The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table, August 11, 1896

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Title: Harper's Round Table, August 11, 1896

Author: Various

Release date: March 2, 2019 [eBook #58997]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire



[Pg 989]


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

published weekly.NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 11, 1896.five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 876.two dollars a year.



"My!" exclaimed Bryce Gordon, with a deep sigh, as he softly closed the Greek history over which he had been intently poring for the last fifteen minutes, "I want to go and see that place some time."

"What place?" asked his army uncle, Captain Frank Gordon, looking up from the evening paper.

"The Pass of Thermopylæ," answered Bryce, who had just been reading of Leonidas and his wonderful battle with the hosts of Xerxes. "That is the kind of place I want to visit whenever I have a chance to travel," he continued, with flashing eyes, "and I should think Greek boys would be awfully proud of it. I only wish we had a Thermopylæ in this country; but there doesn't seem to be any such thing nowadays."

"Doesn't there?" replied his uncle, laying down the paper. "Then I am afraid you are better posted concerning old Greek history than in that of the United States; for I know of a Thermopylæ in which, only sixty years ago, a handful of Americans made as glorious and heroic a defence against overwhelming numbers as was ever recorded."

"You do?" cried Bryce, excitedly. "Where is it? Tell me about it, quick! Please do!"

"Yes, tell us," pleaded Jackanapes, May, and little Miss Blue, who, scenting a story from afar, had made a magic appearance, and were now clustered about Captain Gordon's chair like so many hungry bees about a honeycomb.

"Well," laughed their uncle, good-naturedly, "I see that I am in for it, and suppose I must do as my tyrants command. So here goes. To begin with, did any of you ever hear of the Alamo?"

"Seems to me I have," answered Bryce; "but I can't remember what it is."

[Pg 990]

The faces of the others were so blank that it was evident the word held no meaning for them.

"I didn't much think you would know anything about it," continued their uncle; "for it belongs to American history, which, of course, is not half so important as that of the old Greeks and Romans. The Alamo, then, is, or rather was, an old Spanish mission located in a cottonwood grove that gave it its name—for Alamo means cottonwood—near the San Antonio River in southwestern Texas. On an opposite bank of the stream stood the Mexican town of San Antonio, built of low flat-roofed adobe or stone houses, and containing at the time of my story very few Americans, though in other parts of Texas these already formed an important part of the population. Texas was then a Mexican state, and Mexico itself had but recently thrown off the yoke of Spain. In its struggle for liberty the American residents had rendered such splendid service, that when freedom was finally gained they were granted many especial privileges by the Mexican government. These were highly prized, and everything went smoothly, until General Santa Aña headed a revolution, overthrew the existing government, and made himself Dictator.

"Hating Americans, and jealous of their increasing power, Santa Aña began to withdraw their privileges, and declared that Texas, disappearing as a separate territory, should thereafter belong to the older Mexican state of Coahuila. Worst of all, he replaced the civil with a military government, and ordered that all citizens should be disarmed. Of course the free-born sons of fathers who had fought at Lexington and Yorktown—for these things happened in 1834—would not submit to such oppression, and the first thing Santa Aña knew the state of Texas was in open revolt, declaring itself to be an independent republic. As San Antonio was its most important city, the Mexican General Cos was ordered to fortify and hold it against the rebels; but one thousand Texans under General Edward Burleson marched against him; and three hundred of them, led by brave old Ben Milam, captured the place after a three days' fight from house to house, and from street to street. General Cos and his two thousand soldiers were allowed to retire to Mexico as paroled prisoners of war, who solemnly promised never again to take up arms against the Texans.

"Soon after this, General Burleson's army scattered to different points where there seemed a chance of more fighting, until only eighty troops, under command of Colonel James Bowie, inventor of the famous bowie-knife and son-in-law of the Mexican Governor, remained to defend the city. These troops had not received one cent of pay, were poorly clad, and possessed but little ammunition. Early in February, 1835, Colonel Bowie, worn out by his efforts to obtain re-enforcements and make adequate provision for the defence of his important post, fell sick of a fever, and Colonel William Travis, who had just arrived with thirty-five men, assumed command. Soon afterwards the renowned David Crockett arrived from Tennessee with thirty more men, so that the garrison now numbered one hundred and forty-five.

"On the 22d of February the Mexican Dictator appeared before San Antonio with an army of 4000 regular troops, and marched straight into the town, the Texans crossing the river and retiring before him to the ruinous old Alamo Mission, which they hastily barricaded, and so converted into a rude fortress. They carried fever-stricken Bowie with them, and, as they retreated, gathered up a few bushels of corn and a few beef cattle, which formed their sole stock of provisions.

"From this place of refuge, when Santa Aña demanded its unconditional surrender, Travis replied with a cannon-shot. He knew that the longer he could hold the Mexican army in check the more time would be allowed the men of Texas to gather and organize for the defence of their homes. Upon receiving this defiant reply, Santa Aña displayed blood-red flags from every church-tower in the town, to signify death without quarter to the rebels, and began a furious bombardment of the Alamo. This was continued almost without intermission, by night as well as by day, until the 6th of March, or through two weary weeks. During that time Travis managed to despatch several couriers in different directions, with urgent messages imploring assistance. In every message he wrote, 'We are determined neither to surrender nor retreat, but will maintain our position to the bitter end.'

"Every now and then the little garrison made desperate sorties for the destruction of some galling battery or to seize a few supplies, and during those twelve fearful days whenever a Texas rifle was fired a Mexican soldier fell dead. In the early morning of the 1st of March a great shout of rejoicing rang out from the battered mission, for Captain John Smith, who, with thirty men, had hastened from Gonzales to the assistance of his friends, had succeeded in passing the enemy's line and gaining the shelter of the fort. Now the bombardment became so fierce that all the outlying walls of the mission were demolished, and only its stout stone church remained standing. Into it the Texans retired, barricading every entrance and repairing every breach.

"Shortly before sunset on the evening of the 3d the fire of the batteries suddenly ceased. Two thousand fresh troops, the army of General Cos, which had been captured and paroled at this very place, had retraced their steps, and now, in violation of their pledged word, were prepared once more to fight against their conquerors. While they were being welcomed with acclamations and every form of rejoicing by the Mexicans, the grim walls of the Alamo were witnessing one of the most solemn and pathetic scenes of history. In their dim shadow Colonel Travis paraded his handful of heroes in single file, and addressed them in substantially these words:

"'My brave comrades, stern necessity compels me to employ the moments afforded by this probably brief cessation of conflict in making known to you the most interesting, yet the most solemn, melancholy, and unwelcome fact that humanity can realize. Our fate is sealed. Within a few days, perhaps a few hours, we must all be in eternity. Our provisions are gone, our ammunition is nearly spent, and our strength is almost exhausted. My calls for assistance remain unanswered, and the probabilities are that our couriers have been cut off. The enemy surrounds us in overwhelming and ever-increasing numbers. Then we must die, and have only to choose such method of death as may best serve our country. Shall we surrender, and be deliberately shot? Shall we try to cut our way out through the Mexican ranks, and be butchered before we can kill twenty of our adversaries? I am opposed to either plan, but leave every man of you to his own decision. Should any one choose to surrender, or attempt to escape, he is at liberty to do so. My own choice is to remain in this place, and die for my country, fighting so long as breath shall remain in my body. This will I do even if you leave me alone. Do, then, as you think best; but remember that no one of you can die with me without affording me comfort in the hour of death.'

"Here Colonel Travis drew his sword, and with its point traced a line on the earthen floor extending the whole length of the motionless file. Then resuming his position in front of the centre, he said:

"'Now let every man who is willing to remain here and die with me cross to this side of that line. Who will be the first? Forward! March!'

"Tapley Holland leaped the line at a bound, exclaiming, 'I am ready to die for my country!' And in another instant every man, save one, of that heroic file had followed him and stood beside their gallant leader. Every wounded man who could move crawled or tottered across the fatal mark. Colonel Bowie, too weak to lift his head, called out feebly, 'Don't leave me behind, boys!' and in a moment four men had lifted his cot over the line. The other helpless ones begged that they too might be lifted across, and finally only Moses Rose remained behind. He stood alone, with his face buried in his hands. Travis, Bowie, and Crockett all spoke to him kindly, and asked him if he were afraid to die. When he answered that he was, and believed in the possibility of an escape, they bade him go in peace. So he left them, scaling a rear wall of the church, dropping to the ground outside, and finally escaping, after eluding innumerable dangers. It is from him alone that[Pg 991] we have a description of that memorable scene, for of all that devoted band whom he left in that gloomy fortress no man was ever again seen alive beyond its walls."

"Then he was the Aristodemus of your American Thermopylæ," interrupted Bryce, who was listening with breathless attention to this tale of modern heroism.

"Yes," replied Captain Gordon, "only he was more of a coward than Aristodemus, for the latter did not escape until after his comrades had been killed, and, if you remember, was himself killed in battle the following year, after performing more valorous deeds than any of his fellow Spartans."

"I suppose Moses Rose was more truly a coward," admitted Bryce; "but lot's not stop to talk about him now, Uncle Cap. What became of the splendid fellows he left in the fort? Did they finally surrender, or were they captured, or what?"

"They neither surrendered nor were made prisoners, but fought with the stubbornness of desperation for three days longer. At length, on the 5th of March, Santa Aña, believing the Americans to be too exhausted to offer a serious resistance, ordered the Alamo to be carried by assault at daylight of the following morning. At that hour the thunder of bombardment was again stilled, and as though the silence were a signal, dark masses of Mexican infantry, provided with scaling ladders, and driven to their deadly work by a pitiless cavalry pressing close on their rear, rushed at the walls of the devoted church.

"Less than one hundred of the defenders were left to resist those thousands; but three times did this handful of dauntless fighters repel their swarming assailants, and three times did the furious Mexican General drive them back to the assault. At length the defenders had fired away their last grain of powder, the crowding Mexicans forced an entrance, and after another hour of the most terrific hand-to-hand fighting and awful slaughter, the Alamo was theirs. At nine o'clock two murderous discharges of double-shotted grape and canister from a cannon planted in the doorway of the room used as a hospital, and filled with helplessly wounded Americans, ended the bloody tragedy, for of Travis's noble band no man remained alive. So terribly had they fought that five hundred and twenty Mexicans were killed in that final assault, and as many more were wounded, while, including all who had fallen beneath the unerring Texas rifles during the siege, the Alamo had cost Santa Aña over two thousand men.

"In his rage at this stubborn resistance the Mexican General ordered the bodies of the heroic defenders to be burned just outside the Alamo, and so thoroughly was this work accomplished that by sunset of that dreadful day naught was left of them save a mound of wind-blown ashes and an undying memory."

"I think that is the very finest thing I ever heard of!" cried Bryce, nearly choked with emotion; "and now I know that I am prouder of being an American than any Greek boy can be of his country. But what happened after that, Uncle Cap? Did Santa Aña keep right on and conquer the whole of Texas?"

"How could he when the Texans had such a glorious example to follow as that of Travis and Bowie and Crockett, and those who fell with them, and such a battle-cry as 'Remember the Alamo'? No, indeed, he did not conquer Texas, and I think your history will tell just how long it took the Texans to sweep everything before them, and win an independence that they maintained for nine years before joining themselves to the great American republic, and becoming one of the United States."

"And what became of the Alamo?"

"It still stands, or rather the old church does, facing the principal plaza of the beautiful, wide-spread city that has grown around it since Travis and his men won for it a glorious immortality."

"Can any one see it, and go inside and touch its walls?"

"Certainly he may."

"Then," said Bryce, glowing with enthusiasm, "that is the very first place in all the world that I mean to visit just as soon as I set out on my travels."


Aside from the arduous official duties of the President of the United States, it is interesting to note some of the pleasure and profit that accrue from his term of four years. With an income of $138 a day, or $50,000 a year, paid by the strongest bank in the country, the United States Treasury, he may or may not leave office with a snug fortune of perhaps $100,000, depending on whether his expenditures have been of an extravagant nature. Many Presidents have taken office as poor men, but with the money they have saved during their term, and the influence that the office has brought them in business pursuits afterwards, they have died comparatively rich.

The country instals the President in the White House—a magnificent residence—and surrounds him with every convenience. With an appropriation that Congress makes every year most of the expenses of this establishment are paid.

The following is a fair idea of the many incidentals that come free to a President: Every bit of linen, bedding, towels, and such things is furnished. He is shaved by the White House barber. His table is spread with the finest, daintiest damask, set with the most exquisite china, and bountifully supplied with flowers from the White House conservatories. If he sends a telegram, it is done from an instrument in the White House, for which the government pays. His stationery, postage, etc., cost him nothing. Should he desire a game of billiards, there is a beautiful table at hand; or if he wants to take a drive, his stables, which the government pays the rent for and takes care of, are amply equipped. When he enters his business office, a man is stationed at the door to open and close it; and a private secretary, to whom the government pays a salary of $5000 a year, assists him with his correspondence. The services of a type-writer are also furnished. He is protected from the curious by a number of private watchmen. Should he want a cruise, a magnificent steam-ship from the navy is placed at his disposal.

There are many other things that cost him nothing, such as the culinary arrangements, his steward, who does the marketing, the many fancy delicacies sent him by enterprising firms. This, by-the-way, is a sort of nuisance, for it seems to be the desire of every manufacturer of some new eatable or drinkable to get it into the White House. Things of value that find their way there are never accepted.

Lately the bicycle manufacturers have tried to get President Cleveland to ride a wheel, and have offered the most extravagant inducements to both the President and Mrs. Cleveland. One firm said they would present Mrs. Cleveland with a gold bicycle studded with gems if she would ride it.

The President has to give state dinners and state receptions, but the expenses of these yearly probably do not exceed $7000 or $8000. The Marine Band always supplies the music, and the flowers come from the conservatory. It is seldom necessary to decorate the reception-rooms of the White House, so that these affairs, although of elaborate and ceremonial nature, are still inexpensive.

Upon his retirement to private life, the influence that his Presidential office has given him enables him to secure large sums in payment for whatever he may do, such as a lecture, an article in a periodical, or, if he practises law—which most of our ex-Presidents have done—such fees as $10,000 are no uncommon thing.


"I do not smile when I'm in bed,"
The little baby softly said,
"Because my smile's so very wide,
'Tis sure to fall out on one side,
And oh, how madly I should scold
To find my smile out in the cold!"

[Pg 992]




Perhaps we were pretty big boys—Jack and I. In fact, I'm afraid we were so big that we haven't grown much since, though it was ten years or more ago that it all happened. But Ollie was a boy, anyhow; he couldn't have been more than a dozen years old, and we looked upon him as being a very small boy indeed; though when folks saw us starting off, some of them seemed to think that we were as boyish as he, because, they said, it was such a foolish thing to do; and in some way, I'm sure I don't know how, boys have got the reputation of always doing foolish things. "They're three of a kind," said Grandpa Oldberry, as he watched us weigh anchor. "Their parents oughter be sent fer."

Well, it's hard to decide where to begin this true history. We didn't keep any log on this voyage of the Rattletrap. But I'll certainly have to go back of the time when Grandpa Oldberry expressed his opinion; and perhaps I ought to explain how we happened to be in that particular port. As I said, we—Jack and I—were pretty big boys, so big that we were off out West and in business for ourselves, though, after all, that didn't imply that we were very old, because it was a very new country, and everybody was young; after the election the first fall it was found that the man who had been chosen for county judge wasn't quite twenty-one years of age yet, and therefore, of course, couldn't hold office; and we were obliged to wait three weeks till he had had his birthday, and then to have a special election and choose him again. Everybody was young except Grandpa Oldberry, and he really wasn't old.

But I was trying to account for our being in the port of Prairie Flower. Jack had a cheese-factory there, and made small round cheeses. I had a printing-office, and printed a small square newspaper. In my paper I used to praise Jack's cheeses, and keep repeating how good they were, so people bought them; and Jack used, once in a while, to give me a cheese. So we both managed to live, though I think we sometimes got a little tired of being men, and wished we were back home, far from thick round cheeses and thin square newspapers.

One evening in the first week in September, when it was raining as hard as it could rain, and when the wind was blowing as hard as it could blow, and was driving empty boxes and barrels, and old tin pails and wash-boilers, and castaway hats and runaway hats and lost hats, and other things across the prairie before it, Jack came into my office, where I was setting type (my printer having been blown away, along with the boxes and the hats), and after he had allowed the rain to run off his clothes and make little puddles like thin mud pies on the dusty floor, he said,


"I'm tired of making poor cheeses."

"Well," I answered, "I'm tired of printing a poor newspaper."

"Let's sell out and go somewhere," continued Jack.

"All right," I said. "Let's."

So we did.

Of course the Rattletrap wasn't a boat which sailed on the water, though I don't know as I thought to mention this before. In fact, a water boat wouldn't have been of any use to us in getting out of Prairie Flower, because there wasn't any water there, except a very small stream called the Sioux River, which wandered along the prairie, sometimes running in one direction and sometimes in the other, and at other times standing still and wondering if it was worth while to run at all. The port of Prairie Flower was in Dakota. This was when Dakota was still a Territory, and before it had been cut into halves and made into two States, and left on the map like a green paving-stone lying on top of a yellow paving-stone. So, there being no water, we of course had to provide ourselves with a craft that could navigate dry land; which is precisely what the Rattletrap was—namely, a "prairie schooner."

"I've got a team of horses and a wagon," went on Jack, that rainy night when we were talking. "You've got a pony and a saddle. We've both got guns. When we drive out of town some stray dog will follow us. What more'll we want?"

"Nothing," I said, as I clapped my stick down in the space-box. "We can put a canvas cover on the wagon and sleep in it at night, and cook our meals over a camp-fire, and—and—have a time."

"Of course—a big time. It's a heavy spring-wagon, and there is just about room in it behind the seat for a bed. We can put on a cover that will keep out rain as well as a tent, and carry a little kerosene-oil stove to use for cooking if we can't build a fire out-doors for any reason. We can take along flour, and—and—and salt, and other things to eat, and shoot game, and—and—and have a time."

We became so excited that we sat down and talked till midnight about it. By that time the rain had stopped, and when we went out the stars were shining, and the level ground was covered with pools of water.

"If it was always as wet as this around here we could go in a genuine schooner," said Jack.

"Yes, that's so. But what shall we call our craft?"

"I think Rattletrap would be a good name," said Jack.

"I don't think it is a very pretty name," I replied.

"You wait till you get acquainted with that wagon, and you will say it's the best name in the world, whether it's pretty or not. You don't know that wagon yet. The tongue is spliced, the whiffletrees are loose, the reach is cracked, the box is tied together with a rope, the springs creak, and the wheels whobble, lean different ways, and never follow one another."

"Do they all turn in the same direction?" I asked.

"I don't believe they do. It would be just like one to turn backward while the other three were going forward."

"We'll call our craft the Rattletrap, then. Good-night."

"Good-night," said Jack; and we parted, each to dream of our approaching cruise.


In a week we were busy getting ready to start. I found, when I looked over the wagon as it stood back of the cheese-factory, that it was much as Jack had described it, only I noticed that the seat as well as the springs creaked, and that a corner was broken off the dash-board. But we set to work upon it with a will. We tightened up the nuts and screws all over it, and wound the broken pole with wire. We nailed together the box so that the rope could be taken off, and oiled the creaking springs. We had no trouble in finding a top, as half the people in the country[Pg 993] had come in wagons provided with covers only a year or so before. We got four bows and attached them to the box, one at each end, and the other two at equal distances between. These bows were made of hard-wood, and were a quarter of an inch thick and an inch and a half wide. They ran up straight on either side for two or three feet, and then rounded over, like a croquet-wicket, being high enough so that as we stood upright in the wagon-box our heads would just nicely clear them. Over this skeleton we stretched our white canvas cover, and tied it down tightly along the sides. This made what we called the cabin. There was an ample flap in front, which could be let down at night and fastened back inside during the day. At the rear end the cloth folded around, and was drawn together with a "puckering-string," precisely like a button-bag. By drawing the string tightly this back end could be entirely closed up; or the string could be let out, and the opening made any size wanted. After the cover was adjusted we stood off and admired our work.

"Looks like an elephant on wheels," said Jack.

"Or an old-fashioned sun-bonnet for a giantess," I added.

"Anyhow, I'll wager a cheese it'll keep out the rain, unless it comes down too hard," said Jack. "Now for the smaller parts of our rigging, and the stores."

On the back end we fastened a feed-box for the horses, as long as the wagon-box was wide, and ten or twelve inches square, with a partition in the middle. We put stout iron rings in the corners of this, making a place to tie the horses. On the dash-board outside we built another box, for tools. This was wedge-shaped, about five inches wide at the top, but running down to an inch or two at the bottom, and had a hinged cover. We put aboard a satchel containing the little additional clothing which we thought we should need. Things in this line which did not seem to be absolutely necessary were ruled out—indeed, for the sake of lightness we decided to take just as little of everything that we could. We made another box, some two feet long, a foot deep, and fourteen inches wide, with a hinged cover, which we called the "pantry," for our supply of food. This we stood in the wagon with the satchel. Usually in the daytime after we started each of these rode comfortably on the bed back of the seat. This bed was a rather simple affair, made up of some bed-clothing and pillows arranged on a thick layer of hay in the bottom of the wagon-box. Our small two-wick oil-stove we put in front next to the dash-board, a lantern we hung up on one of the bows, and a big tin pail for the horses we suspended under the wagon.

"Since you're going to be cook," I said to Jack, "you tend to getting the dishes together."

"They'll be few enough," he answered. "I don't like to wash 'em. Tin mostly, I guess; because tin won't break."

So he put a few knives and forks and spoons, tin plates and cups, a frying-pan, a small copper kettle, and a few other utensils in another box, which also found a home on the bed. Other things which we did not forget were a small can of kerosene; two half-gallon jugs, one for milk and one for water; a basket of eggs; a nickel clock (we called it the chronometer); and in the tool-box a hatchet, a monkey-wrench, screw-driver, small saw, a piece of rope, one or two straps, and a few nails, screws, rivets, and similar things which might come handy in case of a wreck.

"Now for the armament and the life-boat," said Jack.

For armament Jack contributed a double-barrelled shot-gun and a heavy forty-five-calibre repeating rifle, and I a light forty-four-calibre repeating rifle, and a big revolver of the same calibre (though using a slightly shorter cartridge), with a belt and holster. This revolver we stored in the tool-box, chiefly for use in case we were boarded by pirates, while the guns we hung in leather loops in the top of the cover. In the tool-box we put a good supply of ammunition and plenty of matches. We also each carried a match-box, a pocket compass, and a stout jack-knife.

"Now, how's your life-boat?" asked Jack.

I led her out. She was a medium-sized brown Colorado pony, well decorated with brands, and with a white face and two white feet. She wore a big Mexican saddle and a horse-hair bridle with a silver bit.

"She'll do," said Jack. "In case of wreck, we'll escape on her, if possible. She'll also be very handy in making landings where the harbor is poor, and in exploring unknown coasts."


All of this work took several days, but when it was done the Rattletrap was ready for the voyage, and we decided to start the next morning.

"She's as prairie-worthy a craft as ever scoured the plain," was Jack's opinion; "and if we can keep the four wheels from starting in opposite directions we'll be all right."

But where was Ollie all this while? The fact is I had forgotten about Ollie. And who was Ollie, anyhow? Ollie was Jack's little nephew, and he lived back East somewhere—I don't remember where. The nearer we got ready to start, the more firmly Jack became convinced that Ollie would like to go along, so at last he sent for him to come, and he arrived the night before our start. Ollie liked the idea of the trip so much that he simply stood and looked at the wagon, the guns, the pony, and the horses, and was speechless. At last he managed to say,

[Pg 994]

"Uncle Jack, it'll be just like a picnic, won't it?"

The next morning we started as early as we could. But it was not before people were up.

"Where be they going?" asked Grandpa Oldberry.

"Oh, Nebraska, and Wyoming, and the Black Hills, and any crazy place they hear of," answered Squire Poinsett.

"They'll all be scalped by Injuns," said Grandpa Oldberry. "Ain't the Injuns bad this fall?"

"So I was a-reading," said the Squire. "And in the hills I should be afeared of b'ar."

"Right," returned Grandpa. "B'ar and sim'lar varmints. And more 'specially boss-thieves and sich-like cut-throats. I disremember seeing three scalawags starting off on such a fool trip since afore the war."

[to be continued.]




The remaining time of George's stay at Greenway Court sped on rapidly—too fast for Lord Fairfax, who realized every day how close the boy had got to his heart.

As for Lance, a real friendship had grown up between him and George, and the old soldier thought with keen regret of the impending departure.

Black Bear had remained at Greenway until his wound was well on the way to recovery, but, as Lance said, "an Injun can walk on a broken leg and climb a tree with a broken arm," so that when Black Bear considered himself recovered a white man would have thought his cure scarcely begun.

Lord Fairfax found out that the Indian was the son of Tanacharison, one of the few chiefs who were friendly to the English and unfriendly to the French. On finding this out the Earl sent for Black Bear and had a long talk with him. With most Indians the idea of sparing an enemy seemed the extreme of folly; but Black Bear was of superior intelligence, and it had dawned upon him long before that the white men knew more than the red men about most things. And when he himself became the object of kindness, when he recalled George's remembering to give him water in his agony, and Lance's endeavors to cure his wound, the Indian's hard but not ignoble heart was touched. His father was reported among the wisest of the chiefs, and he had warned his tribe against taking either the French or the English side, as it was not their quarrel. Lord Fairfax found that in Black Bear, an uneducated savage who could neither read nor write, he had a man of strong natural intelligence, and one worth conciliating. He came to Greenway Court with blood and fire in his heart, and he left it peaceably inclined, and anxious for the friendship of the whits men. On the eve of his departure he said to George:

"White brother, if ever you are in the Indian land and want help, call on Black Bear, or Tanacharison, the great chief who dwells on the other side of the mountains where the two rivers come together, and you will be heard as quickly as the doe hears the bleat of her young."

Next morning Black Bear had disappeared, and was no more seen.

The time came, about the middle of December, when George left Greenway Court for Mount Vernon. It was in a mild spell of weather, and advantage had to be taken of it to make the journey, as the roads were likely to be impassable later in the season. He was to travel on horse-back, Billy following him on a mule and carrying the portmanteau.

The night before he left he had a long conversation with Lord Fairfax in the library. The Earl gently hinted at a wish that George might remain with him always, and that ample provision would be made for him in that event; but George, with tact and gratitude, evaded the point. He felt a powerful attachment towards Lord Fairfax, but he had no mind to be anybody's son except his father's and his mother's son. The Earl's last words on parting with him that night were:

"I desire you to promise me that, in any emergency of any kind—and there will be many in your life—you will call on me as your friend if not your father."

George answered, with gratitude in his heart, "I will gladly promise that, my lord; and it is great encouragement to me to feel that I have such a friend."

Next morning, after an early breakfast, George's horse and Billy's mule were brought to the door. All the negroes were assembled to bid him good-by. Cæsar hoped he would come back soon, but not for any more fights with Indians, and each had some good wish for him. After shaking hands with each one, George grasped Lance's hand.

"Good-by, Lance," said he. "I never can thank you enough for what you have taught me; not only fencing, but"—here George blushed a little at the recollection of his first fencing lesson—"teaching me to control my temper."

"You were the aptest scholar I ever had, Mr. Washington," answered the old soldier; "and as for your temper, I have never seen you anything but mild and gentle since that first day."

George then went to the library to find the Earl. He had meant to say something expressive of gratitude, but all through his life words failed him when his heart was overflowing. Lord Fairfax, too, was silent for a moment; but taking down the smaller of the two swords over the mantel-piece, he handed it to George.


"This sword," he said, "I wore in the service of the Great Duke. I give it to you as being worthy to wear it, and I charge you never to draw it in an unworthy cause."

"I promise you, my lord," was all that George could say in reply; but Lord Fairfax, who was a good judge of men, knew all that was passing in the boy's heart. The two wrung each other's hand; and George, going out, mounted his horse and rode off, with Billy trotting behind on the mule, and Rattler running at his heels.

For the first few miles George felt the keen regret which every sensitive young soul must feel at leaving a place and persons dearly loved. At the point on the mountain-side where, on his way to Greenway, the Earl had stopped and showed him his first view of the house, George stopped again, and looked long and sadly. But once turned from it, and out of sight of it, his mind recovered its spring. He remembered that he was on the way to Mount Vernon, and would soon be with his brother Laurence and his sister-in-law, whom he dearly loved. Then there was little Mildred, a baby girl when he had been at Mount Vernon a year before. He wondered how big she was then. And Betty would be there, and he would hear from his mother, and see her soon after Christmas. On the whole, what with these pleasant prospects, and fine clear December weather, and a good horse to ride, George began to whistle cheerfully, and presently called back to Billy:

"How do you like the notion of Christmas at Mount Vernon, Billy?"

"I likes it mightily, suh," replied Billy, very promptly. "Dee ain' no Injuns at Mount Vernon, an' dee black folks git jes as good wittles in de kitchen as de white folks gits—tuckey, an' graby, an' all de pudden dat's lef over, an' plenty o' 'lasses, an' heap o' urr things."

George travelled much faster than the lumbering coach in which he had made the best part of his first journey, and he had continuous good weather. On the fourth day, in the afternoon, he shouted delightedly to Billy, "There is the blue water, Billy!" and pointed to a silver line that glittered in the wintry sun. It was the Potomac, and a few miles' riding brought them to Mount Vernon.

As George rode up to the broad front porch a girlish figure flew out of the door, and Betty clasped him in her arms. He knew he had always loved Betty, but until then he did not fully realize how dear his only sister was to him. Then there was his brother Laurence—a handsome, military-looking man, but pale and slight in comparison with George,[Pg 995] who was a young Hercules in development—and his sister-in-law, a pretty young woman of whom he was fond and proud. And toddling about was little Mildred, whom Betty had taught to say "Uncle George," in anticipation of his arrival. All were delighted to see him; and his brother Laurence, telling him that Admiral Vernon, his old friend, for whom he had changed the name of the plantation to Mount Vernon from Hunting Creek, was visiting him, was for presenting him then and there to the Admiral. But Betty interposed.

"Wait until George has changed his clothes, brother, for I am sure he looks much better in his blue cloth jacket and his brocaded waistcoat, made of our mother's wedding-gown; and I want the Admiral to think well of him at first, and—oh, George has a sword! He thinks he is a man now!"

George blushed a little, but he was very willing, boy like, to tell of how Lord Fairfax gave him the rapier, and Laurence and Mrs. Washington and Betty were all delighted, except that Betty wished it had been the one with the diamond hilt, which caused George to sniff at her ignorance.

"That was a sword that anybody could buy who had money enough; but this is a sword that has seen service, as Lord Fairfax told me. He wore it at Bouchain."

As Betty had never heard of Bouchain before, she very wisely held her peace. But she soon dragged George off up stairs to the little room which was his whenever he staid at Mount Vernon, and where Billy had preceded him with the portmanteau. George was full of questions about his mother and everybody at Ferry Farm, and Betty was full of questions about Greenway Court and Lord Fairfax, so they made but little headway in their mutual inquiries. Suddenly, as George glanced out of the window towards the river, he saw a beautiful black frigate lying at anchor. It was near sunset of a clear December evening, and a pale green light was over the river, the land, and the sky. Every mast was clearly outlined, and her spars were exactly and beautifully squared in true man-of-war style. The union-jack flying from her peak was distinctly visible in the evening light, and the faint echo of the bugle came softly over the water, and died among the wooded hills along the shore.

George stood motionless and entranced. It was the first ship of war he had ever seen, and the beauty and majesty of the sight thrilled him to the core of his heart. Betty chattered on glibly.

"That is the frigate Bellona. The Captain and officers are here all the time, and some of them are brother Laurence's old friends that he served with at the siege of Cartagena. I expect some of them will be here to supper to-night. Besides Admiral Vernon, who is staying here, are Mr. William Fairfax and his son William," and Betty rattled off a dozen names, showing that the house was full for Christmas.

After Betty went out, when George, with Billy's assistance, was putting on his best clothes, he could not keep his eyes from wandering to the window, through which the Bellona was still seen in the waning light, looming up larger as the twilight fell. Presently he saw a boat put off with several officers, which quickly made the Mount Vernon landing.

When he was all dressed, with his fine white brocade waistcoat and his paste knee-buckles, he dearly wished to wear his sword, as gentlemen wore swords upon occasions when they were dressed for ceremony. But he felt both shy and modest about it, and at last concluded to leave it in his room. When he went downstairs he found the lower hall brightly illuminated with wax candles and a glorious fire, and decked with holly and mistletoe. It was full of company, several officers being present in uniform, and one tall, handsome, gray-haired officer stood before the hearth talking with Mrs. Laurence Washington. George guessed that to be Admiral Vernon, and his guess was correct.

As he descended the last steps, and advanced to where Mrs. Laurence Washington stood, every eye that fell upon him admired him. His journey, his intercourse with a man like Lord Fairfax, and his fencing lessons had improved his air and manner, graceful as both had been before. Mrs. Washington, laying her hand on his shoulder, which was already on a level with the Admiral's, said:

"Let me present to you my brother, Mr. George Washington, who has come to spend his Christmas with us."

Admiral Vernon glanced at him keenly as he shook hands with him.

"My brother has just returned from a visit to the Earl of Fairfax, at Greenway Court, my father's relative"—for Mrs. Washington had been Anne Fairfax of Belvoir. "The Earl has been most kind to him, and honored him by giving him the sword which he wore at the siege of Bouchain."

"I believe he entered the town," said Admiral Vernon. "I have often heard of the adventure, and it was most daring."

"Why have you not the sword on, George?" asked his sister.

"Because—because—" George stammered, and then became hopelessly embarrassed.

"Because he is a modest young gentleman," said the Admiral, smiling.

George was introduced to many other persons, all older than himself; but presently he recognized William Fairfax, a cousin of his sister's, who had been at Mount Vernon with him the Christmas before. William was a merry youngster, a year or two older than George, but a foot or two shorter. The two boys gravitated together, and, as young gentlemen in those days were expected to be very retiring, they took their places in a corner, and when supper was announced they made up the very tail of the procession towards the dining-room. At supper the three young people—George and Betty and William Fairfax—sat together. The conversation was gay and sprightly until the ladies left, when it grew more serious.

"Close up, gentlemen, close up!" cried Laurence Washington, cordially, motioning them to take the seats left vacant by the ladies. George and William Fairfax rose to leave the room then, as boys were not expected to remain on those occasions, but Laurence stopped them.

"Stay, George and William; you are both old enough now to be company for men; and especially I desire an account from you, George, of how affairs are progressing at Greenway Court. I hear my Lord Fairfax had to repel an attack from the Indians within the last month. That, Admiral," he continued, turning to Admiral Vernon, "is one of the pleasures which Lord Fairfax exchanged for a residence in England."

"How does he stand it, Mr. Washington?" asked Admiral Vernon. "Does he remain in his eyrie among the mountains because he is too proud to acknowledge his loneliness?"

"I think not, sir," answered George. "He has a very large, comfortable house, much like a fortress. It is well furnished with everything, including books; my Lord Fairfax is the greatest reader I ever saw. He does not lead an idle life; on the contrary, he takes great interest in public affairs, and is lieutenant of the county. Especially is he concerned about our northwest boundary, and is preparing to have his lands west of the Alleghany Mountains surveyed, I believe, as much in the interest of the country as of his own, for the French are encroaching on that side."

Although George spoke with the greatest modesty, it was evident that he understood his subject. It was a deeply interesting one to all present, as it was perfectly well known that the first serious collision between the French and English in America would mean war between France and England.

Admiral Vernon and the other officers asked many questions about the temper of the Indians towards the English, the disposition of the French forts, and other matters, to all of which George gave brief but intelligent answers. After an hour spent in conversation at the table the scraping of fiddles was heard in the hall.

"Come, gentlemen," cried Laurence, "the ladies are waiting for us; we cannot be so ungallant as to remain here longer."

The large room to the right of the entrance had been[Pg 996] cleared for dancing, and there, too, were wax candles shining amid Christmas greens, and a Christmas fire blazing on the hearth. On two planks placed across two wooden "crickets" sat Yellow Jake and Lef'-hand Torm, the negro fiddlers, tuning up their instruments and grinning from ear to ear. In every window merry black faces peered with beady eyes and shining ivories; for under the mild and patriarchal rule in Virginia in those days the negroes were considered as humble members of the family, who had a share in all its pleasures, as in all its sorrows. There were many ladies present in hoops and powder, and with stiff brocades that rustled as they walked, and great fans, which they used in dancing the minuet as the gentlemen used their cocked hats. George, in his heart, thought his sister Anne the handsomest of them all, and that in a year or two Betty would be a charmingly pretty girl. As it was, Mistress Betty, in her white sarcenet silk, looked a picture of modest and girlish beauty. She loved to dance; and when George came up, as the gentlemen were selecting their partners, and said, with a smile, "Come, Betty, nobody here wants to dance with a girl and boy like you and me, so we will have to dance together," Betty jumped for joy.

"If I had waited, William Fairfax would have asked me to dance," she whispered to George; "but I would much rather dance with you, because you are so much taller and older-looking, and William is such a boy!"

William, however, was very gladly accepted later in the evening, when George, on being noticed by the other ladies, who admired his graceful manners and fine appearance, neglected Betty for them, after the manner of very young gentlemen. The first dance was a minuet de la cour, the most graceful and dignified of all dances. Mrs. Washington, dancing with Admiral Vernon, took the head of the room, and motioned George and Betty to take the place opposite to her. The minuet was formed, the fiddlers gave an extra flourish, and the dance began, while the gentlemen bowed so low to every lady that they swept the floor with their cocked hats. Among them all no couple were more graceful and dignified than the boy and girl. Betty danced with the utmost gravity, making her "bow, slip, slide, and pirouette," in the most daintily careful manner. George's noble figure and perfect grace were well adapted to this charming dance, and many compliments were paid both of them, which made Betty smile delightedly and George turn red with pleasure. When the stately minuet was over, the fiddlers struck into Betty's favorite, the "Marquis of Huntley's Rigadoon," which was as jolly and harum-scarum as the minuet was serious and dignified. Betty in her heart liked the rigadoon best, and whispered to George that "William was good enough for the rigadoon." William therefore came forward, and the two had a wild romp to the music of two energetic fiddlers. George was rather shy about asking the ladies, all of whom were older than he, to dance; but having made the plunge, he was accepted, and afterwards poor Betty had no one to depend upon but William Fairfax, who was equally ill off for partners. No one was gayer or more gallant than the gray-haired Admiral Vernon, and the veteran sailor and the boy George divided between them the honors of the evening.

The dance stopped early, as the next day was Christmas, and they were sure to be roused betimes; and, besides, there was to be a grand ball for all the gentry round about on Christmas night.

When George went up to his room he was very well inclined for bed from his day's travel and his evening's amusement, and Billy was snoozing comfortably before the fire, with Rattler asleep within reach. Before George slept, however, he wrote two letters—one to his mother and another to Lord Fairfax. Mount Vernon and its gayety, and the new faces he had met, had not put out of his mind the two persons so loved and admired by him. But as soon as his letters were written he tumbled into bed, and was asleep in less time than it takes to tell it.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 997]




The boy sergeants wandered about the town, made some purchases, and found great amusement in watching a bevy of Mojave Indian girls ornament their arms, necks, and faces with colored chalks in various fanciful designs, display themselves briefly to their admiring friends, and then plunge into and swim about a lagoon that backed up to the town from the river. Emerging with no trace left of their recent adornment, they would proceed to renew it in a different design, and take another swim.

"Quite like watering-place belles with extensive wardrobes," remarked Frank.

"And takes about as long to put on the paint as to put on a fashionable dress," said Henry, "but not so long to remove it."

Another thing that interested the boys was a balsa or raft, made by the Mojaves of the cane-grass which grew in the river-bottoms to the height of fifteen feet. A large bundle bound at the ends with withes would sustain two men. The boys borrowed one of an Indian girl, who was sitting in the shade of a cottonwood prinking herself artistically with an original and intricate pigmentary pattern. Stepping on board, they paddled about the quiet lagoon for some time.

Tiring at last of the sport, they separated, Frank saying that he was going to look over his shot-gun, and, perhaps, go for some quail; and Henry, that he meant to find Clary, and set some lines for catfish.

The younger sergeant failing to find the soldier, selected a line, and procuring some bait, returned alone to the lagoon. On his way he met the Indian girl walking along the sidewalk, an object of admiration and envy to the men and women of her people. Her bronze flesh was ornamented with a lacelike tracery in many tints.

"How exceedingly pretty!" said Henry, in Spanish, a language fairly well understood by the aborigines of the Southwest.

"I, or my paint?" asked the girl.

"The paint is well put on; but I think you look prettiest just after a swim."

"Thank you, señor."

"May I take the balsa again, Indita?"

"Si, señor; and you may keep it; but return the paddle."

"Thank you. I will leave the paddle on the shore."

With this exchange of civilities Henry walked down to the pool. Selecting a lid of a packing-box, he shaped a rude paddle with his pocket-knife. An idea had occurred to him. He wondered if he could not float down the river to the racing-ground, and get a peep at Chiquita and Sancho as they came in victors; for he felt sure no ponies in Arizona could beat them. But the Lieutenant had told the escort not to go to the race. True. But what harm could there be if he kept out of sight; and there must be some bushes or hummocks on the river-bank where he could conceal himself. He determined to try it. If there was no shelter, he could float past, land below, abandon the balsa, and return to town by a circuitous route.

Placing an empty box on the raft for a seat, he took Vic on board, and began paddling out of the lagoon. Speed could not be got out of such a craft. It was simply a convenience for crossing or journeying down the river. The Mojaves, whose village was five miles above La Paz, came down on freshly made balsas every day, but walked home, carrying their paddles.

[Pg 998]

Snatched by the rippling and undulating current of the murky river, the boy and dog were swept along at a swift rate. By using his paddle vigorously he kept near the shore, until, sweeping around a bend, he saw the steamer Cocopah tied up to the bank, and realized that if he did not quickly work out a piece his sheaf of cane-grass would be carried under her bow. It proved a desperate struggle, and he cleared the steamboat with no space to spare.

He floated swiftly on, and saw half a mile down the shore a crowd of men, mounted and on foot, intently watching something inland. He was approaching the race-course. He made a landing on a sand spit that struck off from an outward curve of the bank, and dragged the balsa out of the water.

The shore rose abruptly from the bar to a height two feet above his head. He lifted and boosted Vic up, and seizing the long tufts of overhanging grass, and thrusting his feet into the loops of willow roots, drew himself to the higher level, and crept into a screen of low bushes.

Peering through the branches Henry saw a straightaway course, parallel to the river, bordered for three hundred yards with the motley crowd of a mining and Indian country. At the northern end of the track was a group of ten ponies.

Eager to obtain an unobstructed view of the race, the boy dashed for a gnarled cottonwood on his left, ordered Vic to lie down at its foot, and swung himself into its branches. Climbing into the top, he found no difficulty in picking out two ponies, a black and a cream-color, and recognizing the property of his brother and himself. In his opinion they were the handsomest animals in the group.

At the fourth signal—a pistol-shot—the ten ponies got away. Down the three-hundred-yard track they sped, and over the last fourth the black and cream-color led by a length, crossing the goal with Sancho half a neck in advance. Of course the little sergeant knew they would beat, and in spite of his sorrow at the loss of the ponies—intensified by this stolen sight of them—he could not refrain from swinging his cap, and uttering a subdued, "Bravo, Sancho! bravita, Chiquita!"

The cheer was promptly answered by a succession of barks at the foot of the tree, and Vic, interpreting the boy's words to mean that she was set free, dashed off at the top of her speed for the race-course, and down its length to where the victors were now held by their dismounted riders. She bounded wildly about them for a few moments, and then, standing still, Henry saw each horse in turn place its nose to the dog's nose. One of the men struck the dog sharply with the loop of his bridle-rein, and as she fled back in the direction of the boy's outlook, he saw them separate from the crowd, and, after a brief consultation, follow her.

Henry, perceiving he was discovered, let himself down from the tree. Texas Dick and Jumping Jack approached.

"Ven acá, muchacho," said the Mexican.

Henry did not stir, and Dick said, in Spanish:

"He does not understand your lingo. I'll try him in English. Come here, boy."

Henry had not disregarded Juan's summons, for any reason, but the remark of Dick gave him an idea. By pretending to be ignorant of Spanish he might learn something that would prove of advantage to him. Accordingly he came promptly forward when Dick spoke.

"From Fort Whipple, ain't yer, youngster?"

"I am."

"D'ye know these critters?"

"The black is my brother's; the light is mine."

"Yer lookin' on 'em up, I s'pect?"

"We shall take them, if we can."

"You see, I was right," continued Dick in Spanish to his companion. "They are here to take these horses."

"Then we'd better collect the prize and our stakes, and leave," replied Juan.

"Where shall we go?" asked Dick. "Arizona is getting uncomfortable for me, and your people across the Mexican line don't love you."

"Valgame Dios, no! Let's cross the river and go to San Diego or Los Angeles."

"Estar bueno. Come with us, youngster," he added, in English; "and, mind ye, keep a still tongue in yer head, or it'll go hard with yer."

Henry followed the men to the head of the race-course, where they received their prizes and the winnings, and withdrew to the river-bank. There they divided the money and held a conference.

"We'd better cross the river to-night and camp at El Rincon until morning, and then strike for Dos Palmas and the coast," said Dick.

"Shall we leave our monte and other stuff in town?" asked Juan.

"No; you stay here and watch the boy, and I'll go back and sell out. Anastacio Barella will buy. Look sharp that the young soldier does not send a message by his dog. I have heard strange stories of her. I will bring down something for our supper."

Dick galloped away, leaving the Mexican and Henry to await his return. As the darkness deepened in the river-bottom the boy's thoughts grew more and more despondent. When he heard the men forming their plans of escape he had thought of sending a message to the Lieutenant by Vic, and his hopes had risen with the prospect of causing the arrest of Dick in town, and the pursuit and capture of Juan at the race-course. But Dick's last caution to his comrade had shattered all. He realized that by his disobedience of what he knew to be the Lieutenant's wishes he had brought disgrace upon himself, and ruined every chance of recovering the ponies.

It was night when Dick returned and reported to his fellow thief that he had made an advantageous sale of their gambling property.

"Now, kid, yer kin slope," said he, addressing the disheartened lad. "Tell th' Liftinint that he can look for us at Hermosilla, on th' other side ther bound'ry. Good-by."

Henry hurried away toward La Paz, with Vic close at his heels. There was no occasion for haste, for he felt that nothing in the town could overtake the lost Sancho and Chiquita. Still he hurried and stumbled along in the darkness.

"Oh, Vicky," said the boy, in his misery, stooping to pat her head, "I ought to be reduced to the ranks, and dishonorably discharged from the service for this. I have done very wrong. I've lost the ponies for good."

The dog licked his hand sympathetically, and then suddenly bounded away, barking, and Henry heard Frank's voice say,

"Why, Tom, here's Vic!"

"Thin Sargint Hinery must be near," said the soldier.

"Yes, I'm here, Frank—and oh, Frank, I'm in such trouble!" And in a curiously jumbled and half-incoherent manner Henry related his afternoon's adventures.

At the conclusion of the recital the three held a consultation as to what was best to be done. Time was precious, and the town was two miles distant.

"Sargints," said Private Tom, "I belave we can do bist by oursilves. You say the grass-boat is close by, Hinery?

"Not far from here, Tom."

"And the thaves are going to camp and cook their supper on the other side?"

"So they said."

"Thin lit's interfere with their arringemints. I think the Liftinint will overlook an 'absince without lave' if we bring in the raskils and the ponies."

The soldier and boys turned, and, bidding Vic keep close to them, hurried to the bar where Henry had left the gift of the Mojave belle. As they were lifting the elastic raft into the water they heard the voices of men on the river, and knew that the horse-thieves were fording the stream.

The Colorado was shoal, having an average summer depth of four feet at La Paz. Clary secured two poles from the river débris lodged on the bar, one for Frank and one for himself. Henry sat on the box in the middle, holding his companions' guns across his lap with one hand, and grasping Vic's collar with the other. The well-filled game-bags were between his feet.

The balsa moved slowly towards the opposite shore and rapidly down stream, the stalwart Irish soldier's feet settling[Pg 999] into the loosely bound stems as he poled. Becoming alarmed when he found the water standing above his ankles, he called, in a subdued undertone:


"Sargint Frank, I belave I shall go through this l'aky gondola before we get acrass."

"Take Henry's paddle, Tom. It lies on the right side of the box. Lay it across the reeds and stand on it."

"Ah, sure, that's betther! Kape yer ind a little more up-strame, sargint. We'll steer by the avening-star."

The distance to the western side slowly lessened. A landing could not be selected where all was dark; that must be left to chance. But chance proved kindly, and the balsa lodged against the shore in the still water of a little cove. The three climbed the bank, and soon began to move upstream. They knew that the ponies, having waded most of the way, had not been carried down much by the current, and must have landed far above them. Vic was cautioned to "watch out," for the pursuers depended upon her scent to show them where the ponies left the water.

They had made their way for nearly an hour over a rough and miry river-bottom when the setter paused. She began sniffing the ground to the right and left for a few moments, and then settled to a course, going west for half a mile, and then north, parallel to the river.

"She must be on the trail, Tom," said Frank; "but I do not see why the men went upstream."

"There's an excillint rayson for that, sargint," said Clary. "One of the routes to the coast is from La Paz, and the ford and landing is nearly opposite the town. The thaves have gone to El Rincon, as the landing is called."

The boys and soldier continued to struggle through tangling grass, intertwining bushes, and over uneven ground, until they reached an open space, and saw a light ahead. Bidding Vic drop behind and remain silent, they moved cautiously in its direction, until they came out upon a hard, level, and grassless plat, the river end of the California trail.

Across the level, near a clump of cottonwoods, was a fire where Texas Dick and Jumping Jack were plainly visible cooking their supper. On the side of their fire opposite the river were two saddles, upon which rested their rifles and revolvers. Still farther west the two ponies were picketed and grazing.

Frank told Henry to go to the ponies and remain there with Vic, while he and Clary moved towards the fire. Screening themselves behind tufts and swells, and lastly behind the saddles, they worked across the level, the sound of their movements being covered by the booming and rushing of the great river. When within twenty yards of the fire, and five from the saddles, Private Tom Clary sprang to his feet, aimed his double-barrelled shot-gun at the thieves, and shouted:

"Throw up your arrums!"

At the same moment Frank made a flying leap for the saddles, and seized the rifles and revolvers. Henry was told to come forward and assist his brother in keeping Dick and Juan under the muzzles of their own rifles, while Clary securely bound them. This accomplished, the boys went back for a moment to renew their acquaintance with their little horses. Yes, the chase was over, and their favorites were again in their possession, and it cannot appear strange that the young soldiers went into boyish ecstasies of delight at their good-fortune, embracing, patting, and talking to the ponies, as if they understood all that was said to them.

At last they rejoined Clary at the fire, and the three fell into a discussion of how they were to return to La Paz. Each one felt that it would be impossible to ford the river and yet retain possession of the prisoners. Either of the boys must go on one of the horses or Vic be sent. It was decided to send the setter. A message was written, and after much persuasion Vic was made to understand that she was to swim the Colorado, and struck across for the other shore.

While the boy sergeants were going through these adventures I had remained in La Paz. At retreat roll-call Corporal Duffey had reported "Private Clary absent and unaccounted for," and at Mr. Gray's table the boys were absent from supper.

At first I did not give myself any uneasiness over the absentees, thinking they had miscalculated a distance in their rambles and would soon appear. The Captain and Director of the steamer Cocopah were present, closing the transportation business. When finished, the Captain left to prepare his boat for an early start.

Becoming alarmed at the boys' continued absence, at midnight I began a search for them, and soon learned that Frank and Clary had gone quail-shooting, and that Henry had been seen to paddle out of the lagoon on a Mojave balsa, accompanied by Vic. I did not feel especially anxious concerning the older boy; he and Clary were probably astray, and would turn up safe.

I led the men in a long search beside the river without finding a clew, and returning to Mr. Gray's, sat a long time on the veranda alone, sadly reflecting upon the probable fate of Henry and the absence of Vic. I thought if the boy was simply in trouble, he would have sent our never-failing messenger to me. The fact that he had not done so made me fear the worst. Perhaps the faithful Vic was now watching his stranded body on the shores of the great river.

In the midst of these reflections there scrambled up the steps a wet and bedraggled dog, who dropped at my feet a chip. Carrying her in my arms to my room, I examined her collar, and found a few leaves of a memorandum-book covered with Frank's handwriting.

The news of Vic's arrival with a message spread quickly, and the whole household was gathered in my room when the wet leaves were unfolded and the boys' exploit learned.

"Good! good!" exclaimed the Director. "Come with me to the Cocopah. We'll steam across, and get the whole party—boys, soldier, ponies, and scamps. Such boys must have the best transportation on the river."

On the west side of the Colorado Private Tom Clary and the boy sergeants sat by the fire broiling quail, which they seasoned from the supplies of Texas Dick and Juan Brincos, and accompanied by slices of toasted bread from the same source. In the midst of their enjoyment of "quail on toast" a loud "whoof! whoof! whoof!" came across the river.

"Hullo," said Henry, "the old Cocopah is starting for the Gulf mighty early. I should think the pilot would find it difficult to keep off the shores when it is so dark."

The boys could see by the boat's changing lights that her bow was swinging out into the stream, and expected shortly to see her starboard lights as she headed downward. But she seemed to pause with her furnace fires and pilot-lanterns pointing towards them. "Whoof! whoof! whoof!—patter, patter, patter,"—the noise of the steamboat grew louder and louder, until the boys rose from their seats and stared in surprise at the rapidly growing lights.

"I really believe she is coming here," said Frank.

"She is, or she nades a dale of space to turn in," observed Tom Clary.

Presently two tall smoke-stacks separated themselves from the surrounding darkness and appeared high above the campers' heads.

"Ahoy there, boys!" shouted the Captain's voice from the pilot-house.

"Ay, ay, sir!" answered Frank.

"Get ready to come on board! Below, there—ready with the gang-plank! Lower away!"

Down came the plank, and a joyous group of friends walked down to the shore to greet the boys and the soldier.

A little time afterwards the boy sergeants led their ponies on board, and Private Tom Clary escorted the prisoners. The Cocopah cleared away and paddled back to the La Paz side, where Texas Dick and Juan Brincos were turned over to the civil authorities, and Sancho and Chiquita to the escort in Mr. Gray's corral.

Three days later the boys and I took leave of Mr. Baldwin, who was now in charge of the government store-house,[Pg 1000] and accompanied by Mr. Gray, started for Fort Whipple. Hanging under the hind axle of the ambulance was a ten-gallon keg, and inside was another. We left La Paz at six in the evening and reached Tyson's Wells at ten. Remaining there until four o'clock the next afternoon, we filled the kegs with water, and drove all night, arriving at Hole-in-the-Plain at sunrise. Remaining all day, the animals grazing without water, we made a second night's drive to Black Tanks; and then a third to Date Creek, where we resumed travelling by daylight. It is an old army custom to make night drives in warm weather over long distances between water. The nights of the far West being invariably cool, the strain is less on man and beast.

Two days after our arrival at Whipple the mail brought an order from the Department Commander relieving me from duty in Arizona that I might comply with an order from the War Department detailing me as Military Professor at Oldenu Military Academy. The same mail brought a letter from Colonel Burton, directing that his sons accompany me to San Francisco.

As rapidly as possible preparations were made for our departure. It chanced that Tom Clary's term of enlistment terminated a week before we were to start, and we were glad enough to give so worthy and useful a man free transportation in our ambulance to the coast, and by steamer to San Francisco.

In those days there were no overland railroads. After a two weeks' holiday at the Presidio, the boys, Clary, Vic, and I took the steamer for Panama and New York, Colonel Burton paying Tom's passage in the steerage. More than that; through my influence Clary was appointed to a vacant janitorship in the academy, and when Manuel Perea and Sapoya and the four ponies arrived the following spring he had the care of the animals.

the end.



We all know how Columbus thought the world was round, and that by sailing west he could reach Cipango or India, from whence the Europeans formerly received their spices, silks, and other luxuries.

Fired by dreams of stately cities, gold-roofed temples, and spice-laden groves, with kings and princes surrounded by Oriental splendor, Columbus sailed across the Atlantic Ocean. After many days he came to land, which was one of the Bahama Islands, and then he sailed south, and came to another island, so beautiful with birds and flowers and trees and rivers that he said one could live there forever, as "it is the most beautiful island eyes ever beheld." In the fragrance of the woods and sweet-smelling flowers he thought he had reached the spice-perfumed groves of the East India islands, but its strangely painted people of cinnamon hue puzzled him greatly.

This beautiful land was the island of Cuba. After its discovery by Columbus the Spaniards came and took possession of it. They found the people of a simple nature, with strange notions about God and the creation of the universe. As they knew nothing about Christ, they were not Christians, and consequently the Spaniards soon began to look upon them as little better than wild animals. Then we must remember that the Spaniards who came flocking to the islands discovered by Columbus were not only adventurers seeking their fortunes, but were often the criminals from overcrowded jails, and others who could not make an honest living at home. As these people had no idea of working themselves, they made the simple inhabitants work for them. And as there were many of these inhabitants, the Spaniards counted their lives of no value, and not only overworked them, treating them with great cruelty, but killed them out of pure wantonness, just as some boys delight in stoning dogs and killing birds.

There was one good Spaniard, however, who became convinced that it was wrong to make slaves of these poor people and to treat them so cruelly. Becoming a priest, he began by giving his own slaves their freedom, and then he went into the pulpit and preached against the wrong-doings of his countrymen. This man was the good Father Las Casas, who has been called the protector of the Indians. But the good work of this one good man could go but a little way against so many wicked ones. The native inhabitants rapidly disappeared under the cruel treatment of their harsh task-masters, and then negro slaves, a hardier race than the red men, were brought from Africa to take the place of the Indian, in spite of Father Las Casas and his sermons.

So it happens that in the island of Cuba to-day there are none of the Indians left. They have long since disappeared. In their place remain the negroes, who are the descendants of the slaves from Africa, and the white Cubans, who are descended from the Spanish settlers. But owing to the climate, the fertility of the soil and other conditions which surround them, they have grown up to be different men from their Spanish grandfathers.

Now Spain is a land ruled over by a King, and its lands are in the hands of a few fortunate men called counts and marquises, so that the poor people have no land of their own which they may cultivate, and thus earn their living as our country farmers do. Then Spain requires all of her boys to become soldiers, and serve the King, who is now only a boy himself. As the Spanish boys grow up without much education, and never learn of the liberty enjoyed by the people of other countries, they think this is all right. But then the King finds that he has more of these boy soldiers than he can feed, so his ministers say, "Well, there's that rich island across the sea; if our[Pg 1001] boys want to go there and till the soil, they need not serve as soldiers." So many of the Spanish boys go to Cuba, and often they forget Spain, take a Cuban girl for a wife, and never go home again. And then their children are Cubans with Cuban mothers. Cuba is so near to the United States, these Cuban children often come here, where they learn something about our system of government, and the education and freedom enjoyed by our people. Then they go back and tell their brothers and sisters all about it. This has gone on for a great many years, till these Cubans have become filled with ideas of liberty and self-government. They do not see why they should be ruled by a King who lives so far away, and then they do not see why they should have a King at all. Besides, they say they are taxed a great deal to support this King and his ministers in Spain, and every year more Spaniards come to Cuba, and as these are poor and anxious to work, they occupy all the places which would otherwise be held by the Cubans. Thus there is a jealousy between the Cubans and the new arrivals, who soon begin to regard their cousins born in the island very much as their ancestors regarded the native Indians.

About twenty-eight years ago many of the Cubans got together in the eastern part of the island, and thinking they could throw off the Spanish rule, they armed themselves and went into the mountains, where they fought against the Spanish rule for ten years. At that time the negroes of Cuba were still slaves, their masters buying and selling them as though they were cattle instead of human beings. As these black men were all strong and hardy fellows, the Cubans told them that if they would help them fight they would give them their liberty. Of course they were anxious to become free men, and great many of them joined the white Cubans and fought with them very well. Spain tried hard to put down this insurrection, but found it very expensive to send her soldiers to fight a people among the mountains in their own country. At last, after she had spent a great deal of money and lost a great many of her boy soldiers, she sent her greatest General, Martinez Campos, with full power to treat with the rebellious Cubans. He succeeded in communicating with the revolutionists, and promised them certain reforms in the administration of their affairs. The Cubans wanted self-government, and, among other things, they stipulated that the negroes who had fought with them should be recognized as free men. This did not seem reasonable, because the negroes who had remained faithful to Spain were still slaves, while those who had rebelled were to be rewarded. General Campos agreed, however, and the Cubans laid down their arms. Thus the first successful blow for freedom was struck, and Spain soon passed laws which eventually gave the rest of the negroes their liberty.

There followed some sixteen years of comparative peace, although the Cubans claim that Spain never fulfilled the promises made to them by Martinez Campos. There were several attempts to make war again, but the Cubans appear to have been afraid. They are not a fighting people, like our ancestors, who fought against a tax of threepence on a pound of tea because they considered it unjust. The Cubans wanted to be let alone, and often paid their taxes without complaint. But as Spain still sent her boys as colonists to Cuba, the Cubans found it very hard to compete with these boys, pay their taxes, and make a living. A great many of them left the island and came to this country, where they have made their homes, but always looking across the water, hoping that some day their island would be free from Spanish rule. Some of the Cubans, instead of leaving the island took to the woods and became bandits. Thus things went from bad to worse, until some of the old leaders of the last war thought the time had arrived to strike another blow for the freedom of Cuba.


About one year and a half ago, Maximo Gomez, a soldier who had fought in the ranks and had risen to be a general in the ten years' war, landed on the east end of Cuba. He was shortly followed by Antonio Maceo, a mulatto, who had also a command in the last war. They proclaimed a rebellion against Spain, and called upon all Cubans to join them. It was not long before they had an army. Spain was slow to understand the seriousness of the situation, and declared that it was only a negro uprising which she could easily put down. Of course there were a great many negroes who flocked to the standard raised by Gomez and Maceo, for they knew that it was through the Cubans they had gained their liberty. But the uprising became general throughout the island. Gomez marched his army from the eastern end of the island to the centre, and then invaded Matauzas and Havana provinces. On the way he met the Spaniards several times, but they were unable to check his movements. The old general, Martinez Campos, who had treated with him seventeen years before, tried to stop him in his westward march, and finally failed at Coliseo, in Matauzas province. Then the Spaniards became dissatisfied with their greatest General, for Martinez Campos spoke the truth, and told Spain many things which she did not like to hear, and he refused to kill his prisoners, for he said the Cubans did not kill his soldiers when they caught them. But the Spaniards thought the Cubans should be killed for fighting against Spain, so they sent General Weyler with full power to do as he liked in the island of Cuba. Under the rule of this General matters have grown very much worse for Spain, and to one who has studied the situation carefully in the island it looks very much as though the Cubans were going to gain their independence. The Spaniards hold the towns, while the Cubans remain in the country. There are no great battles fought, and while the Spaniards claim that they cannot find the rebels, the Cubans destroy and lay waste the country, believing that the Spaniards will eventually get tired and give up trying to rule them, for Cuba's wealth, they say, is the cause of the yoke she bears, and all must be destroyed rather than submit again to Spanish rule.

Pedro Muñoz de Sepulveda, Civil Governor of Havana.

General Weyler.

Navarro Fernandez, Commander of the Navy, and his Adjutant.

Señor Pintas, General Weyler's Secretary.


[Pg 1002]



There's a strange gaunt piper in doublet brown
Comes over the heather and over the sea;
His dwelling is neither in city nor town,
And he pipes for the wee little folk and me.

His hat is high and pointed and green,
With a sprig in the hand from the holly-tree,
And his smile is the merriest ever seen
In the eyes of the wee little folk and me.

He comes at the close of the winter days,
As we sit in the firelight after tea;
He steals from the corner, and smiles and plays
For the tired wee little folk and me.

And what are the tunes that the piper sings
As the strange pipe trembles with melody?—
I'd like to tell you the beautiful things
He tells to the wee little folk and me.

But they fade as soon as the piper goes
To take his journey o'er heather and sea.
Will he come again to us? Nobody knows.
Will you wait with the wee little folk and me?



The other night, after my children had been tucked away safely in bed, I was seated in my library reading. The house was very warm, and I opened the huge window on the south side of the room to let in a little air, and as I did so a little bee came buzzing in through the slats of the shutters. I paid no attention to him at first, but after I had taken my arm-chair again, and had settled back in comfort to resume my story, the little creature began to buzz about my ears in a fashion which did not altogether please me.

"Shoo!" I cried, waving my hand gently at him. "Why don't you shoo?"

Now you may believe me or not, as you please, but the little bee giggled, and said:

"What shall I shoe? Bees can do lots of things, but they can't shoe. They are not blacksmiths."

The reply amused and interested me, and I put down my book and gazed at him without saying a word, waiting for his next remark.

"In fact," the bee continued, "I could tell you a story about that very point, if you'd listen."

"Go ahead," said I. "I'll be delighted."

And the little bee told me the following story.

Once upon a time, a great many years ago, the Queen of the bees sent to the Lord High Treasurer of her kingdom for his annual report, and when it came she was very much surprised to find that the treasury contained about half as much treasure as she had supposed.

"Where is the rest of the money?" she demanded in severe tones.

"We haven't had it, your Majesty," said the Lord High Treasurer.

"Haven't we earned it?" she asked.

"Yes," replied the Lord High Treasurer. "But we haven't been able to sell all the honey we've made. We've been too industrious."

"It is impossible to be too industrious," said the Queen. "Send the Trade Secretary here."

The Trade Secretary came at once, and bore out all that the Lord High Treasurer had said. The bees had made more honey than they could sell.

"Then we must have a mass-meeting and tell all the beeple," she observed.

"The what?" I asked, interrupting the bee's story.

"The beeple. You folks are people. We bees are beeple," explained my little visitor.

I laughed, and he continued:

"Tell the beeple," said the Queen, "and at once, because when they read your report and see how little profit we have gained for our labors this year they may become suspicious. If we tell them at once, as soon as we have discovered it ourselves, they cannot complain."

And so the mass-meeting was called, and ten thousand bees gathered before the royal hives.

The Queen undertook to tell the beeple herself.

"Most beloved subjects," said she, as she emerged from the royal hive amid the enthusiastic buzzing of the beepulace, "I have been going over the report of my Trade Secretary during the past week, and I regret to say that the showing is not satisfactory."

A murmur of disappointment greeted the announcement.

"We have not been idle, your Majesty!" cried one of the workers. "I myself have flown from flower to flower for five hours a day every day during the season, and I can testify that all my friends and neighbors have kept themselves equally busy."

"I have nothing to complain about on that score," returned her Majesty, graciously. "Indeed, you have all been most industrious. Even the drones have droned to my satisfaction."

"Have we then worked too hard?" queried another.

"It would seem so," returned her Majesty. "Either that or after a fashion which might be termed unprofitable. We have manufactured seventeen million pounds of honey in the last year, and after all the demands of the honey-eaters have been fulfilled we find ourselves with ten million pounds on hand."

"It proves how useful we do-nothing bees are," said one of the drones. "Had we worked, the supply would have been twice as great, and instead of having ten million pounds of honey more than we need, we should have twenty-seven million pounds of it upon our antennæ."

"We've got no business with antennæ, anyhow," growled another drone. "Why can't we have beetennæ, and be done with it?"

"All of this!" cried the Queen, impatiently, "is apart from the question. Whether we have antennæ, beetennæ, or flytennæ, we have made too much honey."

"Then let us rest for a year," sighed one of the drones. "It's mathematics that if one does enough work in one year to last for two years, he's done two years' work in one, wherefore let him take a year off and travel for his health."

"Not so!" cried the Queen. "The Lord High Commissioner of the Police will arrest the drone who has spoken so unreasonably, and suggested such an unbeely practice as idleness. Put him in the darkest dungeon of the Bee-stile, and feed him upon iced water and cold biscuit crumbs for twenty-four hours."

"Mercy!" cried the drone. "Mercy, your Majesty! I was only thoughtless."

"You do well," quoth the Queen, "to appeal to my mercy, and I will be merciful. I will remit half of the sentence. Lock him up for twenty-four hours, but do not feed him at all."

The thoughtless drone was arrested and taken away, and the Queen resumed.

"It's not that we work too hard,"[Pg 1003] she said. "It is that we make too much of one kind of thing. If the honey consumers only want ten million pounds of honey, it is foolish for us to make twenty million pounds of it, and I think we should turn our attention to other fields."

"I did," said one. "I brought a country doctor five dollars by stinging a small boy."

"How often have I told you not to sting small boys?" frowned the Queen.

"I couldn't help it, your Majesty," returned the bee, humbly. "I was flying along a garden path, and the small boy came running up; he ran so fast he collided with me, and ere I knew it my stinger had penetrated his flesh."

"You had no business to have your stinger out," said the Queen.

"Oh yes, your Majesty," explained the bee, "I had to have it out, for I had come to that garden to sharpen it upon the grindstone of the boy's father. Had the boy been looking where he was going, it would not have happened."

"Ah!" said the Queen, smiling with pleasure; "that is different. If you taught the small boy a lesson you worked to some purpose, and you are forgiven. I don't see, however, how you still live if you really stung the child. Pray explain."

"He was a tender little chap—that is all," said the bee. "And I had no trouble in pulling my sting out of his soft little cheek. It was like a peach."

Again the Queen smiled. "I am pleased with you," she said, and then turning again to the assembled multitude, she resumed her speech.

"Now that we know what our trouble is, shall we not act accordingly? Shall we continue year in and year out wasting our valuable time in the making of honey that nobody wants, or shall we look about for something new to do which, after we have made all the honey that is needed, shall still keep us busy, so that people seeing us shall be able to call us 'the busy bees' as of yore? What is the will of my subjects?"

"Let us branch out! Let us do other things," buzzed the beepulace.

"I knew my confidence in your judgment was not misplaced," cried the Queen, joyously. "It now remains for us to decide what, and I here to-day in the presence of you all as witnesses proclaim my intention to give the hand of my eldest daughter to that one of you who shall suggest the scheme that shall seem best for our new line of action."

"Suppose it's won by a lady bee?" cried a woman's-rights bee in the throng. "She won't want your daughter's hand."

"She shall have the hand of my eldest son," replied the Queen bee, with a smile.

The reply seemed to satisfy the woman's-right's bee, and the Queen having retired to her royal cell, the crowd broke up, and the various members of it betook their way to their respective hives to cogitate upon the problem presented by the Queen.

On the day following the royal proclamation was found posted all over Beeland, in which it was announced that a committee, consisting of the Queen, the Trade Secretary, and the Lord High Treasurer of the country would receive the various plans presented, go over them carefully, and on Christmas day following make known whatever decision they might have reached. This method was satisfactory to all hands, and the bees busied themselves for ten and fifteen hours a day thinking up schemes. It was a long time to think, but bees have very small heads, and they had to think quite as much as that daily to reach any conclusion at all. Some of them got very sick with brain-fever from trying to think too much, and one little worker went crazy because he was so foolish as to cogitate for forty-nine hours without rest. Many of the lighter-headed bees soon gave it up, but the wiser ones, thinking moderately and not too deeply all at once, soon had their schemes mapped out and placed in the committee's hands, or antennæ.

The autumn went rapidly. Christmas came, and the committee examined the plans that were presented.

"I must say," the Queen said, with a sigh, after reading a large number of foolish schemes, "it doesn't seem to me that my subjects are as bright as they might be. The idea of this fellow suggesting that we go into the 'horse-bothering business'!"

The Trade Secretary laughed. "What on earth is the 'horse-bothering business'?" he asked.

"He wants individual bees to hire themselves out to farmers with slow horses," said the Queen. "Their duty is to bother the horses until they get skittish and try to run."

"Hoh!" laughed the Lord High Treasurer; "what a donkey that bee must be!"

"Here's another," observed the Trade Secretary, opening a sealed envelope. "He wants us to go into the carrier-pigeon business. He says there is nothing can strike a bee-line so accurately as a bee, and adds that he thinks a whole swarm ought to be able to earn from fifteen to twenty dollars a month at it."

"How very foolish," said the Queen, impatiently. "It would take a whole swarm a month to carry a single message a mile. I do hope that isn't going to turn out to be the best suggestion of all, for I should be most unhappy if I had to give the hand of my eldest daughter to a bee like that."

"You may relieve your mind on that score," said the Trade Secretary. "I have just found another which is much better. This bee suggests that when we are not gathering honey and making honey-combs, it wouldn't be a bad thing to fly about barber-shops and gather hair and make hair-combs."

"I think that is very foolish," said the Queen. "Why do you think it is better than the horse-bothering and the carrier-pigeon plans?"

"It's no more foolish, and twice as funny," explained the Trade Secretary.

"That is very true," said the Queen.

"Here's another that's funnier yet," said the Lord High Treasurer. "This one says that we might gather curry and make curry-combs."

The Queen laughed outright. "I think they'd better start a comic paper," she said.

"That's the best idea yet," cried the Trade Secretary, enthusiastically, for he was a great flatterer. "Let us decide on that, and then your Majesty can keep your eldest daughter's hand as a reward for some future competition."

"No," said the Queen, shaking her head; "that would never do. I shall not enter into this competition at all. The others would say, and very properly too, that I was partial to my own plan, and couldn't be a good judge of its merit. No; you must leave my plans out altogether."

And so they went on examining the plans, none of which seemed any better or funnier than the ones I have mentioned, until they came to what appeared to be a grand scheme.

"I suggest," wrote one little bee, "that we keep on making honey just the same, only instead of putting it together in one great lot, all tasting alike, let us keep different kinds in different combs. For instance, let one swarm gather from roses and make rose honey; another can sip the nectar from the violet and make violet honey; another can get the essence of the mint and mix it with pepper and make peppermint honey, and so on. Let us have honey of all flavors—vanilla, sarsaparilla, and so on—and then we shall never make too much. There never was too much soda-water in the world, because if you get tired of one[Pg 1004] kind you can drink another kind. I heard a little girl who was a soda-water expert say so, and it was from her remark that I got the idea. If I've won, please let me know, and I'll come up to the palace and get the hand of the Queen's eldest daughter; and if you'll send me word early enough in the day, with the size of her hand, I'll bring a nice little glove to put on it. P. S.—Do we get only one hand, or does the whole daughter go with it?"

"Magnificent!" cried the Queen, in ecstasy, clapping her antennæ together. "We must award the prize to him."

"I think so myself," said the Trade Secretary, "he is certainly the most original."

"And a good business bee, too," said the Lord High Treasurer. "What he asks about the whole daughter proves that."

"And a good husband he'll make," said the Queen, with a pleased expression. "His thinking about her gloves proves that. Are there any others?"

"Only one," said the Trade Secretary. "From a bee who signs himself 'A Poet.'"

"Oh, he can't win!" said the Queen, impatiently, for she had the idea which many wiser people have that poets are lazy.

"Not likely," said the Lord High Treasurer. "I still think, your Majesty, that we ought to read what he suggests."

"Very well; no doubt you are right. What is it he says?" said the Queen, with a look of resignation on her face.

So they read the suggestion of the little poet bee, and this is the way it went:

"We have made too much plain honey
For the people's ready money;
And the only way to keep our daily toil from being waste
Is to give them something neater,
Something purer, something sweeter,
Something quite the like of which they never yet have had a taste.

"Shall we then spend all our hours
Sipping up the sweets of flowers,
Sipping sweets of which they tell us that they don't want any more?
Or shall we set our forces
Seeking out some other sources
Which will yield a store of honey of a kind not known before?

"Oh, I know where there is nectar
Fit for Jupiter or Hector;
'Tis a sweet no bee has ever tried to put into his comb.
'Tis a sweet I say of which, sir,
In the mansions of the rich, sir,
Or the poorest is the sweetest of the sweets of any home.

"Tis the nectar of the kisses
Of the babies—learn what bliss is!—
Gather that and put it into all the honey that you can,
And you'll find e'en the Immortals
Thronging daily at your portals
With rich jewels for the product that will follow from my plan."

There was a long silence when the Trade Secretary had finished reading the poet's suggestion. The Queen wiped her eyes. She was manifestly touched by the sentiment of the poet's little verse. Finally the Lord High Treasurer spoke.

"I'm not much of a judge of poetry," he said, "so I won't say much about the verse, except that I don't think he ought to have lugged Hector in just for the sake of a rhyme; but I do think it is a beautiful idea. I kissed a baby once in a country garden, and it was so fearfully sweet that all the flowers tasted like lemons for months afterwards."

"I have had the same experience," said the Queen, softly.

"Me too!" said the Trade Secretary. "The plan is a fine one."

"But is it finer than the other one?" asked the Queen. "I, as a mother, think it is."

"I, as a business bee, think not," said the Lord High Treasurer.

"Well, I, as a business bee and a father, can't make up my mind," sighed the Trade Secretary. "It's very unfortunate. One ought to be better than the other, but I can't decide which is the one."

"They can't both have my eldest daughter's hand," sighed the Queen.

"No," said the Lord High Treasurer, with a dubious shake of his head.

"True," ejaculated the Trade Secretary; and then he gave a loud buzz of triumph. "Why didn't we think of it before?" he cried.

"Of what?" asked the Queen, eagerly.

"Your eldest daughter is twins," cried the Trade Secretary. "One can have one twin and the other the other."

"So they are!" said the Queen, joyously. "I had forgotten that. Their hands shall be awarded as you suggest."

And so it was decided; and on Christmas morning the announcement was made. To one bee one daughter was affianced, and to the other the other, and all were satisfied; and on New-Year's day, a week later, they were all four married, and lived happily ever after.

The little bee stopped here and looked at me.

"That's a very nice little tale," said I, smiling upon my friend the bee.

"Thank you," said he. "If you like it you can have it all for your own."

"It is very good of you," I replied. "But can't you use it?"

"No," he said. "None of the magazines would print a story sent in by a bee; but even if they would you could have it, because we owe you some return."

"What for, pray?" I cried.

"Your baby's kisses," he said, simply. "We've made eight dollars out of him this year."

I looked at him for a moment, and then, as he buzzed back to the window, I called out,

"Don't be in a hurry."

"I must," he said. "It's getting late."

"Well, come again," I said, "and tell me some more."

"Oh, you can count on that," he answered, as he flew out of the window with a joyous buzz. "I'll be back before you know it."

And with that he was gone; and when next morning I told his story to my children, they all liked it so much that I have put it down to tell you, for possibly the bees made eight or ten dollars out of you when you were a baby, and you are as much entitled to the return as I am.

[Pg 1005]


The next important interscholastic event of the year will be the tennis tournament at Newport, August 13th. It is not possible at the date of writing to state exactly what players will participate, the entries not having all been received as yet; but if the winners of the various interscholastic tournaments of this spring all gather at Newport this week, the 1896 tournament should prove the most interesting and important of any held heretofore.

The most promising of the interscholastic players seems to be Reginald Fincke, of the Hotchkiss School, who won the Yale interscholastic tournament. Fincke out-classed all the other players in this tournament, and made the very creditable record of winning first place without dropping a set. He has been keeping in good practice all summer, and did some good work at the recent Wentworth tournament. He is a cool-headed player, and has excellent control of his racket. He is particularly strong on cross-drives and in placing.

His strongest opponent at Newport will probably be C. W. Beggs, Jun., the winner of the Princeton interscholastic tournament, and a student at the Lawrenceville School. Beggs won the Chicago interscholastic tournament last year, and developed his game considerably this spring. He won handily over all the other men in his local contest, and is undoubtedly the best tennis-player Lawrenceville ever had.

The Boston schools will be represented by Y. M. Edwards, of the English High-School, who won the Harvard interscholastic tournament in May. Edwards, however, is not so strong a player as the two men already mentioned. In fact, this year the Boston schools did not develop any high-class man on the courts, which perhaps might have been expected, they having turned out such men as Ware and Whitman last year. The Inter-Academic League's tennis tournament in Philadelphia was won by J. K. Willing, of Delancey School, who did some pretty good work on the Belmont Cricket Club courts, but from whom little can be expected if he appears at Newport. Pell of Berkeley, the winner of the N.Y.I.S.A.A. tournament, is not entitled to compete in the National event; and if the New York schools are represented at all it will be by Walton, the winner of the Columbia interscholastic tournament. The Maine tourney resulted in a victory for Dana of Portland, but it is uncertain if he will appear at Newport.

The interscholastic matches at the National event have been held yearly since 1891. The record of the winners since then is as follows:

Year.Played at.Winner.School.
1891.Cambridge.R. D. Wrenn.Cambridge Latin.
1892.Cambridge.M. G. Chace.Univ. Grammar, Prov.
1893.Newport.C. R. Budlong.High, Providence.
1894.Newport.W. G. Parker.Tutor, New York.
1895.Newport.L. E. Ware.Roxbury Latin.

A glance at this list will show that the winners of the interscholastic matches have all, with the possible exception of Parker, become players of ability; and although Ware cannot yet be ranked with Chace or Wrenn, he certainly will achieve that distinction before long. It is pleasing to see that the schools are developing such good men in this line of sport, the winners of the tournaments of '91, '92, '93, and '95 being graduates of large schools, whereas the winner of '94, who has not achieved any particular prominence since, was not a graduate of any institution. Perhaps this shows the advantage of attending a large school, for this surely affords a greater opportunity for good practice, and a player gets the chance to brush up against many different styles.

This question of practice is a very important one, and no player who hopes to become proficient in tennis can ever hope to do so unless he keeps himself in shape by working daily on the court during the open season. In tennis, as in everything else, there is no high-road to success,[Pg 1006] and while it is possible that some men may have a greater facility for making strokes and covering the court than others, there is no such thing as a born tennis-player, and all who have succeeded in the game have earned their laurels by hard and persistent work.

It has sometimes been asked if a tennis-player should maintain any especial kind of training. He should—that is, he should keep in training in the sense of keeping in good condition and, as I have said above, in keeping in form. If a man wishes to win a closely contested five-set match, he has got to be absolutely fit. Such a game requires endurance as much as skill, and the man who is in the better condition, even if he is the poorer player, so far as science goes, is likely to be the winner.

Every one who has played tennis, no matter how little, knows what an amount of exertion and lung-power is expended in a three or five set match, especially if the weather is at all warm or humid, as it usually is in this part of the country on the day set for a tennis-match—(unless it rains!) In order to be able to stand the strain of such an exertion, any one who is going to play tennis regularly and in tournaments during the summer should make it a point to lead as much as possible a regular life. One of the most important things is to get a good long rest every night, and especially on the night preceding a hard match. A good night's rest may only be obtained by retiring early. The trouble with a good many of our tennis-players is that, being at hotels or summer resorts for the playing of tournaments, they are apt to be led into sitting up late at night by the company or the entertainment which is at hand.

Two hours sleep before midnight is recognized to be worth more than four hours of sleep in the morning, so far as refreshing the tissues of the body is concerned. For this reason tennis-players, and especially the younger men among them, to whom I hope to appeal in these columns, should avoid hops and dances at summer resorts, for this is the most common reason for sitting up late at night. A couple of hours' dancing in the evening, while it is fun, is exercise, and tires one. The man who has to play a match in the morning will feel that unpleasant weary sensation under the knees if he has danced the night before, and in the middle of about the second set he will wish he had gone to bed instead of to the ballroom.

As for diet, there is no particular reason why this should be especially restricted. Good wholesome food will strengthen any one who is exercising, and constant exercise will likewise usually overcome the effect of a certain amount of rich food; but it is better for the general health not to tax the system with pastry and sweets and rich sauces. Especially at luncheon, before an afternoon match, should these dishes be shunned. It goes without saying that smoking should be avoided, for there is nothing worse than such indulgence for the "wind."

While playing, either a match or practice sets, never under any circumstances drink anything. It is bad on general principles to drink when overheated, and while exercising in this way cold drinks will surely make a player feel badly, and eventually give him dyspepsia, if nothing worse. It is well to have a pail of fresh water—better still, oatmeal water—near the court, and there is no reason why the players should not occasionally wash out their mouths. In England, where there is even a greater fear of ice-water than there is among our own sensible people, tennis-players frequently take a little warm tea between sets when playing important matches. The tea, which is served not hot but only lukewarm, quenches the thirst very satisfactorily, and, in addition, acts as a stimulant to the system.

After an afternoon of play on the courts it is a very good thing to retire to your room and use a pair of light wooden dumbbells for two or three minutes. This exercise is not fatiguing and does not take up any time, and makes a man feel refreshed and somewhat rested, for it brings into play a number of muscles that were not used on the court. It goes without saying that bathing is imperative after tennis, as it is, after all, exercise, and after the bath a rub down with a rough towel. The man who takes a cold bath in the morning will find himself better set up for the coming day's play, and it cannot be too strongly urged upon players at the sea-side to take a plunge before breakfast, if they can, in the salt water.

To lay a grass court is not such a difficult matter as it might seem to one who has never attempted it, and as some of the readers of this Department seem to wish to be enlightened on this subject, it may be well to devote a few lines of explanation. We will suppose, of course, that the grass court is to be laid out on a lawn, and not on a bare space that must be sodded down. The portion of the lawn selected should be, of course, as flat and even as possible, and the court should be carefully measured out, but not necessarily marked out, before anything else is done. Then with sharp spades remove entirely all the existing turf. When this has been done the bare ground must be properly levelled and turned over, and a layer of fine soil about two inches deep should be laid on. Then replace the turf and beat it well down. It sounds like a heavy undertaking to remove the sod from the entire court space, but the results will justify the labor expended, and the court will be a much better one when completed than if the rough spots only had been taken up and smoothed over.

This court should then be left for a week or two, to settle down, so to speak; and after that the grass should be carefully mowed. There is a good deal of skill in the use of a lawn-mower, and a good gardener can do more for the turf with this little machine than might at first be supposed. The grass ought not to be cut more frequently than once a week in the spring-time, but as the summer becomes older and the grass grows faster, it may be well to mow the court twice and possibly even three times in the week. In the early days of the court's construction, if it is not in demand for playing, the best thing is to allow the cut grass to remain on the lawn, for it acts eventually as a sort of fertilizer and develops a superior quality of turf.

Next in importance to mowing is rolling. A lawn-roller need not be a large one, but its use should not be spared, and while the ground is soft in the spring the court should be rolled a little almost every day. On one day roll the lawn from end to end, and on the next roll it from side to side. But in spite of the most careful mowing and rolling, weeds will appear on every lawn, and if they are not attended to at once they will multiply so rapidly that the entire sodding will have to be torn up again and relaid. A very good way, in the spring, is to call in a couple of small boys and set them to work at pulling up weeds. The twenty-five or fifty cents that the small boys will consider ample payment for their labors is nothing compared to the nuisance and annoyance that weeds might cause later in the season. Recognizing this fact, it might be well, if the boys proved efficient as weed-pullers, to have them come in throughout the playing season, every fortnight or so, and thus keep the court in good condition.

In this Department last year, at just about this season, were printed a couple of paragraphs telling of the construction of dirt and clay courts; it seems, therefore, unnecessary to return to that subject again this summer; but any of the readers of the Department who desire information on that subject may obtain it by addressing the Editor. It is not always possible, as I have said before, to answer by letter the many inquiries that come to this Department, but correspondents may feel assured that sooner or later their questions, if they are of general interest to sportsmen, will be answered here.

[Pg 1007]

Conger. Walsh. Bannister (Capt.).

Dannatt. Armstrong. Mongovern. Davis. Flournoy. Whitson. Kelster.

Carmichael. Berrien. Lake. Van Allen. Holmes. Lachmund.


The Clinton High-School track-athletic team, a picture of which is given on another page, is the champion of the Iowa State High-School A.A., having taken the greatest number of points again this year at their annual field-meeting. One of the most promising of the young athletes in the group is Flournoy, who came on with the Iowa team to the National Games, and participated in the high jump. Since the formation of the National Association there has been a great boom in track athletics in many of the Western States, where hitherto the interest had been more or less desultory, especially among the graduates, and without graduate interest little can be done by the young sportsmen themselves. Now, however, it looks as if Iowa and Wisconsin, and Ohio and Minnesota were in a fair way to develop strong school athletes, and within the next year or so these lads will surely become a factor in the interscholastic athletic development of this country.

While it is perhaps a little early to begin the discussion of football, it is not out of place to call the attention of captains to the fact that the University Athletic Club has revised the rules of the game, and that in all probability this fall their code will be accepted by all the colleges in the country. Last year, as we all remember, there were two or three sets of rules, and Harvard played one way, while Yale played another way, and when matches were arranged between colleges that had early in the season adopted varying regulations, it was first necessary for the managers to meet and decide upon what should be considered fair ruling in the proposed match.

Now this is done away with, and a new code has been accepted—a code that I feel sure will be better than anything we have had before. For the best heads evolved it, and the idea of the committee representing the University Athletic Club was to do away with the worst features of roughness in the game, at the same time retaining the science and the keen edge of the sport.

These rules may not yet have been published, but I should advise every school football captain to inform himself concerning this, and to secure a copy of the book as soon as possible, in order that when he gets back to the gridiron he may be familiar with the changes and innovations that have been made, and thus gain time which must be spent in the study of the rules.

No captain can be efficient unless he has the rules of the game at his fingers' ends; not only the general rules, but the various interpretations that can be put on points that only come up perhaps once in a season, but which often cause long delays and discussions when they do crop up, and the captains and umpires are uninformed concerning the penalties required.

In the next issue of the Round Table we shall begin a series of descriptive articles on swimming and diving, which will run from rime to time in this Department, as the articles on track athletics were printed last year. The descriptions will be illustrated from instantaneous photographs taken of one of the most expert swimmers in the country, and it will be the object of the papers to so describe the science of swimming and diving that any boy who does not know how, but who has a pond near his home, may go out and soon learn the necessary strokes.

"TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL."—Illustrated.—8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

The Graduate.


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

The discovery of a misspelled word on the new $1 silver certificate (tranquility instead of tranquillity) has led thousands of persons to believe that the government will call in all the bills, with the consequence that those remaining in the hands of the public will command a premium from "collectors." Nothing can be more erroneous.

The marvellous growth in value of rare stamps has led to a widespread idea that there is an immense number of "collectors" in every department, that these "collectors" are waiting with money in their hands anxious to pay fancy prices for anything which is old or odd. As a matter of fact neither age nor scarcity makes a thing valuable. It is entirely a question of demand and supply. For instance, any book printed by Caxton (1474 to 1492) would be worth $5000 at least, and some of his books would bring $15,000 or more, each. Many other older books printed previous to these dates can be bought for $10 each. Why the difference? Simply this: Caxton was the first English printer, and his books are eagerly sought for in England by the great libraries and by English bibliophiles. The demand is great, the supply exceeding small, hence the continuous growth in values. On the other hand, thousands of big folio volumes of sermons and theological disquisitions in the Latin language, printed in Germany and elsewhere, at the same time as the Caxtons, or earlier, are in the market. The supply is immense, the demand very small, hence the very small prices, despite the fact that some of these books are quite as scarce as some of the Caxtons, and just as old.

The same remarks apply to coins and other objects. Every week I receive requests to price old silver and copper coins, and when I reply that the U.S. coins are worth their face, and that the foreign coins are usually worth their weight as old silver, I do so convinced that my correspondents will feel disappointed. Previous to 1834 most of the silver money used in the U.S. was Spanish. Millions of these coins are still in existence, and to-day they are not current in any country, and are bought up by coin-dealers at about forty-five per cent. of their face value, and are melted into bullion.

Old Roman and Greek coins are found in large quantities every year in tombs and in the ruins of old houses. Messrs. Hunt and Grenfell found two large jars of Roman silver and gold coins in Lower Egypt last winter in which were over 4000 coins in perfect preservation. The latest coins were those of Hadrian (a.d. 138) and Marcus Aurelius (a.d. 161). All over Europe, Asia, and Africa similar finds are frequent. In June, 1833, some boys found a box containing 7000 coins, which were mostly English, of the reigns of William the Conqueror (a.d. 1066) and William Rufus (a.d. 1109). In 1832 the sexton of Hexham Church, while digging a grave, found a brass bucket containing over 8000 coins of the early Saxon Kings of England (about a.d. 800). In High Wycombe a shepherd boy found a large number of British gold coins which had been hidden over 1800 years. In 1831 a chest containing over 200,000 coins of Edward I. and II. (about a.d. 1300) was unearthed at Tutbury, and not far from this find another box was dug up containing over 7000 gold and silver coins, mostly Saxon (about a.d. 850), but containing many foreign coins. It was probably the entire stock of some money-broker who was obliged to flee for his life.

This list of great finds could be continued indefinitely, but enough has been said to show how common old coins are. The old Greek gold coins are scarce, and lately a demand for these has arisen, which has pushed up prices to nearly double what they were a year ago. Ordinary coins remain the same. Now nothing is more interesting than a collection of coins. For instance, specimens of the common coins of all countries and all ages. They are just as interesting as if they were all rare, and can be picked up at small prices with patience and a little going about. Gold coins would, of course, be out of the question, but copper and silver illustrate the different periods just as well. I know a collector who has over 500 coins, no two of the same reign, and representing over one hundred different countries. They give the owner and his friends much pleasure and information, and their entire cost was less than $125.




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

Royal Baking Powder Co., New York.


[Pg 1008]


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.

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.

This week we begin describing the trip from Chicago to Waukesha. A trip in the vicinity of Waukesha was given last week as being one of the best rides in that part of the country. The quickest way, of course, to reach Waukesha is by train, but it is a pleasant ride all the way from Chicago there on the wheel, and there is no reason why a wheelman with some time on his hands should not begin his journey at Chicago instead of at Waukesha. There are several ways of reaching Waukesha, but the one that we shall give in the next three weeks is usually considered the best, since it goes through the most attractive country, and over, on the whole, the best roads, although the distance is somewhat greater than by one or two other routes.

The first stage will be from the Court-House in Chicago to Wheeling, a distance of about twenty-five miles. Leave the Court-House, and run out Washington Boulevard, through Union Park to Hoyne Avenue; then turning to the right into this, run to North Avenue, and turn here sharp to the right, and a moment later to the left into Milwaukee Avenue. Milwaukee Avenue runs out beyond Grayland, turns here slightly to the northward, and crosses the railroad track. It is what used to be called the old toll road, and crosses the railroad track at Jefferson Park. Immediately after crossing turn to the left, and follow the track up through Norwood Park, which is two miles further on, thence through Canfield to Park Ridge, and at Park Ridge leave the railroad track and turn right into the road that runs northward. This should be followed as marked on the map, with a sharp turn to the left and right about a mile out of Park Ridge, and a mile further on another sharp turn to the right, bringing the rider again into Milwaukee Avenue. Here keep to the left, and run northwestward through Grove to West Northfield, seven miles from Park Ridge. Thence the road zigzags three or four miles on to Wheeling.

The road most of the way is reasonably good, partly block pavement, and partly ordinary country road in good condition. The run can easily be made in two hours by a moderately good rider; in three hours by any one who is able to ride twenty-five miles. If the rider has time it is well worth while to do this ride in the morning, and spend the afternoon at Wheeling, or running out here and there in the vicinity of that town—to Deerfield, for example, and back. Or it is quite possible to make the next stage of the journey to Waukesha in the afternoon, and this will be given in the coming week.

Note.—Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of routes from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford, Connecticut, in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814. Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816. Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No. 818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No. 820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822. Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City—First Stage in No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland—First Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to Boston—Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833. Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839. Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to Nantasket Beach in No 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843. Philadelphia to Washington—First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in No. 854; Albany to Fonda in No. 855; Fonda to Utica in No. 856: Utica to Syracuse in No. 857; Syracuse to Lyons in No. 858; Lyons to Rochester in No. 859; Rochester to Batavia in No. 860; Batavia to Buffalo in No. 861; Poughkeepsie to Newtown in No. 864; Newtown to Hartford in No. 865; New Haven to Hartford in No. 866; Hartford to Springfield in No. 867; Hartford to Canaan in No. 868; Canaan to Pittsfield in No 869; Hudson to Pittsfield in No. 870. City of Chicago in No. 874.

[Pg 1009]


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.


Chemists have proved that no substance is sensitive to light when perfectly pure and kept by itself in a dry place. If silver chloride is placed in a glass tube, the air exhausted, and the tube hermetically sealed, it may be exposed to sunlight, and will remain unchanged in color.

The action of light on the silver chloride is to separate the chlorine from the silver, but there must be some substance with which the chlorine will combine, or the light will not decompose the chloride. (Decompose is to separate the parts composing a compound body.)

For purposes of photography some substance must be used which will combine very quickly with the silver, and such a substance is found in silver nitrate. The chlorine set free by the action of light combines at once with the pure silver in the nitrate of silver. The chemical nature of the dark-colored substance produced by the action of light on the silver chloride is not yet fully determined, but most chemists agree that the silver chloride, when decomposed by light, produces silver sub-chloride and chlorine. (A sub-chloride is a chloride which contains more of the base than the acid. A molecule of silver chloride contains one atom of silver and one of chlorine, while a molecule of sub-chloride contains two atoms of silver and one atom of chlorine.)

This silver chloride is white, but passes through different shades of coloring, from a reddish-violet to a deep purplish-black, according to the length of time it is exposed to the light.

When paper coated with a sensitive silver solution is placed under a negative and exposed to the sun, the light reaches the paper through different degrees of thickness, or density, in the gelatine film. In the part of the negative which represents the sky the film is quite thick, while in the part which represents the deep shadows it is thin, sometimes being almost transparent. The part of the paper which is under the portion of the negative representing the sky is scarcely affected by the light, but in that part representing the shadows the light acts at once, and quickly decomposes the silver chloride. When the paper is taken from the printing-frame it contains different grades of the deposit formed by the action of light on the silver chloride.

Note.—The first article in the series of "Chemistry of Photography" was published in No. 867 (June 9). This article was on the chemical elements, and contained the following paragraph:

"Each element is represented by a symbol, this symbol being the first letter or letters of the name of the element. The symbol of hydrogen is 'H': of oxygen is 'O'; of gold, 'Au,' the first two letters of the word 'Aurum,' the Latin name for gold. Each symbol also stands for the weight of one of its atoms. (An atom is supposed to be the smallest possible division of a substance.) Hydrogen is the lightest element known, and is taken as the standard of weight when comparing the weight of other atoms. The symbol 'H' would therefore not only stand for the element hydrogen, but for its atomic weight, 1, or a unit. An atom of oxygen is sixteen times as heavy as an atom of hydrogen, and an atom of gold is 196 times as heavy."

In the next number of the Round Table a list of the chemicals mentioned was given, but either through a typographical error or an error in copy, the weight of hydrogen was given as "11," and that of oxygen as "12." It should have been hydrogen "1," and oxygen "16." Those who read the first paper would of course perceive the mistake; but this correction is made for those who may not have seen the first article, or may have forgotten the explanation.


"Well! well! well!" said old Captain Jack, as Bobbie and Tom appeared before him on the beach in front of the Ocean House. "You boys back again, eh? Why, do you know, I never expected to see ye again? For a fact I didn't."

"Why not?" asked Bobbie.

"Why not?" echoed the old seafarer, as he leaned back against the old wreck and laughed. "Why not? Why, I takes the town paper, I does, an' las' winter I seed a squib in the town paper as said that two hungry cannabiles had descended on New York city, an' et up the whole poppylation. Mebbe you didn't belong to the poppylation. Some folks don't join everything there is a-goin'. Wasn't ye et up?"

"How you do talk!" said Bobbie. "If we had been eaten up how should we be here?"

"Simple enough! simple enough!" returned the old Captain, pulling away on his pipe. "I was et up once, therefore why not ye, says I," he added.

"Eaten up? You?" cried Tom. "How could that be? You are here, aren't you?"

"Yes, I be," returned the Captain. "But so also are you in spite of the fact that ar town paper says that two cannabiles has et up the poppylation of New York. If it's a-comin' to manufacture apologizing, it's your turn first."

"Well," said Tom, "we don't want to make you mad, Captain Jack. If two cannibals ate up the population of New York, we escaped. Maybe we were in the back of the pantry, where they couldn't find us," he added, with a sly wink at Bobbie.

"That's where I was," said Bobbie, resolved to be on good terms with the Captain anyhow. "I heard our next-door neighbors hollering away like everything, so I and my whole family hid away behind the ice-box."

"Exactly," said Captain Jack, with a smile. "You was sensible, you was; an' so you escaped being et, but I never had no such luck. Cannabiles got hold of me oncet, an' if it hadn't been for my presence o' mind I wouldn't ha' been here now."

"Why, what did they do?" asked Tom.

"They et every bit o' me except my head," said Jack. "First they et my feet, then my legs, then my arms, an' then the rest o' me, except my head"—and Captain Jack sighed as he thought of it. "An' I tell ye, boys," he added, with a sad shake of his head, "it hurt awful, 'specially when they were pickin' my bones."

"But you're here now!" cried Bob.

"Yes," said Captain Jack; "but from my collar down I'm false. I've one wooden leg, one cork leg—which keeps me up when I go in swimmin'—one wax arm, and another arm which I've growed since the cataract."

"Cataract?" said Bob.

"Cat-as-trophe, I guess you mean," said Tom.

"One o' the two. I dun'no' which," said the old sailor. "I ain't never been particular about cats."

And then he rose up and walked away, leaving the two boys wishing they had brought a few pins along with them to stick into him to see whether his legs were really cork and wood, as he had said.


"Jacky, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Mrs. Harkins to her boy. "Mr. Hayseed tells me you picked all his cantaloupes and threw them into the well."

"I did it for you," pleaded Jacky.

"Me?" cried his mother.

"Yes, I did," said Jacky. "They was only muskmelons, and you said you liked watermelons best, so I put 'em in the well."


in midst of plenty. Unfortunate, yet we hear of it. The Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk is undoubtedly the safest and best infant food. Infant Health is a valuable pamphlet for mothers. Send your address to N. Y. Condensed Milk Co., N. Y.—[Adv.]


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The DeLONG HOOK AND EYE never unhooks until you unhook it yourself.

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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


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[Pg 1010]

Catching and Mounting Butterflies.

Will you kindly tell me how to catch, how to kill without pain, how to mount, and on what to mount butterflies?

Zell Steever.
"The Cairo," Washington, D. C.

To properly catch butterflies for a collection do not use your hat or your fingers. Provide a net as shown in the illustration. Bend a light wire so as to form a hoop ten inches across, and fasten the two ends into a section of a fishing-rod or other light pole about four feet long. Over this hoop stretch netting as shown. Immediately the fly is in the net turn the hoop over, that it may not escape. If it be of large size, catch it at the base of the wings by your thumb and finger. Press hard enough to kill, but not to crush the body. If of small size, or if it does not hold its wings above its back, put your killing-bottle inside the net, drive the fly inside it, and let the poison do the rest. This killing-bottle is of glass, with a large mouth, and has a cork that projects sufficiently to be easily handled. Into the bottle put a piece of cyanide of potassium as big as a chestnut, and pour over it, to depth enough to cover it, plaster of Paris, letting the latter harden.

To mount butterflies prepare a setting-board as shown in the illustration. Put the body into the groove, as here shown, and then, using a fine needle, spread the wings well, the front wings being quite well forward, and the hind wings well away from the body. Get the antennæ in position, and put two pins crossed under the abdomen so it does not fall. Put over the wings pieces of stiff cardboard, as in the cut, and bind them down with the string. Let them be on the setting-boards one week after you think them thoroughly dry. If insects become too dry to spread they can be softened by putting them, for a few hours, into a closed jar in which there is wet sand.

There are various ways of arranging a permanent butterfly collection, but the best way is to provide a light box, two inches deep and 20x24 inches square. Have the bottom of cork, and over the top put a cover with glass in it. Cover the cork bottom with white paper. Insects should be arranged as they are classified in science, each with a label below the insect giving scientific name, date and place of capture, and with both sexes present. With each ought to be placed the other stages of its life, if possible: egg, caterpillar, pupa, and cocoon, if it makes one. Some prefer to set insects on pins arranged to show their color to the best advantage, but this is not so good a plan from a scientific point of view. Designs might be a crown, a star, a wasp, or a butterfly, using beetles, wasps, and dragon-flies to vary colors.

Storing and Transferring Wheat.

In this city are stored vast quantities of wheat. This wheat has to be kept somewhere between crops, so to speak. Formerly it was stored in great wooden structures called elevators. You have seen such buildings, of course. But there were two serious objections to wooden buildings for keeping grain. One was that rats, weevils, and worms easily got through the wood. The other was the danger from fire, and the consequently increased cost of insurance.

In Toledo the experiment was first tried of erecting immense steel tanks for storing grain. These tanks would not burn, and rats could not dig through them. Furthermore, they can be made air-tight, and hence they preserve the grain.

A short distance from here, on the line of the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern Railway, a new method has just been tried for putting wheat into and getting it out of these tanks. The grain is transferred by a system of tubes, through which are strong air-currents, and the wheat is carried by the air just as a chip is carried along by a stream of water. These air-tight tanks make the flour you eat better than formerly, and the tubes for transferring the wheat lessen its cost.

Frank F. Clark.
Toledo, O.

Answers to Kinks.

No. 14.—Pope Gregory IX. Found by using capitals.

No. 15.—Spear, pear, ear, ar.

No. 16.—Hot-ten-tot. An-a-gram, Mush-room.

No. 17.

Turtle, cod, salmon, duck, goose, onion, pea, olive, tongue, orange, plum, strawberry, sugar, milk, cold water.

No. 18.

1, General Sher (Shire) man. 2, U. S. Grant. 3, B. Franklin. 4, Chauncey Depew (chance, seedy, pew). 5, Salmon Portland Chase. 6, P. T. Barnum (pea, tea, bar, numb). 7, Patrick Henry (pat, rick, hen, rye). 8, Abraham Lincoln (a, bray, ham, lin, con). 9, G. Washington (gee, washing, ton). 10, James A. Garfield. 11, Noah Porter. 12, Phil Sheridan (fill, sherry, den). 13, Daniel Webster (Dan, yell, web, star). 14, Benjamin Harrison. 15, Henry Ward Beecher (hen, reward, beech, err). 16, Oliver Wendell Holmes (olive, are, double u, homes.) 17, Thomas Edison. 18, J. Russell Lowell (jay, russ, cell, low, well). 19, Kit Carson. 20, Captain Kidd (cap, tun, kid).

Questions and Answers.

"Can you tell a New York city boy, who is interested in architecture, where he can get a chance, without expense, to read the illustrated architectural papers or magazines as they come out? Can you suggest the names of those which are best suited to help a boy ambitious to become familiar with this study?" You can read all the periodicals and books on this subject contained in the Astor and Cooper Institute libraries free of expense. Consult the Architectural News, which you will find on the Institute table; also Gunton's Magazine—advertisements as well as contents. Lewis J. Mather: No pins of the Order are in stock just now. Notice will be given on this page when a new stock is ready. "Would-be-Marine" should read the article by Admiral Gherardi in Harper's Round Table for June 30 last. He can procure it through any dealer or direct from the publishers for five cents. In it he is told in great detail how to enter the navy, the requirements, pay, and chances of promotion.

Will "H. K. M.", an autograph-collector, send us his or her full name and address? A Knight in France writes: "Will any Western Knight or Lady write to Sir Victor Cartier, 3 Rue Beauregard, Troyes, Aube, France, how farmers are making their own oatmeal, and about sweet-corn culture? He shall answer them any question concerning France. Sir Victor would like, too, to trade French stamps with people living in Africa, South America, China, Australia." Josephus Cinquemont: Ask your newsdealer for Harper's Round Table, which is Harper's Young People under a different name. You give no address. To insure a reply it is always best to send your address. Evon Foucht, 105 Bank Street, Dayton, O., is interested in magic, and wants correspondents who have ideas to trade with him. He is informed, in answer to his question, that the St. George and the Greek crosses are one and the same in form—as nearly as the types will allow us, this +. Look in Webster for a picture of the Greek cross. The St. George is not given there.

Frank W. Dougherty, 1751 North Thirty-first Street, Philadelphia, is a "Shut in," aged thirteen, who has had to keep his room for three years. He is what the daily papers call a baseball "rooter," and is saving up colored pictures of ball-players. Can you send him some for his collection? Henry F. Schermerhorn: It is better to apply for a patent through an experienced attorney than to attend to the matter yourself. Models are no longer required.


A party of American college graduates on a trip around the world were spending a few days in one of the smaller cities of India. Near by was a temple, in the grounds of which were always to be found a number of fakirs and jugglers and performers of wonderful tricks. One evening the Americans were joking with one of these miracle-workers, and succeeded in making him believe that they considered there was nothing wonderful about his performances. One of the Americans who had a knack of doing sleight-of-hand tricks, and who had cultivated his ability somewhat by entertaining his college mates with various feats of dexterity before he graduated, thought it would be a good joke to challenge the fakir to a competition. The juggler accepted, and called his assistants about him. It was decided that the American should perform the first trick; and he confided to his friends that he would make the fakir believe he had swallowed a lighted cigarette. Knowing how well he could perform this feat of sleight-of-hand, his companions smiled confidently. The American youth rolled up his sleeves and pulled from his pocket a cigarette, which he passed around among the Hindoos. He then took a match from his pocket and scraped it on the heel of his shoe.

To the amazement of all the American travellers the natives uttered howls of dismay, and gathered up their goods and fled. Nothing could persuade them to come back again, and the Americans were considerably at a loss to know what had caused their fright. They learned a few days later from a low-caste Hindoo that the fakir and his friends had been scared almost out of their wits by the lighting of the match. "They are willing to do tricks with human beings," said the man, "but they have great fear of one who can pick up a small stick from the ground, and with it draw fire from his foot. The fakirs fear no man, but they would have the Prophet protect them from devils."

[Pg 1011]


Southern railroads have a reputation for slow travel, and in some cases it is well merited. A Western travelling-man, making a trip on these lines, suffered a great deal of annoyance from this particular failing, but up to the time of the following incident he had enjoyed himself immensely guying the conductors, trainmen, or any persons having to do with the roads, about their rapid transit.

He was travelling one afternoon on an exceptionally slow train, which came to a stop every now and then without any apparent cause. After expressing himself very audibly to the passengers he resigned himself to the inevitable, and dozed off into short naps, which were interrupted by the sundry jerks of the train, at which he complained. The passengers showed their annoyance at these complaints by angry looks. The conductor had excused the engineer in every possible way. The last apology had been that cattle obstructed the track. The train had started again, and had proceeded about ten minutes, when it halted with a jerk. Up waked the impatient traveller, and petulantly remarked:

"Dear, dear! I suppose, conductor, this worse than slow train has struck another herd of cattle?"

"Struck another one?—not much," replied the conductor; "we've simply caught up again with the first herd we ran into, that's all."

The traveller subsided, and the conductor was left in peace.


Probably one of the neatest bits of sharp bargaining ever enacted took place not long ago between an apparently ignorant German with an abundance of wealth and a sharp dealer in horses. The German wanted a day's outing, and decided that a long drive would suffice for his wants, and applied to the horse-dealer for the hire of his best horse and trap. The dealer, not knowing the applicant, demurred at supplying his wants. The German, determined to have his ride, finally pulled out a huge roll of bills, and offered to buy the horse and rig, provided the dealer would buy them back at the same price. This surprised the dealer, but not wishing to offend the owner of so much ready money and possibly a good future customer, he agreed to the deal.

The German departed with the horse and rig, and at the end of the day returned them in good condition, expressing his satisfaction at the pleasure the drive had afforded him. The dealer, according to the agreement, paid him back the money, and the German started to leave the place.

"I beg your pardon, sir," exclaimed the dealer, "but you have forgotten to pay for the hire, you know."

"Pay for the hire? Why, my dear sir," coolly replied the German, "I fail to see that. If you will exercise your memory a trifle you will agree that I have been driving my own horse and trap all day, and, now you have bought them back, they are yours. There was no hiring about the matter. Good-day, sir." And he left the astonished dealer to reflect.

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The kind of stories that healthy, hearty boys are apt to like.—Independent, N. Y.

Master of the art which keeps the young reader's interest at a tension.—N. Y. Sun.


A Sequel to "The Fur-Seal's Tooth."

Brimful of adventures admirably recorded. The young folks will take delight in it.... We confess to having read every word of the journal with as much interest as we once read "Robinson Crusoe" or the "Swiss Family Robinson."—Christian Intelligencer, N. Y.

A book which will hold the interest of its readers from beginning to end.—N. Y. Evening Post.


There is plenty of moving incident in the tale, and the atmosphere, redolent of seals and the life of that stormy clime, will delight all boys.—Spectator, London.


An entertaining story for boys, and will usefully enlarge their knowledge of our great Atlantic peninsula.—N. Y. Evening Post.


The story has a strong, wholesome tone, and will hold the interest of boy readers from first to last page.—Churchman, N. Y.


An excellent record of the early development of certain Western cities and of certain Indian tribes now fast disappearing.—Critic, N. Y.


A wholesomely exciting tale of adventure which any bright boy might consider a valuable addition to his library.—Christian Intelligencer, N. Y.

Each one volume. Illustrated. Post 8vo. Cloth, $1.25.

The "Mates" Series, Four Volumes in a Box, $5.00.


A thrilling story of the Northwest coast. (In Press.)


A Story of Adventure in Florida.

The book will prove specially attractive to boys from its spice of adventure, and it will not be less valuable because it conveys a little covert instruction.—Springfield Republican.


A Story of the Mines.

A bright, vivid, and often thrilling tale ... graphically illustrated.—Brooklyn Eagle.


On the slender thread of tradition Mr. Munroe has strung a series of fascinating adventures. The story is certain to hold the attention of young readers, and is wholesome from beginning to end.—Literary World, Boston.


And Delta Bixby. Two Stories.

Two lovely little stories for children.... There is a good, healthy tone in Mr. Munroe's books that commends them to readers of every age.—Philadelphia Public Ledger.

Each one volume. Illustrated. Square 16mo, Cloth, $1.00

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

[Pg 1012]

MR. COIN. "I am not feeling very well this morning."
MR. OLD BLADE. "Oh, cheer up, old man; we all have our dull days."


"Why are you pouting to-day, Jennie dear? Aren't you happy?"

"I'm very happy," said Jennie.

"Then why don't you smile as you generally do, and show us those pretty little white teeth?"

"That's just it. They ain't white. I've been eating blueberry pie."


Discontented Sammy. "I wish I was down at the sea-shore instead of up here in the mountains."

Jimmieboy. "What would you be doing at the sea-shore?"

Discontented Sammy. "I'd be wishin' I was back here."


"Do you do much climbing, Harold?" asked the newly arrived guest.

"Well, in a way I do," said Harold. "Papa climbs all over the mountains, and I climb all over papa."


It was at dinner at the Profile House.

"I'll have some blueberry pie and some ice-cream," said papa.

"You may bring me some jelly and cream-cakes," said mamma.

"And what will you have?" asked the waitress of Jimmieboy.

"I'll have the same," said Jimmieboy.


"I just love it here," said Bobbie.

"What do you like best about it?" asked the good farmer's wife.

"You haven't any bath-tub in the house," said Bobbie.

Two brawny sunburnt sons of Ireland met each other on the street shortly before an eclipse of the sun.

"Hallo, Pat! are yez goin' ter see the 'clipse?"

"Faith, Tim, oive no tiliscope."

"Oi wonder at yer ignorance. Go home an' smoke some glass if yez want ter see it. That's as good as all the tiliscopes yez can git."

"Shure if that's all yez have ter do, that's aisy enough."

Some hours later Tim was passing down the street when he espied Pat sitting on his stoop staring at the sky and madly pulling away at a short stump of a pipe from which no smoke issued.

"Did yez see the 'clipse, Pat?" he called out.

"Nary a bit of wan have I seen. Is it over?"

"Over? Sure; an hour ago."

"Well, then" (and here Pat hurled his pipe out into the road), "it's all the fault of that glass. Oi must have smoked the wrong kind."

It is said that the sagacity and memory of the elephant exceed those of any other animal. This is very possible, as in the many cases reported the incidents bearing on these two particulars surpass those of other animals.

One of the recent stories related of an elephant's astuteness contains an element of doubt, but the comic side of it makes up for that delinquency. It seems that this particular native African was an attaché of a travelling circus, and part of his performance consisted in sitting on a stool in front of a piano and producing some hideous discords called music. One day, having hit the instrument heavier than usual, he irreparably smashed it. A new one was purchased, but when the elephant took his place on the stool as usual he absolutely refused to do his act and groaned very miserably. He was led out, and after a short time the manager entered with this excuse:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I regret that the disobedience of Jack has caused you a loss of pleasure; but unfortunately the poor fellow discovered that the ivory in the keys of the piano came from his mother's tusks, and he couldn't play for grief."


Farmer. "Come down with me. Jack, and I'll show you the cows."

Jack. "Hoh! Cows ain't exciting to anything but girls. If mamma'll put my red suit on me I'll go look at the bull."


"Papa," said Wallie, "I wish you'd buy me a shovel. I get awfully thirsty in the daytime."

"What on earth has a shovel to do with that?"

"Well, somebody told me that on farms when you wanted water you had to dig a well."


"Wish I was a squash vine," sobbed Wilbur, after he had been punished for trampling down the corn. "Squash vines can run all about the garden, and nobody complains."


"I know why it's such fun to play in the hay," said little Anne. "It's because hay tickles you and makes you laugh."


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