Dr. Strowbridge say that in a day or two he will be well. There! he must have got the matches, as a fire-cracker has gone off under the bed. I must stop. The boy will drive me mad.

Your sister, Louise.


From Willie's Father to Willie's Mother.

My Dear Wife,—Let us be thankful to-night that we still have our darling Willie. Louise and Mollie have written you of the accident. Both doctors say he will soon be well. There was a large box full of explosives, and just as they went off Willie sat down in the box. Poor little fellow, it was a somewhat dismal ending for his day's sport—though I suspect that it has not yet wholly ended, as I hear explosions in the bedroom. I gave him some matches—he seemed so lonesome—but I did not know that he had any crackers. He must have induced Bridget to give him some. I must hurry down, or I shall have to send for the fire company instead of the doctor. As ever,

Your loving Husband.

[Pg 884]



From Willie himself to his Mother.

Washingtonville, July 4.

Dear Ma,—I s'pose Sis and Aunt Lou and Pa have been writing you a lot of stuff about it all, but they get scared so easy. It wasn't anything. A lot of crackers and things went off in a box, but nobody wouldn't have paid any attention to it if I hadn't happened to be down in the box on my back. I got out all right. Pa helped a little. I thought he wasn't going to mind, but just because my clothes was smouldering, and maybe blazing a little in spots, he got excited, and called in 'bout a dozen doctors, and now they've got me bundled up with more'n twenty pillows. Aunt Lou encouraged him, and of course Sis cried, or I don't think he'd have had quite so many doctors.

Anyhow, Ma, it was a rip-snorting day, and I wish Washington and those fellows had made it a week instead of a day. I tied a string to my toe and hung it out of the window for the milkman to pull, but I guess the cat or something got at it, and woke me up 'bout two or three o'clock; so I staid up, just to make sure. While I was dressing I let off a cracker or two, or maybe three, on the wood-shed roof, and I guess Aunt Lou knew it some way, as I could hear her in her room talking in her sleep. You ought to have been here, Ma, and had some fun.

I gave the milkman one or two while he was looking for the string, and his horse got nervous, and I guess he had to chase him a little 'fore he caught the cart, and I heard the cans rattle a good deal; but folks oughtn't to complain at a little rattling on the Fourth of July. Pa called out of his room that I was a nuisance, so I went down stairs and sat on the back stoop. In a little while I heard Bridget walking about the kitchen on torpedoes. She said might the Saints preserve her, and I guess they did, 'cause after a while we had breakfast. After breakfast Sis's cat went under the barn. I guess business must be good under there, 'cause she hasn't been out since.

No use of my trying to tell you of everything that happened to-day. If Tommy Snyder hadn't pushed me I wouldn't have been down in the box when those things went off. A fire-cracker or two got into his jacket pocket somehow, and exploded there, and then he pushed me. He needn't have done so, either, 'cause it didn't make much noise in his pocket. Did you ever try putting a cracker in a fellow's pocket, Ma? The noise sounds kind of smothery. Pa didn't need to pull me out of that box, 'cause I was going to get out, anyhow.

A policeman went by our house three times to-day, and every time he stopped and looked at me, I wasn't doing anything either time. Oh, I 'most forgot to tell you! You know what a nigger-chaser is, Ma? Well, Harry Austin said they wouldn't. I said they would. He said it was just a name they had. I said, how did they get the name? We had just one left. You know Uncle Eben, who takes away our ashes? Well, he came along, going to a picnic. Ma, it did! I saw Uncle Eben talking to a policeman on the corner, and then the policeman came down and looked at us awhile. We wasn't doing anything. Did you know my waist burns better than my trousers? I think there must be better stuff in it. Pa put me out with a rug.

I can't write much more to-night, 'cause they've just boosted me into bed. I could have got in myself, but Pa seemed to want to lift. Don't pay any attention to what he writes, nor Aunt Lou, or Sis. They are all scart. I think Carlo will have to gargle his throat with something, he has barked so much. I never saw a cat stick under a barn like Sis's has. I think if I was a big striped cat I could do better than stay under a dark barn on such a day as this. Aunt Lou said she wished to goodness she was small enough to get under the barn too, so I pried out another stone, and told her she could get under now, but I guess she didn't—at least I didn't miss her. I guess she was glad she didn't, too, 'cause if she had she wouldn't have seen me burn. My straw hat staid in the box, and it mostly went. Good-night. I hear the milkman and Uncle Eben talking very serious with Pa out at the gate. Guess they must be discussing politics. I must close. Don't worry about me, 'cause I'm all out and getting 'most cool.

Your dutiful son, Willie.

[Pg 885]


The delegates to the National I.S.A.A.A.A. held a meeting in the evening after the championship games, and transacted much important business. One of the most prominent subjects of discussion was as to whether next year's games should be held in New York or in some other city. The New England delegation was strongly in favor of having the 1897 meeting in Boston or Worcester, but finally accepted the arguments of the better advised; and although they voted against New York on the first ballot, the New England delegates subsequently proposed that the decision to hold the games in this city be made unanimous.

Their principal argument in favor of having next year's meeting in some other city was that the sports would take on too local a color if always held in New York, and more of a national importance if held at the headquarters of the different interscholastic leagues in turn. The A.A.U. has tried this travelling championship business, and has found it unsuccessful. I believe that in the future the A.A.U. championships will be held in New York city, which will eventually become (even if in the minds of outside residents it is not already) the metropolis of sport as well as of commerce.

There is little doubt in the minds of impartial observers that New York is in every respect the best city for any large meeting, such as that of the National I.S.A.A.A.A. New York is easier of access to most of the leagues than is Boston or Trenton or Hartford or Worcester or Philadelphia. It would be out of the question, of course, to hold a National meet in Iowa; but if the championships were made a movable event there would be no just reason why Iowa should not have a chance to welcome the teams as well as Maine or New Jersey. But how many Eastern athletes would go to Cedar Rapids or Sioux City? Very few, I believe.

The reason for this is that Eastern athletes are not compelled to travel to Iowa in order to get up a representative championship meeting, because the majority of strong school teams are in the East. With the Iowans, on the other hand, or with any of the school sportsmen of the West, it is different. If they are the strongest team in their section of the country, and believe themselves[Pg 886] stronger than any other scholastic team, they cannot prove this by challenging or inviting those who have shown themselves to be record-makers to come to them; they must seek out the Eastern athletes, and meet them on their own grounds.

Yale and Cornell have to go to Henley to row with English crews. They may feel that they are stronger than the Englishmen, but the Britishers are very well satisfied with their own rivers, and are content to race their own crews. They welcome the Americans, and are glad to contend against them; but they never would think of coming over here to race on the Hudson. We are as young in college sports, when compared with England, as the Iowa schools are young in interscholastic sport when compared with Eastern institutions. To win at Henley means much both for Englishmen and Americans. For an English crew to win at Poughkeepsie would mean little to the English public. There would scarcely be a paragraph about such a victory in the London dailies. In the same way there would scarcely be a paragraph in the New York papers if the National games were held in Cedar Rapids or Sioux City, because neither of these cities is of national fame or importance.

Therefore it is the wisest plan to hold the National games in the largest city of the land—in the city to which the dwellers of other cities are always glad to come; in the city which affords the best accommodations; in the city which can contribute the largest crowd (even if it does not do so at first); in the city which can offer the greatest entertainment; in the city where live the largest number of well-known sportsmen. No other city of the United States can boast of so great a number of amateur athletes as New York—men who have been famous when in college, and who now take a lively interest as officials in the welfare of sport. As one of these gentlemen said, on the day of the National games, when one of the Boston delegation asked his opinion about the location for next year's meet, "Crum is reported to have run the 100 yards, in 9-4/5 sec. in Iowa, but nobody believed it until he came to New York and won the event at the Inter-collegiate games."

There is a great deal of truth in the suggestion implied in this remark. If the National games were held out West somewhere, and all the interscholastic records were broken, few people would take much stock in the figures, because they would have but little confidence in the local officials. Not that these local officials might not be just as good as those of New York (although they probably could not be, for they are not able to have as much experience), but the general public interested in sport would not place full confidence in them, simply because those officials would be unknown to them.

In this discussion I have purposely made the comparison between New York and another city a comparison between New York and a Western city, because I think it makes the argument clearer and more forcible. Many of the objections to having the meet outside of New York would not hold for Boston or Philadelphia—because both of these are large centres, and to each of these cities New York officials of national importance and reputation could easily be induced to go. But, as I said at the start, it would not be fair to the other leagues in the National Association to hold the meetings alternately at the homes of two or three of its favored members. It would not be fair to Iowa and to Maine to hold the meet alternately at Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. Unless the event is held always in the same place there is no reason why each league should not have a chance to see the games on their own grounds, but, as I have said before, very few Eastern athletes could be persuaded to travel as far as the Iowans did to come here. Another reason, although a minor one, why it is well to hold the meetings each year not only in the same city but on the same grounds, is that the comparison between records made is then an absolute one, the only error in the equation being one of weather or temperature.

The question of grounds is an important one, and one that should be discussed very carefully before any decision is arrived at concerning next year's meeting. There are two important factors to be considered. The first is that the grounds, considered merely as a track and a field, should be of the best available—that is, the cinder path should be well laid, should be firm and springy, and the turf of the infield should be "old" and well rolled. The second point to be considered is the convenience of access, the accommodations for spectators, the relation of the grand stand to the track, the general picturesqueness of the surroundings, and other minor conveniences. I am not at all certain that the Columbia Oval comes up to all these requirements—it certainly does not come up to some of the latter. There may be some points, however, in which the Columbia Oval excels other available ground for interscholastic meetings, and although I should not care to declare myself of that opinion at present, I think it would be well to discuss the question at greater length before coming to an absolute or final decision.

There are a number of other subjects concerning the National Association which need to be talked over—the choice of officials, for instance, the inclination of certain delegates to introduce politics into the affairs of the association, and the problem as to whether it is better to have the games in the future managed by a club, or by the schoolboys themselves. But, unfortunately, there is not space in the Department this week to go as thoroughly into the questions as the importance deserves. We must therefore leave them to another time.

An excellent step taken by the committee was the fixing of a date for all future meetings to be on the first Saturday in June. Next year, therefore, the meeting of the I.S.A.A.A.A. will be held on June 6. This will be much better than having it as late as was necessary this year, and because of the early date the attendance both of contestants and spectators will doubtless be very much larger.

The officers elected for the ensuing year were C. B. Cotting, of the New England League, president; Hugh Jackson, of the Iowa League, vice-president; J. D. Tilford, of the New York Association, secretary; George Smith, of the New Jersey Association, treasurer. The executive committee will consist of President Cotting, ex officio, C. F. Luce, of the Connecticut Association, F. Hewins, of the Maine Association, L. F. Herrick, of the Long Island Association, H. N. Dunbar, of the New England Association, and J. D. Tilford, the secretary.

Another important step taken by the delegates at this meeting was the formation of an alliance with the Amateur Athletic Union. The advantages to be derived by both associations may be gathered from the following clauses taken from the body of the Articles of Alliance:

At all meetings of the Amateur Athletic Union the National Interscholastic A.A.A.A. shall be entitled to representation by not more than four delegates, or duly elected alternates of such delegates, having collectively one vote.

From among these delegates one shall be chosen to become a member of the Board of Governors of the A.A.U., who shall have voice, vote, and privilege equal to the other members of said Board upon all matters coming before it.

All games open only to members of the N.I.S.A.A.A.A. shall be held under N.I.S.A.A.A.A. Rules; but games open to all amateurs shall be held under rules of the A.A.U.

Each party to this Alliance shall respect and enforce all penalties of suspension and disqualification inflicted by the other party.

These Articles of Alliance shall be terminated by either party upon thirty days' notice to the other.

On account of Hartford's having taken a greater number of points at the games than any other individual school, the Connecticut delegates wished to have H.P.H.-S. pronounced the "Champion School" of the United States or of the Association. While at first thought this claim may seem to have some justification, I am of the opinion that a little sober reflection will show the injustice of allowing any school to assume any such title. Hartford deserves the greatest credit for scoring the highest number of points at the National games, and this Department has[Pg 887] given such credit by printing a list of points scored by schools.

But because Hartford scored 18 points to Barnard's 14, to English High's 12, or to Andover's 11, is no proof—barely an indication—that Hartford could defeat any one of these schools in a dual contest. Therefore Hartford cannot justly claim any school championship. That she scored more points than any other single team was due to the fact that in events where Hartford was weak the weakest schools were stronger than those ranking next on the score to Hartford. (I hope that sentence is not too complicated to make my meaning clear.)

The fact of the matter is that the contest at Columbia Oval was among teams from leagues, not among teams from schools, and therefore the question of school supremacy cannot enter into the discussion. Hartford deserves praise for being able so strongly to represent her league, but she has no just or valid claim to the title of "champion school." The only way such a title can be secured is to have dual meets with all other schools in her (athletic) class—and there are but ten or a dozen—and if she can defeat them all, then she may rightfully call herself champion.

Taylor. Stillman. Farr. Collins. Khime. Hirsch. Doerflinger. Rogers.

Wieland. Atkins. Fox (Capt.). Schwendener. Steinel.


Champions of the Wisconsin I.S.A.A.

The baseball season in almost all of the Eastern interscholastic leagues has been more or less overshadowed, as was the case last year, by the almost universal interest in track athletics. Nevertheless, there has been some good ball-playing on the many diamonds, and a glance over the averages shows that some excellent work has been done. Owing to our limited space in this Department, it is impossible to give a full review of the work performed by all the baseball associations, or even by the more prominent ones, but the results of the contests are important, and should go down to make the record complete.

The scores of games played, with the standing of the teams at the close of the season, follow:


Brookline, 9, Somerville, 6.
Brookline, 15, Hopkinson, 9.
Cambridge, 13, Somerville, 12.
Cambridge, 13, Roxbury, 6.
Hopkinson, 17, Boston Latin, 10.
Brookline, 14, Roxbury, 1.
Brookline, 8, Boston Latin, 7.
English High, 19, Roxbury, 18.
Somerville, 3, Hopkinson, 2.
Brookline, 8, Cambridge, 6.
Somerville, 10, Boston Latin, 6.
Roxbury, 12, Boston Latin, 7.
Brookline, 6, English High, 0.
Hopkinson, 7, Roxbury Latin, 6.
Cambridge, 17, Boston Latin, 12.
Cambridge, 10, Hopkinson, 9.
Somerville, 6, English High, 5.
English High, 6, Boston Latin, 1.


Brookline High60
Cambridge High and Latin41
Somerville High32
English High22
Roxbury Latin14
Boston Latin06

There were seven nines in the league, representing the largest schools of Boston and the immediate neighborhood. The championship was taken by the Brookline High-School team, which won every game played. Brookline was a new-comer in the association this year, and was a favorite from the start, it being conceded, even before B.H.-S. was admitted, that her team would take the championship. The nine played a strong game from start to finish, the best individual work being done by Seaver, in left field, Lewis, at first base, Hutchins, behind the bat (who played through the season without an error), and Kernon and Aechtler, who played right field and second base, respectively. The total errors for the season made by B.H.-S. were 30.

Brookline High showed so early in the season that her team was certain of first honors that several of the other nines seemed to lose interest in the contest, and, as a result, a number of games were left unplayed. Hopkinson's, for instance, held an excellent chance to take second place, but the players seemed to lose their nerve. Almost all will be back next year, however, and the team should make a better showing. Better work had been expected of C. H. and L., Somerville, and E.H.-S. than they developed. None of these teams played all the games they were scheduled for. Somerville, however, can boast the only player who made a home run in the whole season—McRae. Roxbury Latin's nine was unusually weak.

Flavel. Schwartz.

Pearson. Schoenhut. White. McCarty (Capt.). Underwood.

Horst. Cartwright. Sharp. Hamilton. Newhall.


Champions of the Philadelphia Inter-Academic B.B. League.

The Championship of the Inter-Academic League of Philadelphia went to Germantown Academy. This school has finished first eight times in the nine seasons of the league's existence, losing in 1891 only, when the pennant went to the Cheltenham Military Academy.

In the Interscholastic League of Philadelphia the Championship went to the Central High-School, with Roman Catholic H.-S., Central Manual-Training School, and Northeast Manual-Training School following in the order named.

The Maine Interscholastic Tennis Tournament resulted in a victory for Dana of Portland, who defeated his schoolmate, Pendleton, in the final round. These two men then formed a partnership in the doubles, and came out the victors. It is uncertain if Dana will go to Newport in August.

The Graduate.


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


Postage Stamps, &c.


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.


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

1000 Mixed Foreign Stamps, San Marino, etc., 25c.; 101 all dif., China, etc., 10c.; 10 U.S. Revenues, 10c.; 20 U.S. Revenues, 25c. Ag'ts w'td at 50% com. Monthly Bulletin free. Shaw Stamp & Coin Co., Jackson, Mich.

STAMPS! 100 all dif. Bermuda, etc. Only 10c. Ag'ts w'td at 50% com. List free. L. Dover & Co., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.



Sometimes valuable information about ourselves comes from unexpected sources. Here is something interesting about American baking powders all the way from Africa.

Rev. Bishop William Taylor, for several years Methodist Bishop of Africa, says that the red label of the Royal Baking Powder, so familiar to every housekeeper in America, is quite as well known and the powder as highly prized in every part of that continent to which civilization has extended. The Royal Baking Powder was taken to South Africa a great many years ago by Mrs. Robinson, a missionary. But its use soon spread beyond the Missions, and it came to be regarded as a necessity by all classes. It was found particularly valuable in the mines and upon the ranches, and frequently sold at interior stations for a dollar a pound. Especially has it conduced to the comfort and health of the missionaries, who would find bread-making a sorry business without it.

Another interesting fact is that no other baking powder will stand service in that country. Rev. Ross Taylor, the agent for African Missions, says: "During the past ten years we have shipped Royal Baking Powder regularly to our African Missions, and for the last four years to the exclusion of all other brands, because of the testimony of our missionaries that it maintains its strength, freshness, and purity in the tropical climate, which others do not. For instance, the superintendent of our mission in Angola, a work that is financially maintained on commercial lines, reported that he could not hold his trade with anything else but the Royal. We are using it in forty mission stations in Africa."

Here is a suggestive fact of value to American housekeepers. Though the presence of this keeping quality in the Royal and the lack of it in other powders is developed more conspicuously in the hot, moist climate of Africa, it exists in the Royal and is deficient in the others as they are sold in this country in exactly the same ratio. This natural test demonstrates more forcibly than a chemical analysis could the wide difference that exists between the different baking powders in their combination and actual practical value. The maintenance of its strength and freshness under all climatic conditions is evidence that the Royal Powder is more accurately made and composed of purer and better ingredients. Such a powder only will give uniform results in perfect foods and prove of the greatest economy in the saving of flour, butter, and other articles used in their production.—N. Y. Christian Advocate.



The great fashion magazine of the world. None excels it in its field.—Chicago Inter-Ocean, Feb. 22, 1896.

10 CENTS A COPY - $4.00 A YEAR

[Pg 888]


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

In one of our most intimate and confidential talks a dear girl asked me to tell her what I think the most desirable gift for a woman. She spoke of several friends—one of them as having grace of movement; another, as rarely beautiful, with brilliant eyes and lovely complexion; a third, as accomplished, playing and singing, and speaking two or three languages besides her own; and a fourth, as very clever. We may multiply the list, and as we look over our circle of friends we easily see that nearly every one has something bright and individual which commends her to us; but the sum of the matter is that the gift of all gifts for a girl is expressed in one little word of five letters—charm.

If you insist on my defining charm, I am afraid I will disappoint you, for it is as difficult of analysis as a perfume. The better way, if I could manage it, would be to show you somebody who has it, as I would show you a painting on the wall, or a flower in the garden. Very plain girls and women are sometimes endowed with this grace. I remember one who was not pretty at all—a little dumpy brown thing, who had not the art of dressing very well, and who slipped in and out of a room as softly and shyly as a mouse, bless her heart! But this sweet Elizabeth was popular beyond all the girls of her class; she was constantly in demand, and nothing could be done without her. It was, "Where is Elizabeth?" "What does Elizabeth say?" "Will Elizabeth be of the party? if so, everything will go delightfully." Once Elizabeth was ill, and a hush seemed to fall on the little town, while people, old and young, were anxious to know how she was, and her house was a perfect bower with the flowers that were left for her daily. When she went away for a visit everybody was interested, and when she returned the town had a gala-day. There were any number of prettier girls, any number of cleverer girls, in her set, but none who compared with our little brown Elizabeth. She had charm.

In her case charm had several elements. Her voice was low yet clear. She never made an effect of insisting, as girls with shrill voices do; her tones were soft and distinct. She was gentle, but she was not overlooked in consequence. She always knew where to find things. At home her father and brothers appealed to her for the boots and papers which were out of sight, but which it was important to have on the instant. Elizabeth could explain away little vexations. She remembered people's names and faces—a very great talent, and one worth everybody's cultivating. Elizabeth was considerate and full of tact. I never saw her do a rude thing, or heard her say anything unkind.

Then, too, Elizabeth knew what was going on. She read the papers, and could talk intelligently about current events—another admirable plan for all girls to follow.

I know another girl, Melissa, who has all Elizabeth's charm, and superadded has great beauty. She carries herself gracefully, this tall, elegant young woman; her hair, her eyes, her face, her figure, express distinction. But when I asked a friend, the other day, what constituted Melissa's greatest claim to admiration, he said: "Well, it isn't that she's so pretty; it isn't that she's so dainty. I hardly know what it is. She has style; she has loveliness; I think, most of all, she has what you women call charm."

A few years ago, in London, an elderly lady—several years past eighty she was—passed away. A man who had known her for many years said, "The most charming woman of our time has gone." Once this gentleman was a guest at a country-house where the old lady was expected. Everybody was anticipating her coming; everybody wanted to meet her. When she arrived, she came into the drawing-room in black velvet and a lace cap, with a fan in her hand and a flower in her dress, and at once she held a little court. In her girlhood this woman had delighted Washington Irving. In her old age she had poets, artists, scholars, and statesmen in her drawing-room. She had charm.

In a little New England village a lady was living all by herself, and every morning I saw a pilgrimage of young people going up through her small garden to her door. "What is the secret of Miss Emily's having so much company," I inquired. "So many of the boys and girls and the young people here have errands to see her, and she isn't young, or in public life, or—anything, that I can see." The principal of the high-school answered my question. "Emily Lawrence, madam, is the most charming woman in Connecticut."

Margaret E. Sangster.


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

The Department this week, owing to the number of questions on bicycling matters, will be entirely devoted to answers. Many of the questions received each week cannot be answered satisfactorily, since they are inquiries as to the roads from one place which the writer mentions to another city or town. Readers of this Department can readily understand that this would entail a large number of special maps or descriptions not likely to interest any one but the writer. Our idea in publishing maps is to give general routes which any one may use from beginning to end, or in parts, to serve his purpose, and often it is wiser to go a roundabout way from one point to another, thereby getting on to some good route, than to try the short route and perhaps walk half the way. Bicycling routes having the least number of miles are not always the shortest. Many a fifty-mile road is really shorter than one of thirty miles, since a bad mile, a sandy half-mile, a two-mile stretch of cobblestones are any and all worse than four miles of good road.

J. T. H. asks if we can tell him the best bicycle to buy and how to buy one. Possibly we may have an exhaustive article on this subject some day in the future, though it will be impossible to tell which is the best wheel. Most of the well-known makes are good bicycles, and one is pretty safe with any of them. Unquestionably, in a year or two, bicycles—new ones at that—will be sold at much less than $100, for as they cost but a small portion of that amount to manufacture, it will soon become impossible to keep up any agreement among bicycle firms to hold the price so high. Indeed, to-day almost any one can buy a '96 wheel of good make for less than $100, though this is still the retail price. Many a second-hand bicycle, especially a woman's wheel, is quite as good as a new one, and can be bought for half-price or less. A woman's wheel is especially adapted to this kind of purchase, since many women of means buy a new bicycle every year, and not being particularly athletic, do not ride any one wheel more than two or three hundred miles, perhaps, and take the best of care of it all the time. Such a bicycle of the '95 make, for example, is quite as good as one of the new '96 machines for practical purposes, and can be bought for $50. In the case of a second-hand man's wheel more care should be taken in examining bearings, chain, sprocket wheels, and so on. Some suggestions on these points have already appeared in this column.

Bicycle Crank asks what a military company of bicyclists does, what its movements are, and how such a company can be formed. Also if a bicycle military company is a good thing. As to the last, General N. A. Miles said in a speech in 1892, delivered before the guests at a banquet in Chicago given by the president of the L.A.W.: "The president has told us that your league numbers thirty thousand men. Suppose that out of that number you organize a corps of fifteen or twenty thousand young, intelligent men and mount them upon wheels and equip them as they should be. It would be one of the most effective corps ever organized. It is estimated that there are in this country a quarter of a million men who are accustomed to ride the bicycle. If out of that number fifty thousand men were organized it would make one of the most effective army corps that was ever marshalled in any country or any time." As to the movements, commands, etc., we can best answer by referring readers to the Cycle-Infantry Drill Regulations, prepared by Brigadier-General Albert Ordway. A company of cyclists consist of infantry mounted on bicycles. The regulations therefore are practically the same as infantry regulations, changed only to suit bicycling necessities. When the men stop, they dismount, of course, and become infantry. When they are mounted some of the drills are like cavalry drill.

[Pg 889]


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.


There are four chemical elements either of which combined with a metal forms a compound resembling sea-salt. These four elements are Fluorine (F), Chlorine (Cl), Bromine (Br), and Iodine (I). They are termed in chemistry "halogens" (salt-producers), and the compounds which they form are called "haloids." When they are combined with silver they make silver haloids, or salts of silver. Three of these salts, silver chloride, silver bromide, and silver iodide, are the substances most quickly affected by light, and are most important agents in making a photographic image.

Silver chloride is often found native in silver mines, and is called by the miners "horn-silver." As early as the sixteenth century it was observed that this "horn-silver" turned dark when it was brought up from the mines into the sunlight, but it was not until the year 1777 that it was found this darkening of the silver chloride was due to the chemical effect of light. This discovery was made by a Swedish chemist, Charles William Scheele. Silver chloride was the first salts of silver used in photography, and the first picture made on a sensitive surface by means of a lens was made by that famous chemist Sir Humphry Davy. His lenses were taken from his solar microscope. By coating paper with silver chloride and exposing it for a long time in the camera he obtained pictures of small objects. These pictures were positives, not negatives. An English chemist by the name of Wedgwood worked with him; but though they succeeded in making pictures, they could not "fix" the image, so that all their pictures were kept in portfolios away from the light, and only examined by candle-light.

Silver chloride is used in making photographic printing-paper, not by coating the paper with the silver chloride, but by producing it upon the paper itself by means of two solutions with which the paper is coated. The chemical formula for silver chloride is AgCl, meaning that a molecule of silver chloride contains one atom of silver and one atom of chlorine. (The chemical name for silver is argentum, and the symbol is Ag.) This chloride was used by Davy for coating the paper on which he made his pictures, but the paper was not very sensitive to light, it taking from a half-hour to two hours to make a picture. By repeated experiments, Fox Talbot, an Englishman, succeeded in making a paper which was very sensitive to light. He first coated the paper with a solution of common salt, sodium chloride (NaCl), and dried it. This salted paper was then brushed over with a solution of nitrate of silver, which combined with the sodium chloride (salt), and formed silver chloride.

In preparing the paper the nitrate of silver solution was made strong enough so that there might be a little left on the paper in addition to that which combined with the sodium chloride to form the silver chloride. (Sodium nitrate is also produced, but it has no effect on the paper.) Silver nitrate is very largely used in photography in all sensitive preparations. In surgery it is known as "lunar caustic," and is used to cauterize or burn the flesh to prevent the spreading of disease. It is produced in the separation of gold from silver in the refining process. It is produced chemically by dissolving pure silver in an equal part of nitric acid. The chemical formula for it is AgNO3. (Nitrate of silver is very poisonous.)

The chemical formula for producing the silver chloride on the paper may be thus stated: NaCl+AgNO3, AgCl+NaNO3. That is, sodium chloride and silver nitrate make silver chloride and sodium nitrate.

Those of our Camera Club who have prepared the plain paper after the formula given in this column will now understand the chemistry of the operation. The next paper will explain why the chloride is produced on the paper instead of simply coating the paper with the silver chloride.

The new chemical elements mentioned and their symbols and atomic weights:

Silver (argentum)Ag.107

Wm. Merritt, Rhinebeck, N. Y., Roy Pike, Lake City, Minn., Joseph K. Fornance, Norristown, Pa., D. M. Martin, Loveland, Ia., and Hulburt Marsh, Groton, N. Y., wish to become members of the Camera Club. Their names are enrolled on the list, and we welcome them to our club. We hope to have the pleasure of seeing some of their work very soon.



in Strength

The high-carbon steel and nickel steel used in the tubing of Columbia bicycles have no equal in their power to resist the strains to which a bicycle frame is put. This tubing is all made in the Columbia mills especially for Columbias.

Standard of the World

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

$100 to all alike

The Columbia Catalogue, handsomest art work of the year, is free from the Columbia agent, or is mailed for two 2-cent stamps.

POPE MFG. CO., Hartford, Conn.

Columbia Branch Houses and Agencies are almost everywhere.


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Established Dorchester, Mass., 1780.

Breakfast Cocoa

Always ask for Walter Baker & Co.'s

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Made at


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Beware of Imitations.

HARTFORD Single-Tubes are the easiest and quickest to repair. That saves time and patience. But this point would be of little worth apart from their strength, elasticity, safety and hill climbing power. The secret of making is ours. The tires are yours for any bicycle.





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Springfield, Mass.

[Pg 890]

San Jacinto.

La Porte is a new town, situated on a point of land nearly surrounded by Galveston Bay, Morgan's Ship Canal, and San Jacinto Bay. It is about twenty miles from Houston, and thirty miles from Galveston. The scenery in this part of the coast country is beautiful, and the place is not without historic interest. On this point of land was formerly the town of New Washington, which was burned by Santa Anna before he left for San Jacinto battle-ground, which is only six or seven miles from here. It was there that the Texans under General Houston routed the Mexicans under Santa Anna on that memorable day, the 21st of April, 1836.

The battle-ground is located on Buffalo Bayou. It comprises twenty-three acres, ten of which are owned by the State. The "Daughters of the Republic" are raising funds to beautify it and erect a suitable monument. There is only one monument there now. It is a plain marble shaft about fifteen feet high, with inscriptions on the four sides of the base.

San Jacinto Day is a legal holiday in Texas, and large numbers of people celebrate it by picnicking at the battle-ground. Exercises are held in the public schools. This year I recited Lillie E. Barr's poem, "San Jacinto Corn," published in the Round Table for January 21, 1896. The battle of San Jacinto lasted only eighteen or twenty minutes. There were more than fifteen hundred Mexican troops opposed to seven hundred and eighty-three Texans. The loss of the Texans was two killed, and twenty-three wounded, six of them mortally. The loss of the Mexicans was six hundred and thirty killed, two hundred and eight wounded, and seven hundred and thirty prisoners. Santa Anna was taken prisoner on the 22d, and General Cos on the 24th.

Mercy Compton Marsh, R.T.L.
La Porte, Texas.

My Escape.

The sun had set on yonder hill,
The little brook was very still,
And I went to bed with a cheerful heart,
Knowing that all was well.

But as the midnight rolled on still,
There came the dreadful cry
Of fire! fire! on the hill,
And I prepared to fly.

I rolled an egg up in a shawl,
And saddled my horse near by;
I sprang to the saddle and plied the paddle,
And then commenced to fly.

My horse flew up to the skies
And landed on a cloud.
And then I heard for the first time
A thunder wild and loud.

And there on the cloud beside me stood
A giant large and tall,
Who, in a voice of thunder, cried,
"What right have you here at all?"

I shivered and shook from head to foot,
And the giant he roared with rage,
"I'll take you home with me," he cried,
"And shut you up in a cage."

But I ran to the edge of the cloud
And gave a fearful leap,
And the shock awoke me, and I found
That I had been asleep.

Composed jointly by Helen, Virginia, and Gladys Mackay-Smith, aged 9, 11, and 13 years.

A Delightful Morsel about Japan.

A Lady of the Order, aged twelve, living at 118 B. Bluff, Yokohama, Japan, writes to the Table: "Here is a brief description of Nikko, which we visited two summers ago, and I hope it is good enough to print." It is quite "good enough." The Table would be glad and thankful for other morsels equally delightful.


Many hundreds of years ago one of the Tycoons, as the Emperors of Japan were once called, sent one of his retainers to look for a burial-place in Japan for his father, who had just died. The retainer, after having looked for a long time found a barren place which was, however, very beautiful, and seemed suitable to him for an Emperor's burial-place. He planted there an avenue of trees now called the "Tokaido," and after many years Nikko was founded.

This is one of the most beautiful country-places, about seven hours in the railway from Yokohama. It is a lovely place in the mountains, about 3500 feet above the level of the sea, famous for its scenery and lovely temples. Many people go only to see these magnificent buildings. There is something so lonely, so mysterious, around these temples situated in damp low ground! Around these holy places grow huge cryptomerias, a kind of fir-tree, the stems covered with moss and climbing plants; altogether they are very beautiful to look at.

The interior of the temples is even more lovely and grand than the outside. The walls are decorated with valuable old carvings and glistening lacquer. Even the floors are sometimes lacquer, and here and there in some temples are images of gods entirely of gold. There is said to be one temple in Nikko wholly covered with gold. One other thing so lovely in Nikko is the abundance of running water and cascades. One cannot go out of hearing of the constant rushing and rippling of water. If you see this water, you will notice that it is as clear as crystal.

There are no hot springs in Nikko as there are in other Japanese country-places. Instead, all are icy cold. People are often tempted to drink this water, as it is so clear, but it is not so clean as it looks, because the Japanese wash all their pots and pans in it. There are also many pretty water-falls in Nikko. The "Kirifuri," which means "the beautiful mist," is the biggest and grandest. This water-fall falls about forty feet over stones into a rocky basin which leads into the little and wild river "Diagawa," which flows through the whole of Nikko. The way down to the water-fall is very steep and rocky, but on the damp rocky walls on both sides grows a kind of maiden-hair fern.

The "Urami" water-fall is the next in size and beauty. Before you get to this one you come to some tea-houses, where you are supposed to rest and take refreshments. Here the wild river comes rushing past. To get to the water-fall you must go through a kind of ravine which is very beautiful and rocky. One side of this is a damp wall overgrown with all sorts of climbing plants and beautiful moss. Moss, by-the-way, is another thing for which Nikko is famous. The Urami fall rushes down in three cascades, one on each side of the big one. You are able to go behind the big one so you can see it rushing in front of you.

The "Red Lacquered or Sacred Bridge" is another wonder of Nikko, and is known all over Japan. It is made entirely of red lacquer, and anybody who walks on it, except the Mikado, is shot! It is only unlocked when he is in the place. As lovely as Nikko is in summer-time, when all the various flowers are in blossom, it is even more lovely in autumn. Then the foliage takes the prettiest colors; the Japanese maple is wonderfully beautiful with its dark and light red or green shades. Nikko is a place which I should advise any one who comes to Japan to visit. I am sure he would be well paid for the tiresome journey there.

Cecile Rogers.

Handy to have in Mind.

The next time you are asked to tell a riddle, tell this one:

Lo, the poor Indian, imprisoned stands,
Betwixt a bird and a feather.
From aloft all three a warning send
To ships in stormy weather.

The answer is Hen-lo-pen (the Cape).

Shadows Come Even Our Way.

We are sure there is no member who fails to recall the delightful morsels contributed to the Table by Lady Florence E. Cowan. They were dated Kingman, Arizona, and told us about the Indians, the plants, the folk-lore, etc., of that Territory. Her articles were exceedingly interesting, and always well written. Besides, her personal notes accompanying them were models of frankness and yet brevity. A brief note signed "S. Z. B." informs us she is dead. The Table and its readers are pained by the news.



I am loud and turbulent, yet incapable of noise;
I'm the forefront of battle, and the simplest of toys;
I live in the water, but must be always kept dry;
I am perfectly deaf, yet hear every cry;
I swim all the time, keep step when I travel;
I am fixed in one place, now this riddle unravel.

Of ten animals allowed in heaven,
According to Moslem creed,
My first is one. My second's another
Of the same identical breed.
My third each is when once he gets there,
After they let him in.
My whole the Moslem law keeps out,
Since he is a man of sin.

I nourish my young, and so am a beast;
My four feet are tied, so I walk but the least;
I am hard as a rock, am soft as pure silk;
I'm a dark, ugly brown, am whiter than milk;
I am made from a tree, am dug from the ground;
I grow from a seed; in the rocks I abound;
With never a feather, like a bird I can fly;
I am entirely dumb, but still have a cry.
A bird that can fly, with never a feather;
A beast with four feet bound closely together;
A rock and a vegetable, an earth and a tree;
I am all of these things; now what can I be?

I am so lowly I cling to the ground,
Yet soar to a heavenly height;
I represent the only thing of my kind.
Yet am owned by each human wight;
Each person can have only one of me, true,
Still, strange as it seems, he always has two:
I can swim on the water, but am sure to sink through it,
I am purely a spirit, going where man can't pursue it;
I'm the oldest of matter, have form, weight, and feeling,
I am simply a sound, loneliness revealing.
Though owned by the English, I belong to no nation,
Yet furnish support to all human creation.

Anybody May Enter this Journalism.

Frank Homer King contemplates starting an amateur paper, and asks whom he must apply to for a permit. Frank need apply to no one. He is free to name his paper anything he pleases, and to publish it as long and as often as he can pay the printer's bill. If he wishes to enter his publication in the mails, that it may be sent at newspaper rates, he applies to the postmaster of his city, who will give him a blank to fill out.

E. C. Hoff, Carroll, Iowa, and James M. Hughes, Richmond, Mo., contemplate starting amateur papers, and want contributions of stories, poems, etc. Joe Gibson. Jun., Ingersoll, Ont., and Cassius Morford, Banfield, Mich., want to receive samples of amateur papers.

A Glimpse of West Point.

In the summer the parade-ground at West Point is a perfect green sea of grass, so well is it kept. The many white duck tents make a picturesque sight, looking like so many sail-boats in green water. The view from Fort Putnam, above the Post, I cannot describe, so beautiful is it. The narrow Hudson, with its many turns, is indeed similar to a brand-new silver ribbon, while a sail-boat seen from this height can hardly be distinguished. It would look like a sea-gull seeking for food, and going at a speed which could only be determined by taking sight from some fixed object.

Hans W. Gerhard.

[Pg 891]


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 London Philatelic Society and the stamp-dealers of London have appointed a joint committee to arrange for a postage-stamp exhibit in 1897. It is proposed to hold it at the Crystal Palace, and if proper conditions can be arranged to insure the stamps and take care of them during the exhibition, probably stamps to the value of nearly $2,000,000 will be shown.

The Swiss collectors will hold an exhibition this summer in Geneva, which will doubtless be very attractive. One of the largest collections of Swiss stamps is now for sale in New York city. It contains everything in used and unused condition—locals, general issues, singly and in blocks and sheets, post-cards, envelopes, money-order blanks, etc. The price asked is $6000, which is probably less than could be obtained if the collection were broken up and the stamps, etc., sold separately.

Holland holds a stamp exhibit at The Hague from July 17 to July 22, inclusive.

An elderly lady in British Guiana gave her rector an envelope addressed to "Miss Rose, Blankenberg," as an Easter offering. On the envelope was an unsevered pair of the extremely rare 1851 2c. rose British Guiana stamp. The envelope is probably worth $3000. A copy of this stamp, trimmed round, was sold in New York by auction, from the De Coppet collection, for $1050 several years ago.

The A.P.A. (American Philatelic Association) holds its annual meeting this year in the middle of August at Lake Minnetonka, a beautiful summer resort. The successor to President Tiffany will be elected, and preliminary canvassing for votes is now in active operation. Boston wants the 1897 convention.

Venezuela is out with another series of unnecessary stamps to commemorate "The Apotheosis of General Francisco de Miranda." Five varieties—5, 10, 25, 50, 100. It is a very good set to let alone.

J. C. Lunt, 109 Liberty Street, San Francisco, wishes to exchange stamps with Mexican collectors.

C. L. Pattison.—Columbian stamps, 1-30, inclusive, are worth 50c. per set, used. The Hawaiian Provisionals are worth $2.50 for the 2c. vermilion, 35c. for the 2c. brown, 8c. for the 2c. rose or violet.

Ross Baker.—Common coins have no selling value beyond their face if U.S. coins, or at bullion value if foreign.

E. L.—U.S. cents for 1806 worth 35c., 1826 and 1842 worth 5c., 1834 worth 10c. Half-cent 1806 worth 15c. These are the prices dealers ask. What they pay I do not know.

A. Hobbs.—In making a rubbing of a coin use thin transparent paper of a firm texture, and a hard lead-pencil. A soft pencil gives poor results.

J. Smythe.—Your Afghanistan stamp is all right. Practically all Afghanistan used stamps are badly damaged, for the reason that they cancel stamps by tearing off at least one corner. Sometimes more than half of the stamp is gone, and a part of the letter also.


A fine complexion is too rare
To run the risk of losing;
But everyone who takes good care
(All other kinds refusing)
To get pure Ivory, grows more fair
With every day of using.

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




easy to hook; easy to unhook; if you do the hooking and unhooking. Can't let go itself. The DeLong Hook and Eye.

See that


Richardson & DeLong Bros., Philadelphia.

Also makers of the

CUPID Hairpin.

Don't take substitutes to save a few pennies. It won't pay you. Always insist on HIRES Rootbeer.

Made only by The Charles E. Hires Co., Philadelphia.

A 25c. package makes 5 gallons. Sold everywhere.

Reader: Have you seen the


It is a Collection which no one who loves music should fail to own; it should find a place in every home. Never before, it may truthfully be said, has a song book been published at once so cheap, so good, and so complete.—Colorado Springs Gazette.


This Song Collection is one of the most notable enterprises of the kind attempted by any publisher. The brief sketches and histories of the leading productions in the work add greatly to the value of the series.—Troy Times.


Sold Everywhere. Price, 50 cents; Cloth, $1.00. Full contents, with Specimen Pages mailed, without cost, on application to

Harper & Brothers, New York.



CADET DAYS. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

CAMPAIGNING WITH CROOK, AND STORIES OF ARMY LIFE. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

A WAR-TIME WOOING. Illustrated by R. F. Zogbaum. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.

BETWEEN THE LINES. A Story of the War. Illustrated by Gilbert Gaul. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.

[Pg 892]


Papa. "So, Bobby, you're the president of your bicycle club. That's very nice. How did they happen to choose you?"

Bobby. "Well, you see, papa, I'm the only boy that's got a bicycle."


At the time of the coronation of the Czar of Russia much was printed in the newspapers about the costly crown jewels and the magnificent imperial throne, but for all its magnificence and richness this nineteenth-century throne was nothing when compared to that of the Mogul Emperors of Delhi. This Indian throne was built in the reign of the Shah Jehan by a Frenchman who had been forced to seek an asylum in the Mogul empire. It was called the Peacock Throne, to distinguish it from other royal chairs, and because it was decorated with the figures of two huge peacocks. The throne was six feet long by four feet wide, and stood on six massive legs, which were of solid gold inlaid with rubies, emeralds, diamonds, and all kinds of precious stones. The tails of the peacocks were expanded fanlike behind the throne, and they too were inlaid with pearls, emeralds, and other gems of suitable coloring. The whole was surmounted by a canopy of gold supported by twelve pillars likewise studded with diamonds and precious gems, the border of the canopy being made of a fringe of beautiful pearls. Between the two peacocks perched a life-size parrot, which was carved out of a single emerald. The royal umbrellas, which are appendages to most Oriental thrones, were made of the finest silks, and were fringed with pearls, the handles being of solid gold studded with diamonds. It has been said by many writers that the famous Koh-i-noor diamond was originally set in this Peacock Throne. This story is very possibly true, inasmuch as the Koh-i-noor was at one time owned by the Shah Jehan. This throne has been valued at $30,000,000, and this figure is doubtless not exaggerated, for the Mogul Emperors were wonderfully rich monarchs. When the Persians sacked Delhi in 1739, they destroyed the Peacock Throne, and carried off its jewels. A simple block of white marble now stands in the private audience hall in the palace of the Mogul Emperors at Delhi to show where this gorgeous chair once stood.


There is a fish-dealer in New York who has a large number of rich customers. Once or twice a week his store can be found full of ladies who are doing their own marketing. The dealer is all smiles to his customers on such days, and very anxious to keep their good-will and trade. For some time an Irishman had been coming in the place, and after going from stand to stand, and peering long and closely at the fish, he usually wound up by purchasing some cheap specimen of the finny tribe, and departing. This was annoying to the dealer when his place was full of customers, and so one morning when the Irishman entered and began going from one stand to another as usual, he called out:

"Look here, my good man, what are you always smelling my fish for?"

The question was heard by every one, and they all listened for the answer.

"Faith, oim not smellin' thim; it's talkin' to thim oi am."

"Talking, did you say?"

"Yis; sure oim askin' thim the news from the sea."

"Well," said the dealer, impatiently, "what did they say?"

"Sure, they didn't know, yer honor; they telt me they hadn't been there fer over a month."

"Well," said mamma, as she bathed Johnnie's blackened eye with Pond's Extract, "what were you and Tommy fighting about?"

"We weren't fighting," exclaimed Johnnie, indignantly; "we were only arguing."

The following sentence is a kind of literary curiosity: "Sator arepo tenet opera rotas." It is curious, because it spells the same words backwards as forwards; the first letter of each word, placed consecutively, spells the first word; the second letter of each word spells the second word, and so on to the end; the last letters read backwards spell the last word; the next to the last letters, the next to the last word, and so on throughout; and there are just as many letters in each word as there are words in the sentence.


[1] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 868.