[Pg 421]

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

A STOLEN COURT-HOUSE.

BY GEORGE MEASON WHICHER.

Father limped across the dirt floor of our sod house, and painfully sat down on the edge of his bunk. "Boys," he said, with a little groan, "I guess you'll have to go after that Durham bull. My rheumatism is so bad I can't stir!"

"To-night?" asked Barney, eagerly, giving his book a shove.

"Who told you where he is?" I asked, hoping for time enough to look up one more word.

"They've sent word from Hermann's that he's been around there ever since that last herd came in from the South. They're going to move on early to-morrow, and I'm afraid we'll never see him if we don't get him to-night. Those drovers don't frighten off cattle that insist on going along."

"Which Hermann's is it?" I asked again. "The ranch south of Alkali?"

"You'd better not be caught calling their town Alkali," interrupted Barney. "They're touchier than ever about it since we got the county-seat away from them last election."

"That's the place," answered father; "and I reckon it doesn't take much of the potash out of their land to quit calling the town Alkali. No more will they get their county-seat back again by calling the place Fairlands."

I thrust my Cæsar under the brush thatch of our house where it joined the sod wall. Barney was rummaging in his bunk and preparing for the trip with unmistakable pleasure. He had not mourned greatly when father's health had compelled us to leave our home in far-off Illinois and settle in western Nebraska. But I had disliked to fall out of my class in the Pana High-school, and now, after working all summer on our claim, I was spending the fall and winter evenings in making up some of the neglected studies, with the secret hope that father would be well enough to spare me the next year.

"You can get Otto to lend you his ponies and go with you," went on father. "Take the lower trail to the ranch, so's not to go through Alkali. They've been feeling pretty ugly toward people from up here anyway since election, and I hear there's been a row about it this week and another of their men killed. And you be careful, Milton, and don't let Barney get into any trouble with the cowboys at the ranch. They're a dare-devil set; I wouldn't let you boys go if I could help it."

We did not hear all of this speech, I am afraid, for Barney was trying to get his revolver into his pocket without attracting father's attention, and I was still struggling with a subjunctive in the speech of Ariovistus. But we were soon ready for our short walk to Otto's claim in the section adjoining ours, and slightly nearer the little town of Garfield. Otto was our nearest neighbor, an honest, hard-working German, who had given us much assistance in the difficult work of settling on our claim, and had now promised father to go with us and recover our precious but troublesome Durham bull.

It must have been ten o'clock when we clattered across[Pg 422] the long board bridge over the Platte, and rode on through the short main street in Garfield, the newly chosen capital of Black Ash County. We reached the end of the street and were about to turn west into the wagon-trail leading to Fairlands, or Alkali, as her triumphant rival persisted in calling the town.

"What's that new shanty?" asked Barney, pointing to a small building as we rode past. It could not have been more than twelve feet wide and twenty feet long, but the gable end facing the street was masked by the hideous square front of pioneer architecture, and from the top of the unpainted pine cornice fluttered three or four cheap flags.

"T'at's t'e new court-house," explained Otto, proudly. "T'e sheriff is alreaty yesterday mit his posse to Alkali gone, und pring t'e gounty pooks pack."

"Did he bring back his posse?" asked Barney.

"Mostly," said Otto, with a grin; "some, t'ey ko on weiter."

The county-seat feud was a serious matter to the settlers in the towns concerned, but Otto, like ourselves, could see a ludicrous side to it.

"I'll wager the Alkali gang burn it down," said Barney, as we left the court-house behind us. "They're bound to do something to get even."

Otto did not reply. On we cantered over the long swells of the prairie, the night wind blowing fresh and cold in our faces, while the frost sparkled on the russet and brown grasses along the hard trail. Far off we caught the shimmer of the moonlight on a "blow-out," where the light soil showed at the crumbling edge of a bluff, and nearer at hand, on the lowlands, we could see the straggling line of telegraph poles that marked the line of the railroad.

We had ridden about half of our eight miles when Otto, who was leading, suddenly halted. Before us lay a deep draw, as the dry hollows between the ridges of the prairie are called. At the bottom of the slope, just where the trail to Hermann's ranch joined the main road, stood a group of men and horses. The latter were mostly harnessed to two elongated lumber wagons, while their drivers and one or two horsemen were gathered around a small fire of cattle chips and sage-brush. We could hear their loud talk and laughter as we stood looking down upon them. Suddenly they became silent.

"T'ey see us alreaty," said Otto. "Kome on, poys."

"Whar you'uns goin' this time o' day?" demanded one of the men, as we rode up and saluted them. We recognized the speaker as Arkansaw Joe, a saloon-keeper in Fairlands of no particular reputation. Most of his companions evidently belonged to the same profession, though not so eminent as their leader; but the horsemen, I felt sure, were cowboys from the ranch to which we were going. Otto briefly explained our errand.

"It's only that Dutchman from beyond Garfield and the two tenderfoot kids," spoke another of the group. "I reckon they're all right."

Any foreigner is a Dutchman to a certain class of Americans. Otto had long since grown tired of explaining that he came from Bavaria, and no longer chafed against the classification. We were not so satisfied, but it did not seem wise to argue about it just then.

"You'll have a dandy time with that critter of yourn," remarked one of the ranchmen. "Hermann's picketed him for you, and he's tearin' mad. It'll be a regular circus to see you git him back."

"Wat you t'ink, Milt?" said Otto. "We ko pack for t'e fat'er—nit?"

"I 'low you'uns'll go straight on," interposed Arkansaw, meaningly. "We'uns are usin' this here trail to the east to-night, and it's all needed. 'Sides, the kids 'ud miss the fun with the Durham."

There was no mistaking this hint, and we took the trail for the ranch, Otto evidently worried, and Barney boiling over with indignation.

"Kids!" he exclaimed, scornfully, as we rode up the other side of the draw. "I'd like to show them—"

The rest remained unsaid, for down the trail came a jingling crowd of cowboys, and looking back as they rode past us, we saw them join the group around the fire.

"What on earth are they up to, Otto?" I asked. He shook his head soberly. Mischief was brewing, and we longed to ride back and see what was about to happen, but Otto and I at least recognized the danger of such a plan after the warning we had received.

Our thoughts were effectually diverted from this topic when we reached the ranch. The bull was not an amiable beast on ordinary occasions, and we found him in one of his wildest moods. His bellowings had attracted a score of stray cattle from the outskirts of the ranch, and they were standing beyond the reach of his horns as he strained on his picket rope, and they were pawing the ground, pretending to gore one another, until the bull was wild with rage. It took Otto a long time to get a second rope around his horns, and meanwhile Barney and I, by the vigorous use of our quirts, scattered the mavericks over the prairie. The end of the picket rope was then fastened to my saddle, and we began our struggle toward home. Again and again the bull would lower his horns and make a desperate charge at one of his captors, only to be jerked to his knees by the other. At times he would stand bellowing and snorting until Barney rode up and plied the lash, when he would plunge ahead like a runaway locomotive. Only the nimble-footed, long-suffering broncos could or would have endured the wild work. To increase our trouble the stray cattle kept close behind us. Many times they came so close that Otto and I were compelled to halt and hold the bull, while Barney, with hoarse shouts and language as abusive as he dared use, drove them back.

It was nearly dawn when we halted for this purpose on the edge of the large draw where we had seen the mysterious gathering. As I watched Barney dispersing our troublesome followers, I heard Otto muttering to himself some polysyllabic imprecation on cattle in general and the Durham bull in particular, and then he stopped short with a gasp of surprise. Over the ridge on the other side of the draw there struggled into sight two parallel columns of puffing horses, and then there slowly climbed against the ruddy eastern sky the outlines of a building. Even in that imperfect light we recognized it at the first glance as the court-house deprived of its flags.

"Ach, du liebe Zeit!" gasped Otto. "T'ey shteal t'e gourt-house!"

It had been an easy task to shift it from its flimsy under-pinning to the lumber wagons, and the horses had dragged it with little difficulty over the smooth prairie. When necessary, the cowboys had helped pull by fastening their lariats to the sill, and the party had probably reached the draw with less exertion than we. I heard the sharp clank of the drag-chains as they prepared to descend the slope.

"Where on earth are the Garfielders?" said I, and as I spoke we heard the crack of a revolver from beyond the ridge. The cowboys unfastened their ropes, and hurried back yelling like fiends and firing their six-shooters into the air. Afar off the solitary church bell at Garfield began to jingle wildly.

"Sound the tocsin!" shouted Barney, abandoning his chase and riding back to see the fun. "What ho! Garfield to the rescue!"

But it was only too apparent that the town had been taken by surprise, and had few champions in the field as yet. The shots grew fainter, and in another minute the cowboys came over the ridge laughing and swearing at the top of their voices, and rode down to help the teams up the slope.

"Good-by court-house, if they once get her past the draw!" I exclaimed.

"Geewilikins!" said Barney, "I'd like to give 'm a shot," and he began tugging at his pocket.

"Shtop t'at!" shrieked Otto. "You fool poy, mint t'em shteers!"

But it was too late. Down the trail behind us thundered the cattle. The bull gave a bellow, and started down into the draw. Taken off our guard, Otto and I were dragged helplessly after him, while Barney, giving an Ogallalla war-whoop, fired his revolver as rapidly as he could. The air fairly quivered with Otto's expostulations, addressed now to the bull and now to the "verfluchte kid." On we swept[Pg 423] in a mad race, and yielding to a wild impulse, I gave forth my most blood-curdling yells. I saw, rather than heard, the startled oaths of the teamsters. In the next moment their horses were plunging and kicking as they heard the roar of the angry Durham charging down upon them. There was a snapping of harness and a breaking of axles as the teams swerved sharply apart, and the new court-house rolled majestically over on its side with a crash of broken windows. On we dashed, a tangle of horses and men, in the wake of the bull, with a score of crazy cattle bringing up our rear. Before the cowboys could recover from their surprise we were upon them. With a snort of defiance the bull toppled over every horse he could reach, and ploughed his way through the crowd of squealing broncos, dragging us after him. As the horsemen scattered I saw Arkansaw Joe rolling out of a cactus-bed, while his bronco fled in the direction of Alkali.

"Too bad to spoil our circus!" yelled Barney, as he swept past with a grin. We reached the top of the slope, leaving our cattle train to amuse our dismounted adversaries.

"Cut t'at lariat," shouted Otto, "and git home."

We urged our ponies to their topmost speed, for we knew only too well what to expect when the cowboys should have had an opportunity to load their revolvers. Had they not been empty when we made our charge, we should hardly have escaped so easily. Luckily we were well out of range by the time they reached the top of the draw. They galloped after us about a mile, shouting and firing, until they saw us join a group of horsemen who had ridden out from Garfield. Others were hurrying up, and we were soon surrounded by a crowd of indignant citizens. We quickly told what had happened. In a short time the force was thought large enough to proceed to the rescue of the court-house, and in spite of Otto's remonstrance, Barney and I turned back with them. But long before we reached the scene of our adventure a column of smoke told us the fate of the stolen building. There was nothing left to do when we rode up to the blazing pile but to vow vengeance on the thieves, and resolve to keep a better watch hereafter. When we arrived at our home we found that the bull had preceded us, much to father's surprise. While I got breakfast for the family, Barney gleefully related our adventure, and finished by declaring that the bull ought to be immortalized in history together with the geese that saved the Capitol. Father looked grave, and warned us not to go near Alkali. We did not go, except once; but that, as Mr. Kipling says, is another story.

THE CARE OF A GUN.

BY H. H. BENSON.

Aside from the pride and satisfaction which every sportsman should take in keeping his favorite weapon bright and free from spots, inside and out, it pays to keep a gun clean. The residue left in the barrel after firing contains acids, which will soon eat "pits" or spots in the metal, and when once started, it is almost impossible to prevent them increasing in size and number. When badly pitted, the recoil is increased by the roughness in the barrel. A gun can be cleaned by the following directions. The cleaning-rod should have at least three tools—a wool swab, a wire scratch-brush, and a wiper to run rags through. Have plenty of water at hand—warm if you have it, if not cold will do nicely. Put the swab on the rod, and some water in a tin basin or wooden pail. By placing one end of the barrel in the water, you can pump it up and down the barrel with the swab. When it is discolored take fresh water, squeeze out the swab in it, and repeat the operation, until the water comes from the barrel as clear as it went in. If the gun has stood overnight, or longer, since using, it is best to put on the scratch-brush after the first swabbing, and a few passes with this will remove any hardened powder or leading. The next step is to fill the wiper with woollen or cotton rags, and dry the barrel thoroughly. When one set becomes wet take another, until they come from the barrel perfectly dry. Then stand the barrel on end on a heated stove, changing it from end to end, taking care that it does not become overheated. By the time it is well warmed up, the hot air from the stove will have dried out every particle of moisture left in the barrel. If no stove is at hand, the last set of drying rags used must be plied vigorously up and down the barrel until it becomes quite warm from the friction. Drying is the most important part of cleaning, and if the least particle of moisture is left in the barrel it will be a rust spot the next time the gun is taken from its case. The gun may now be oiled, inside and out, with sewing-machine oil or gun grease, which can be had in any gun-store. The woollen rags used for greasing soak up a great deal of oil, and should be dropped into the gun cover for future use.

Cartridges can be bought ready loaded, by hand or machinery, but most sportsmen prefer to load their own, for several reasons. They find it much cheaper, and the shells can be loaded to suit each one's individual notion.

In regard to the safe handling of guns, almost all rules centre in that of always carrying the gun in such a way that if it should be accidentally discharged it would do no harm. If this rule is borne in mind, and strictly obeyed in the beginning, it becomes a habit, and is followed intuitively. The gun may be carried safely on either shoulder, or in the hollow of either arm, with a sharp upward slant. When momentarily expecting a bird to rise, and obliged to have the gun cocked, it should be carried across the breast with a sharp upward slope to the left. This is the only way the gun should be carried cocked. A breech-loader is so easily unloaded that there is no excuse for getting into a wagon or boat, or going around a house, without unloading. Never hand a loaded gun to any one who asks to look at it. Whenever you pick up any kind of a gun to examine it, always open it and see if it is loaded, and the habit will grow so that you will do this almost without knowing it. It seems needless to say never pull a gun toward you by the muzzle through a fence or out of a boat or wagon, yet the violation of this rule is the cause of more accidents than anything else. Never climb a fence with your gun cocked.

In learning the art of shooting on the wing—and this is the only way in which a shot-gun should be used—the following suggestions may be of some help, but no amount of printed directions can teach you to shoot. Practice is the best teacher. Nine out of ten young sportsmen shoot too quickly. A game bird rises with a startling whir of the wing (and sometimes when least expected), which gives the idea that he is making much greater speed than he really is. Beginners are apt to become excited, and throw up the gun anywhere in that direction, and blaze away with no definite aim. For this reason it is best to begin with blackbirds, ricebirds, and rails.

In almost every shot it is necessary to hold ahead of the bird, to allow for the time it takes to explode the cartridge and throw the shot to the bird. Even in this short space of time a cross-flying bird would be safely out of the shot circle if you aimed right at him. If a bird flies straight away from you, neither rising nor dropping, you should aim right at it. If flying straight across, you should hold well ahead of it. If quartering, still hold ahead, but less.

Many will ask how far to hold ahead, and this is a difficult question to answer accurately, as we have no means of knowing just how far ahead we do hold. One might say six feet and another six inches. What might appear to be an inch at the muzzle of the gun might really be a foot in front of a bird forty yards away. It must be learned by experience, and when accustomed to it the aim will be taken almost instantly, governed by the direction of flight, the speed of the bird, and the distance from the shooter.

It is best to ask permission of the owner to shoot over his land. You will seldom be refused, and will frequently be given permission to shoot over land which is posted "No Shooting." The land-owners know that it is the lawless hoodlums who do them damage.

Every true sportsman strictly obeys the game laws, and it is to his advantage to do so, although in many States the laws are practically a dead letter. Shooting out of season has nearly killed the game in many localities, when it would still be abundant if the game laws had been observed.

[Pg 424]

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

THE KITE MASQUERADE.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

March had come in like a lion, but, contrary to the old prediction, was going out in the same fashion. At least, so thought Dick Atwater as he violently pulled his friend Joe Jacobs's door bell. Only a second or two, and the door opened, when, rapidly passing through, he bounded up two staircases, and in response to a hasty knock, was joyfully welcomed in Joe's den, room, sanctum, or whatever the third-floor front might be denominated.

"Hello, old chap!" was the cheery, familiar greeting. "What's up now? for that some scheme's afloat I know"; and immediately Joe commenced to laugh, though, had any one inquired what at, he could not have told, unless it was the merry twinkle in Dick's eyes—enough to make a judge laugh, much less a rollicking, good-natured boy—the hale-fellow sort—and Dick's boon companion and greatest friend.

So, without further parley, the two boys sat down opposite to each other, one face all expectancy, knowing he was to hear something awfully jolly; the other all animation, for so sure he was that he was about to unfold a really taking scheme.

And this is what Joe heard: "You know April-fool's day will soon be here, and as it's blowing great guns now, I don't imagine that all the wind will die down by that time. So my plan is to give a kite masquerade on the afternoon of that day."

"Fine!" and Joe Jacobs immediately jumped up to get out his new "sky-scraper," as he called it, though it was altogether perfect; kite, tail, string, everything was there, and his friend Dick had seen it possibly fifty times before. But the simple thought of anything novel in the kite line seemed too much for Joe's excitable temperament; besides, he was very proud of this kite; it was brand-new, and none of the fellows, if we will except Dick, knew that he had it.

So Joe, having gotten out his kite, again sat down, and with his treasure in hand, holding it scrutinizingly up, looking at it most attentively—indeed, surveying it backwards, forwards, every sort of a way, even to an occasional unwinding and winding again of the string, and unfastening of the tail—he yet was full of inquiry to discover more. And as for Dick, he talked as excitedly, rapidly, and earnestly as if Joe was as still as the Sphinx. He was not in the very least nervous or ruffled, so entirely does one boy understand another. The scheme was to give the exhibition in the lot in which they played baseball, and, as Dick said, "Wear costumes, with masks, and we'll have lots of fun fooling one another—just the sport for the 1st of April." And then he added, "We'll tell the fellows to-morrow; I'm not afraid but what they'll join us, and they can do as they like about their clothes, but we'll dress each other up, Joe. What do you say to that for a fool trick?" and a quick slap on the shoulder added emphasis to the boy's enthusiasm.

"It's immense, that's what I think, and our kites are boss too. I wonder if they'll suspect who we are?"

"Not if I can help it."

"I say, what will we wear, though, Dick? I don't care how ridiculous I make myself."

"I know you don't; and I've thought you might go as an old soldier. There is your father's cast-off suit—how would that do?"

"But there's some difference in our size."

"Well," laughed his friend, "about a hundred or so pounds. But that will go for nothing when I get hold of the wadding. What fun I'll have stuffing you! Fortunately your height's about right. I say, though, Joe, you'd better wear a mask with a big gray beard, Santa Claus fashion, and that will cover over any wrinkles there might be about the neck. And don't forget the sabre. Go as a sure-enough soldier, or don't go as a soldier at all. And for myself, there is always so much talk about my leanness, gaunt, hungry-looking style, that I shall wear the costume of a real down-East Yankee; and in order to make myself look taller than ever I shall ask my sister to sew several red cloth stripes down my trouser legs, long-tailed coat, and vest."

"You'll be a sight for mortal eye," complimented Joe, laughing so heartily that he lost his balance and rolled off his chair full length onto the new kite, which, however, was not in the least hurt by this fantastic antic.

"I hope I will. I want to be a sight. And say, Joe, where do you suppose I can borrow a tall gray beaver hat and a big"—and he held his hands at arms'-length apart—"red cotton handkerchief?"

"I can get you the bandanna right enough, but the hat's a poser." And Joe screwed up his mouth thoughtfully awhile; then, with a triumphant nod, said: "I've got it. Go to Dr. Worth; he always wears 'em, and keeps 'em, too, for centuries almost. I once saw a whole stock of them on the top shelf in his store-room. He'll let us have one all right enough, I'll wager."

"That's good, and I'll get the dudest style of false face too, for I mean to be a dandy; and our fun—well, it will beat a house afire."

After a little more laughter, comment, and explanation, the boys began to talk about a game that Joe had learned the year before while in Germany, and that both the boys thought would be a good thing to follow the masquerade.

"What did you say it was called?"

"Schlaglaufen."

"My jaw is broken," and Dick rapidly raised his left[Pg 425] hand, laying it with a piteous cry across his lower jaw.

At this action Joe gave him a sharp look; and then came the words. "You needn't be so gay," and again the boys laughed merrily, Joe afterwards adding, "Well, another name for the game, and a much more pronounceable one, is 'Running for the Cap,' because a post is fixed in the ground, and on it a cap is placed and run for. The boys must be equally divided; one set is called catchers, the other runners, and these sets must stand fifty yards apart. The catchers' position is thirty yards from the post, and the runners' twenty. The call, one, two, three, is given, and on the second three is spoken one boy from each party runs to the post. The runner will naturally get there first, and he has to put the cap on his head, and then replace it. He must do this with the utmost rapidity, as, should the catcher overtake him on his way back to the position which he held before starting to run, the boy becomes the catcher's prisoner, and can no longer play."

The rest of the time Dick spent in Joe's room was given to marble-playing. Both boys were experts, and it was oftener than otherwise a tie game rather than that either boy could honestly be counted as being ahead of the other. Indeed, so evenly they played, it was a great delight to play without other boys being in the game, and, therefore, whenever there was opportunity, they, so to speak, challenged each other. Joe's floor was carpeted in a square pattern measuring six inches each way. Having selected a convenient square, an agate was placed in each of three angles, counting the nearest one ten, the middle twenty, and the other thirty. Two marbles were then rolled from the fourth angle, the inside marble being on the angle, the other immediately back of it, the object being to hit each agate with both marbles. For this five shots were allowed. When done the numbers were counted and the agates replaced for the next player. This amusement was succeeded by the three following games:

The Bagatelle-board Count Game.—Chalk a floor or mark a space in exact copy of a bagatelle board ten feet long by three wide. In the enclosure, at correct distances, mark the numbers; this may be done with chalk, or the numbers may be painted on thin wooden blocks and laid in position. Each player must start his marble at the extreme left-hand corner, and state before starting the number he wishes to roll to. Should the marble go to that number, and not roll on so as to touch another, the player counts the number selected, and can then state another number and play for that, and can so continue for seven minutes, provided his marble always hits the number selected, and though rolling on, does not touch or stop at any other. When his time is up his count is scored, and the next player follows, subject to the same rules. Should the marble stop on the number selected, it is counted double in favor of the player. Again, should the marble, having reached the selected number, still roll on and touch another, no count is allowed, and the player must stop until his turn comes again.

Five-arch Discount Game.—A strip of wood two inches thick, five inches wide, and one yard long will be required. In this cut five arches, making the centre one four inches in width, the others three inches each; stand it up on the floor or on a table, and make the starting-point six feet away. Four marbles may be rolled by each player. When a marble goes through the centre arch it counts sixty, but if, instead, it goes through either of the small arches, thirty is counted off. If a marble fails to pass through either, it is counted out of the game, and must be removed. The next turn around the player will use only three instead of four marbles. The boy who has the highest tally has won; should there be a tie they must roll again.

This game requires practice, or some players will find that they have lost more than they have made.

Circle Game.—Make a target of brown wrapping-paper, and put the number 100 on the bull's eye. Outside of this mark five rings, making the largest one two feet in diameter, the others proportionately smaller. Inside of these rings put the numbers 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, the centre as stated, being 100. Mark out a space on the ground for a base five feet away; place the target on the ground, blindfold a player, lead him to the base, turn him around twice, and leave him facing the target. He is now entitled to roll three marbles, and then remove the blindfold. His count will be the added numbers in the rings at which his marbles have stopped. Should any of them stop on a line, he is entitled to the largest number adjoining. No marbles must be moved, and each boy has the privilege of trying the ground once with each marble, before being blindfolded.

At the Zoological Garden Railway Station, in Berlin, a restaurant has been opened where rolls of bread and various kinds of eatables, etc., are dispensed automatically. On depositing in the slots ten-pfennig pieces or fifty-pfennig pieces—according to the kind of refreshment required—the apparatus delivers either rolls of bread or glasses filled with drinkables—cups of coffee, tea, cocoa, etc. The bread rolls are of different kinds, each kind being in a separate glass machine. In front of them is a marble counter, and before each machine is a plate. When a ten-pfennig piece is dropped into the slot the plate sinks below the surface of the counter, and a roll of bread glides into it. The restaurant has lately been thronged with customers. On one single Sunday 20,000 glasses and cups were paid for and emptied by the public, and 8000 penny rolls were demanded, and for the most part eaten.

[Pg 426]

FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XXI.

WHAT LED TO IT.

When George had left Rivington seated in his chaise on the Paulus Hook Turnpike, he walked on down the narrow lane to which the path had led him. A number of small houses stood there close together.

An old man was chopping wood in the back yard of the fifth house. Although it was cold, he was in his shirt sleeves, and the blows of his axe were sharp and lusty.

George, coming along the fence, observed him for some time before he spoke. Then he cleared the rails with a left-handed vault, and approached closer. The old man had stopped his chopping, and George saw that he had but one leg.

"Good-morning!" George said, quietly. "God save our country!"

"Amen!" was the answer.

It was the patriot greeting.

"Will you help me?" went on George. "I have escaped from prison in New York."

"You are blunt in the telling of it," said the kindly voice—there was a twinkle in the sharp black eyes—"and I will be blunt in my answer. I will. But come into the house. The door-yard is no place for the discussion of state secrets."

When the door had closed behind them, the old man had looked at George's clothes with interest.

"Were you in the hulks?" he asked. "I should judge not."

"No," returned George; "I was in the sugar-house prison, on Vine Street, and was treated fairly well."

"Friends at court, eh?" suggested the old man, bobbing quickly over to a window and letting the light into the room.

"Ay," said George, "and they helped me to escape. I will talk bluntly again. I am a Lieutenant in the Thirteenth New Jersey Infantry, and was despatched to New York on special business. I was captured, held prisoner, and would now return to my command at Morristown."

"What's the news in town?" asked the old man.

"You hear but little in prison, but there are rumors that General Howe is lazy," George answered.

"'Tis a frightful scandal," chuckled his host, who had now bobbed to the other side of the room, and was taking down some cold meat and a loaf of bread from the cupboard.

A door opened, and a young girl came from an inner room. She gave a little exclamation as she saw that her grandfather had some one with him.

"Another defender to assist," said the old man, briskly.

"Oh!" said the girl, smiling. "And what can we do for him?"

"Send him on his way rejoicing," was the answer. "Come, sir," he added; "break bread with us, and I will drive you out of the Debatable District and start you on your journey."

George murmured his thanks.

"No need of that," said the old man; "you are giving us a privilege. Harness the old mare, Minnie, lass," he said. "No, don't move. She's as handy as a whip about a stable," he added, as George had arisen.

The young girl flushed, and patted her grandfather on the shoulder as she passed.

"It will be ready in a minute," she said, glancing at George out of the corner of her eye.

"Put her to the sledge, and toss some hay in the bottom of it," called the old gaffer after her. "I am afraid I shall have to take you part of the way as cargo," he said, turning, and at the same time filling a pewter mug full of cool fresh milk. "There's the drink that keeps one young," he added, pouring out another for himself.

The sledge was waiting in the wood-shed, and George was soon covered with the light load of hay.

"We have some suspicious neighbors hereabouts," said the girl, as she lightly tossed the cover so as to conceal the young officer's form. "Good-by, and an easy journey to you."

"Good-by, and a thousand thanks," came the answer from the depths of the hay.

"G'long, Molly," said the old man, and the sledge slipped over the shavings into the snowy road.

They jogged along for an hour or so, when it became evident to George that they had left the beaten track and were going through deeper snow.

"Whoa up, old sweetheart! Back! back! 'Sh! 'sh!" called the driver, reining in. "Jump out," he said. "Here's where we change."

They were drawn up alongside of an old log barn in the midst of a clearing in the woods.

George struggled from his hiding-place.

Searching in the hay, his benefactor drew forth a saddle.

"It is impossible for you to walk, and you must take old Molly and jog along as best you can. You will have to accept a loan of her, Mr. Lieutenant. Fifteen miles from here you will find Lyons Farms. Ask for the house of Pastor Hinchley. You can be as blunt with him as you were with me. Leave the old mare there. Mr. Hinchley will set you on your way, and you can proceed on foot. If I am not mistaken, there are some of our gallant lads not many miles to the westward of Short Hills."

"To whom should I be thankful?" inquired George, quite overcome.

"To the Lord Almighty and His humble servant Peter Wissinck, very much at your service. My ancestor it was who settled the island of Manhattan."

The old man had said this proudly.

"That is an honor indeed," replied George, lifting his hat.

"Yes," said the old man, "I am as Dutch as blue china plate. Dutch backbone and Yankee heart—that's a good combination for you!"

"Good indeed," said George. "But pray tell me how you are going to return?" he continued, loath at first to accept the kind offer of the horse.

"Dot and go one," was the answer. "Hop, skip, and a jump. There's no one can beat me at it. Come, lad, into the saddle."

As George settled himself and reached forward for the reins old Peter struck the mare a slap on the flank.

"G'long, Molly," he said. "Take good care of him."

Then he turned and started back at a furious pace along the drifted road. It would have taken a good walker to have caught up with him.

If George had known the adventures that were soon to befall him his heart might have failed him. He had ridden on for some hours, when he thought he heard the sound of distant shots ahead. It was past noonday when he came in sight of Lyons Farms.

CHAPTER XXII.

A FORCED OPPORTUNITY.

We left William standing in the hallway at Stanham Manor. When Cato had gone with the heavy saddle-bags, he closed the door that led to the north wing softly behind him.

Lieutenant Frothingham was left alone. He sighed and rested his elbow on the back of a tall chair, and gazed into the glowing embers on the hearth. For a long time he remained motionless, and when he looked up again and out of the window he saw that a black cloud had obscured the moon. But there was a small circle of light moving down the lane. Long black shadows wavered across the snow on the meadow.

He stepped to the window sill, and at last could make out that it was a lantern, and that the shadows were those of the man's legs who carried it. There were dark objects[Pg 427] behind him, and now the figures turned about the corner and came straight toward the house. He heard the slamming of a side door, and saw Cato step outside and start to meet the new-comers.

Suddenly Cato stopped, and turning, sped like a deer back to the veranda, and dodged in through the side entrance. How noiselessly the old man could move! William did not know that he had entered the hall until there was a soft touch on the elbow that was in the sling.

"Jasper Gates!" exclaimed the old man, whispering, with his face close to William's ear. "Hide yo'self. Don't go outside. Some folks is bringin' some one up here on a litter, and, 'fo' de Lawd, I do believe it's yo' brudder Mas'r George. Come quick. Hide in de big garret at de head ob de stairs. I'll help you git 'way 'fore mornin'. Don't stop to talk now, chile, but come 'long."

He led the way up the stairway two steps at a time. In a minute or so there was great confusion through the house.

Two men carrying a rough litter made of boughs came into the hall. They were preceded by the slouching figure of Adam Bent Knee, the old Indian, carrying a lantern. The men laid their burden on the floor before the fire.

Aunt Clarissa, in a quilted dressing-gown, came down the stairs. The light from the candle showed red through her fingers.

"Ugh! most froze," said the old Indian.

"It's Master George, ma'am," said one of the men who had carried the litter. "Old Adam found him in the snow a short way down the road. He's got a bad touch, surely."

The other man tapped his forehead significantly.

It was evident that something serious was amiss, for the poor figure on the litter murmured incoherently.

Aunt Polly, scared almost gray, had been awakened at last. She had given one look at the empty bed that William had left, and like a frightened, squawking hen flew down the hall. "Lawd fo'gib me, I done fall 'sleep," she said, "an' he must git 'way den. What's he don wiv dose close?"

"His imprisonment was too much for him," said Aunt Clarissa. "We should have watched him more closely."

A delirious moan showed that some immediate action must be taken.

"Here, you, lift him up and take him to his room—poor boy! How did he get out?" said Aunt Clarissa, noticing that the right arm was still supported in the black silk neckerchief.

In a few minutes George, moaning feebly, was ensconced in the pillows not long ago left vacant by his brother. It was evident that he was suffering from exposure. He was in a raging fever.

A man was despatched at once for the doctor, but it would be some hours before he could return.

"Now, all of you, off to bed," said Aunt Clarissa. "I will watch him."

"Won't you let me stay, Mistis?" murmured Aunt Polly, tearfully. "I'll promise not to go to sleep."

"Out of my sight!" said Aunt Clarissa, sternly. "I would not trust you to watch a boiling kettle. Out of my sight, you viper!"

Mrs. Frothingham's solicitude for her nephew was something new and strange, but, nevertheless, the servants slunk away.

Aunt Clarissa, however, had not forgotten to thank Adam Bent Knee or the men whom he had called from the foundry settlement to assist him in carrying the litter. The old Indian had related none of the circumstances, merely stating he had found George in the snow.

When she was alone the stern nature broke down, and Aunt Clarissa approached the bedside. She knelt down and hid her face in her hands.

"I am punished for my stubborn pride," she said. Then in prayer she poured forth all the contrition of her heart.

Sleep is a curious phenomenon in many ways. Things that might be expected to awaken seem to coincide with our dreaming thoughts and pass us by, while soft noises or an unexpected presence awakens us as if a cold hand had been laid upon the forehead.

Grace had not been awakened by the trampling of the many feet or the commotion caused by carrying George up the stairway. She had dreamed that a body of troops had taken possession of the house, and that she was endeavoring to hide, for a voice had seemed to say, "The British are here!"

Afterwards the dream had changed, as all dreams do, and she was again a little girl playing on the bank of the brook with her two beloved brothers—one now lying ill in the big room down the hall, and the other, for aught she knew, far away in the distant city of London—for William's letter to Aunt Clarissa announcing his arrival in America had not reached Stanham Mills.

As Grace dreamed once more of the old days, she had awakened. The moon had come out again, and was about to sink behind the range of western hills, but the cold light flooded the room.

All at once Grace started and sat up. Yes! There was no doubt about it. There were footsteps going down the hall. She stole to the door and opened it cautiously, her heart beating fast.

She was not mistaken, for there was the figure of her brother George, dressed exactly as when he had arrived on horseback, stepping carefully down the broad staircase.

The girl hastened back into the room, and slipping her little white feet into a pair of soft slippers, she threw a heavy cloak about her, and picked up the candle that was burning brightly behind its paper shade.

When she reached the hallway below she started. There was her brother endeavoring with his left hand to open the heavy front door. "George!" she called, "Is it you?"

"Go back. Don't come near me," came the answer, "I pray you let me go."

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING? STOP! STOP!" SHE SAID.

It seemed to Grace that she must yet be dreaming; but despite the warning, she approached closer, holding the candle high above her head. "Where are you going? Stop! Stop!" she said.

"Good-by, good-by, dear sister," was the only answer.

With an effort the door had been thrown open, and a gust of wind blowing coldly in extinguished the candle she was holding.

The door closed softly. Grace stumbled forward. The last thing that was pictured in her mind was that strange left hand reaching and tugging at the massive bolt. Across the back of it she had seen a scar!

It was so black around her that her eyes at first could not find the direction of familiar objects. At last, however, she made out the stairway, and turned toward it, filled with fright at what she had seen.

What did it mean? It was William's hand! And now something was moving, she was sure, over to the left against the wainscoting, and she could hear it scrape: and then she felt as if she heard a breath. It was too much for her tense nerves, and she shrieked aloud—the terrifying woman's scream of fear and horror that starts the strongest nerves.

"'S—'sh—, it's only Cato!" said a voice close to her.

Grace controlled herself with an effort. But the one scream had rung through the house, and lights and footsteps came hurrying along the corridors. "Oh, Cato, I'm so frightened!" she said. "You don't know what I have seen."

"You's been walkin' in yo' sleep, missy," said the old negro. "Come, here's Aunt Polly; jes go 'long wid her."

"It's nuffin, it's nuffin at all," he shouted to the group that had assembled at the head of the stairway, Aunt Clarissa and the guest, the young officer, among them. The latter had wound, toga fashion, about him a patchwork quilt, and carried his drawn sword in his hand, "Jes Miss Grace been walkin' in her sleep, and got little skeered, I reckin," said the old servant, with a throaty laugh.

"No, Cato, I was not walking in my sleep. I saw—"

"Now come, Miss Grace," interrupted Aunt Polly, "jes don' t'ink ob dat no more. Come off to bed, an' let yo' ol' mammy tuck yo' in."

Aunt Clarissa followed her niece into her bedroom, but would not let the old negress follow.

The young officer had disappeared as soon as he had seen there was no use for his eager steel.

[Pg 428]

"Grace," said Aunt Clarissa, "what was it?"

"It was William," said the girl; "I saw him plainly. He said, 'Good-by.' Oh, auntie, what does it mean? You remember the scar across his hand?"

"It means that something has happened," said Aunt Clarissa, at first, sententiously. Then, after a pause: "Come, come, now; it may only be a dream, after all. Go to sleep. I must go back to your brother George."

Aunt Clarissa was worried, nevertheless; and when she reached the bedroom where George lay she once more sank down upon her knees. Oh, Inconsistency! Aunt Clarissa was praying for the confusion of the forces of the King!

The figure on the bed moaned uneasily.

"What is it, dear?" said Aunt Clarissa, lifting her head from the counterpane.

If George could have heard this term of endearment, it would have almost convinced him that he must have lost his wits; but Aunt Clarissa had undergone a great reconstruction.

"Oh, it is you, Cloud, is it?" exclaimed George, distinctly. "You black-hearted villain, you dare not harm me." Again he sank back and mumbled incoherently.

Aunt Clarissa had listened. "Cloud—Cloud—why, that's the name of our old overseer! What could he have been doing around here?" she whispered.

At this minute there was a clatter at the front door; the doctor had arrived.

"Where under the sun has this young man been?" he asked, as he stood at the bedside.

"In a few words I will tell you," said Aunt Clarissa, who never wasted her breath at the best. "He has escaped from an English prison in New York, where they treat men so horribly that it is enough to turn one's hair to listen to it, let alone one's heart. He arrived yesterday afternoon on horseback, looking tired and worn. He fainted, and I put him to bed. I left that worthless colored wench Polly to keep her eye on him, and she fell asleep. He got out somehow, and the Lord only knows where he has been, for his clothes were torn and smothered in mud and ooze when they found him up the road. He probably had been gone two hours."

"He's been through some great strain," said the doctor; "and see the marks around his neck."

There was a welt the breadth of one's finger showing plainly on the white skin of George's throat.

"Rest is what he needs. The trouble is with his brain. The wound in his arm is old and healing." The doctor spoke slowly, and placed his ear on George's chest. "He will recover," he said.

After he had made this examination the surgeon had left a sleeping potion, and had ridden home in the early morning light. He had arrived at the Manor House by the Valley Road, but determined to make his way back across the Ridge.

But he had gone only a short distance along the road that led up the hill when his horse stopped and began to blow, much in the manner of a startled deer, his ears pricked forward, and his haunches lowered and quivering.

The doctor looked ahead, and saw something in the bushes. But not a step nearer could he urge his steed. So he slipped from the saddle, and dragging the reins over the trembling horse's head, took a stride to one side of the road.

There lay the body of a man with arms outstretched and the face turned upwards. He had on a pair of fringed buckskin leggings and an old soldier coat, green with red facings. He was dead.

The doctor stooped closer to examine, and an exclamation broke from his lips. The man had been scalped skilfully! It was years since such a thing had occurred in that part of the country.

There was something familiar in the drawn features, and the doctor, twisting himself so as to obtain a better look, uttered something beneath his breath.

"By Homer's beard!" he said, "it's Cloud, the renegade!"

There were signs of a struggle in the bushes and the prints of moccasined feet in the snow. Further on it was evident from footprints that a number of men and horses had crossed the road.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 429]

RICK DALE.

A Story of the Northwest Coast.

BY KIRK MUNROE,

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

CHAPTER III.

ALARIC TAKES A FIRST LESSON.

On the day following that of the runaway, Esther Dale resumed her position as a personally conducted tourist, and departed from San Francisco, leaving Alaric to feel that he had lost the first real friend he had ever known. Her influence remained with him, however, and as he thought of her words and example, his determination to enter upon some different form of life became indelibly fixed.

That very day he drove again to the park, this time with only his groom for company, and went directly to the place where the game of baseball had been in progress the afternoon before. As he hoped, another was about to begin, though there were not quite enough players to make two full nines. Hearing one of the boys say this, and discovering an acquaintance among them, Alaric jumped from his cart, and going up to him, asked to be allowed to fill one of the vacant positions.

Reg Barker was freckle-faced and red-headed, clad in flannels, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and was adjusting a catcher's mask to his face when Alaric approached. As the latter made known his desire, Reg Barker, who was extremely jealous of the other's wealth and fame as a traveller, regarded him for a moment with amazement, and then burst into a shout of laughter.

"Hi, fellows!" he called, "here's a good one—best I ever heard! Here's Allie Todd, kid gloves and all, wants to play first base. What do you say—shall we give him a show?"

"Yes," shouted one; "No," cried another, as the boys crowded about the two, gazing at Alaric curiously as though he belonged to some different species.

"We might make him Captain of the nine," called out one boy, who had just gone to the bat.

"No, he'd do better as umpire," suggested Reg Barker. "Don't you see he's dressed for it? I don't know, though; I'm afraid that would come under the head of cruelty to children, and we'd have the society down on us."

As Alaric, with a crimson face and a choking in his throat, sought in vain for some outlet of escape from the tormentors who surrounded him, and at the same time longed with a bitter longing for the power to annihilate them, a lad somewhat older than the others forced his way through the throng and demanded to know what was the row. He was Dave Carncross, the pitcher, and one of the best amateur players of his age on the coast.

"It's Miss Allie Todd," explained Reg Barker, "and her ladyship is offering to show us how to play ball."

"Shut up, Red Top," commanded the new-comer, threateningly. "When I want any of your chaff I'll let you know." Then turning to Alaric, he said, pleasantly, "Now, young un, tell me all about it yourself."

"There isn't much to tell," replied the boy, in a low tone, and with an instinctive warming of his heart toward the sturdy lad who had come to his rescue. "I wanted to learn how to play ball, and knowing Reg Barker, asked him to teach me; that's all."

"And he insulted you, like the young brute he is. I see. Red Top, if you won't learn manners any other way I shall have to thrash them into you. So look out for yourself. Now, you new fellow, your name's Todd, isn't it?"

[Pg 430]

"Yes."

"And your father is Amos Todd, the millionaire?"

Alaric admitted that such was the case.

"Well, I know you, or rather my father knows your father. In fact, I think they have some business together, and after this whenever you choose to come out here if I'm around I'll see that you are treated decently. As for learning to play ball, the mere fact that you want to shows that you are made of good stuff, and I don't mind giving you a lesson right now. So let's see if you can catch."

Thus saying, the stalwart young pitcher, who held a ball in his hand, ran back a few rods, and with a seemingly careless swing of his arm, threw the ball straight and swift as an arrow at Alaric, who instinctively held out his hands.

Had he undertaken to stop a spent cannon-ball the boy could hardly have been more amazed at the result. As the ball dropped to the ground he felt as though he had grasped a handful of red-hot coals. Both his kid gloves were split right across the palms, and the smart of his hands was so great that, in spite of his efforts to restrain them, unbidden tears sprang to his eyes.

A shout of laughter arose from the spectators of this practical lesson; but Dave Carncross, running up to him and recovering the dropped ball, said, cheerily: "Never mind those duffers, young un. They couldn't do any better themselves once, and you'll do better than any of them some time. First lessons in experience always come high, and have to be paid for on the spot; but they are worth the price, and you'll know better next time than to stop a hot hall with stiff arms. What you want to do is to let 'em give with the ball. See, like this."

Here Dave picked up a bat, struck the ball straight up in the air until it seemed to be going out of sight, and running under it as it descended, caught it as deftly and gently as though it had been a wad of feathers.

"There," said he, "you have learned by experience the wrong way of catching a ball, and seen the right way. I can't stop to teach you any more now, for our game is waiting. What you want to do, though, is to go down town and get a ball—a 'regulation dead,' mind—take it home, and practise catching until you have learned the trick and covered your hands with blisters. Then come back here, and I will show you something else. Good-by—so long!"

With this the good-natured fellow ran off to take his place in the pitcher's box, leaving Alaric filled with gratitude, and glowing with the first thrill of real boyish life that he had ever known. For a while he stood and watched the game, his still-tingling hands causing him to appreciate as never before the beauty of every successful catch that was made. He wondered if pitching a ball could be as difficult as catching one, or even any harder than it looked. It certainly appeared easy enough. He admired the reckless manner in which the players flung themselves at the bases, sliding along the ground as though bent on ploughing it with their noses; while the ability to hit one of those red-hot balls with a regulation bat seemed to him little short of marvellous. In fact, our lad was, for the first time in his life, viewing a game of baseball through his newly discovered loop-hole of experience, and finding it a vastly different affair from the same scene shrouded by an unrent veil of ignorance.

After he had driven away from the fascinating game, his mind was so full of it that when, in passing the children's playground, he was invited by Miss Sue Barker, sister of red-headed Reg, to join in a game of croquet, he declined, politely enough, but with such an unwonted tone of contempt in his voice as caused the girl to stare after him in amazement.

He procured a regulation baseball before going home, and then practised with it in the court-yard behind the Todd palace until his hands were red and swollen. Their condition was so noticeable at dinner-time that his father inquired into the cause. When the boy confessed that he had been practising with a baseball, his brother John laughed loud and long, and asked him if he intended to become a professional.

His sister only said, "Oh, Allie! How can you care to do anything so common? And where did you pick up the notion? I am sure you never saw anything of the kind in France."

"No," replied the boy; "I only wish I had."

His father said, "It's all right, my son, so long as you play gently; but you must be very careful not to over-exert yourself. Remember your poor weak heart and the consequences of too violent exercise."

"Oh, bother my weak heart!" cried the boy, impatiently. "I don't believe my heart's any weaker than anybody else's heart, and the doctor who said so was an old muff."

At this unheard-of outbreak on the part of the long-suffering youngest member of the family John and Margaret glanced significantly at each other, as though they suspected his mind was becoming affected as well as his body; while his father said, soothingly, as though to an ailing child:

"Well, well, Allie, let it go. I am sorry that you should forget your manners; but if the subject is distasteful to you, we won't talk of it any more."

"But I want to talk of it, father. I am sorry that I spoke as I did just now; but you can't know what an unhappy thing it is to be living on in the way I am, without doing anything that amounts to anything, or will ever lead to anything. Won't you let me go on to a ranch or somewhere where I can learn to be a man?"

"Of course, my boy," replied Amos Todd, still speaking as soothingly as he knew how. "I will let you go anywhere you please, and do what you please, just as quickly as I can find the right person to take care of you, and see that you do nothing injurious. How would you like to go to France with Margaret and me this summer? I am thinking of making the trip."

"I would rather go to China, or anywhere else in the world," replied the boy, vehemently. "I am tired to death of France and Germany and Switzerland and Italy, and all the other wretched European places, with their bads and bains and spas and Herr Doctors and malades. I want to go into a world of live people, and strong people, and people who don't know whether they have any hearts or not, and don't care."

"Well, well, son, I will try and arrange something for you, only don't get excited," said Amos Todd, at the same time burying himself in his evening paper so as to put an end to the uncomfortable interview.

In spite of the unsatisfactory ending of this conversation, Alaric felt greatly encouraged by it, and during the week that followed he devoted himself as assiduously to learning to catch a baseball as though that were the one preparation needful for plunging into a world of live people. Morning, noon, and evening he kept his groom so busy passing ball with him that the exercising of the ponies was sadly neglected in consequence. With all this practice, and in spite of bruised hands and lamed fingers, he at length became so expert that he began to think of hunting up his friend Dave Carncross, and presenting himself for an examination in the art of ball-catching.

Every now and then he asked his father if he had not thought of some plan for him, and the invariable answer was: "It's all right, Allie; I've got a scheme on foot that is working so that I can tell you about it in a few days."

In the mean time the date of Amos Todd's departure for Europe with his daughter was fixed. Shortly before its arrival the former called Alaric aside, and, with a beaming face, announced that he had at length succeeded in making most satisfactory arrangements. "You said you wanted to go to China, you know," he continued; "so I have laid out a fine trip for you to China, and India, and Egypt, and all sorts of places, and persuaded a most excellent couple, a gentleman and his wife, to go along and take care of you. He is a professor and she is a doctor, so you will be well looked after, and won't have the least bit of responsibility or worry."

CHAPTER IV.

THE "EMPRESS" LOSES A PASSENGER.

Professor Maximus Sonntagg, a big man with a beard, and his wife, Mrs. Dr. Ophelia Sonntagg, who was thin and mysterious, had come out of the East to seek[Pg 431] their fortunes in the Golden City about a year before, but up to this time without any great amount of success. The former was a professor of almost everything in the shape of ancient and modern art, languages, history, and a lot of other things, concerning all of which he wrote articles for the papers, always signing his name to them in full. The Mrs. Doctor had learned the art of saying little, looking wise, and shaking her head, as she felt the pulse of her patients.

These people had managed to scrape an acquaintance with Amos Todd, whom the Professor declared to be the only patron of art in San Francisco worth knowing, and to whom he gave some really valuable advice concerning the purchase of certain paintings. Thus it happened that when the busy millionaire, in seeking to provide a safe and congenial amusement for the son whom he firmly believed to be an invalid, conceived the idea of sending him around the world by way of China, he also thought of the Sonntaggs as most suitable travelling companions for him. Where else could he find such a combination of tutor and physician, a man of the world to take his place as father, and a cultivated woman to act as mother to his motherless boy?

When he proposed the plan to the Sonntaggs, they declared that they could not think of giving up the prosperous business they had established in San Francisco, even for the sake of obliging their dear friend Mr. Amos Todd. With this the millionaire made them an offer of such unheard-of munificence that, with pretended reluctance, they finally accepted it, and he went on his way rejoicing.

The next evening the Sonntaggs dined at Amos Todd's house for the purpose of making Alaric's acquaintance. The Professor patted him on the shoulder, and, in a patronizing manner, hoped they should learn much and enjoy much together. The Mrs. Doctor surveyed him critically, and held his hand until the boy wondered if she would never let it go. Finally she shook her head, sighed deeply, and, turning to his father, said:

"I understand the dear child's case thoroughly. What he needs is intelligent treatment and motherly care. I can give him both, and unhesitatingly promise to restore him to you at the end of a year, if nothing occurs to prevent, strong, well, and an ornament to the name of Todd."

Alaric found no difficulty in forming an opinion of the Sonntaggs, and wondered if going to France with his father and sister would not be preferable to travelling in their company. So occupied was he with this question that he hardly ate a mouthful of the sumptuous dinner served in honor of the guests—a fact that was noted with significant glances by all at the table.

It was planned that very evening that the Pacific should be crossed in one of the superb steamships sailing from Vancouver, in British Columbia, and a despatch was sent off at once to engage staterooms. The journey was to be begun, two days later, for that was the date on which Amos Todd and his daughter were to start for France; and though the Empress would not sail from Vancouver for a week after that, the house would be closed, and it was thought best for Alaric to travel up the coast by easy stages.

During those two days of grace the poor lad's mind was in a ferment. He had no desire to go to China or anywhere else outside of his own country. Having travelled nearly all his life, he was so tired of it that travelling now seemed to him one of the most unpleasant things a boy could be compelled to undertake. He did not want to go to France, of course, and decided that even China in company with the Sonntaggs would be better than Europe.

Still, he tried to escape from going away at all, and asked his brother John to let him stay with him and go to work in the bank; but John Todd answered that he was too busy a man to have the care of an invalid, and that their father's plan was by far the best. Then, as a last resort, Alaric went to the park, hoping to meet Dave Carncross, and determined, if he did, to lay the whole case before him, and ask his advice. Even here fate seemed against him; for, from a strange boy of whom he made inquiry, he learned that Carncross had left the city a day or two before, though where he had gone the boy did not know.

So preparations for the impending journey went busily forward, and Alaric, who felt very much like a helpless victim of misfortune, could find no excuse for delaying them. Even in the preparations being made for his own comfort he was given no active part. Everything that he was supposed to need and did not already possess was procured for him. His father presented him with a superb travelling-bag, fitted with all possible toilet accessories in silver and cut glass, but the boy would infinitely have preferred a baseball bat, and a chance to use it.

At length the day for starting arrived, and, with as great reluctance as he had ever felt in his life, Alaric entered the carriage that was to convey the Todds to the Oakland ferry. Crossing the bay, they found the Sonntaggs awaiting them on the other side, where the whole party entered Amos Todd's palatial private car that was attached to the Overland Express. In this way they travelled together as far as Sacramento, where Alaric bade his father and sister good-by. Then he and his newly appointed guardians boarded the special car provided for them, and in which they were to proceed by the famous Shasta route to the far North.

Up to this point the Sonntaggs had proved very attentive, and had striven by every means to make themselves agreeable to their fellow-travellers. From here on, however, the Professor spent most of his time in smoking and sleeping, while his wife devoted herself to reading novels, a great stack of which had been provided for the journey. Alaric, thus left to his own devices, gazed drearily from the car window, rebelling inwardly at the lonely grandeur with which he was surrounded, and wishing with all his heart that he were poor enough to be allowed to travel in one of the ordinary coaches, in which were several boys of his own age, who seemed to be having a tantalizingly good time. They were clad in flannels, knickerbockers, and heavy walking shoes, and Alaric noted with satisfaction that they all wore gray Tam o' Shanter caps such as he had procured at Esther Dale's suggestion, and was now wearing for the first time.

They left the train at Sisson, and Alaric, standing on the platform of his car, gathered from their conversation that they were about to climb Mount Shasta, the superb rock-ribbed giant that lifted his snow-crowned head more than 14,000 feet in the air a few miles from that point. What wouldn't he give to be allowed to join the merry party and make the adventurous trip with them? He had been familiar with mountains by sight all his life, and had always longed to climb one, but had never been given the opportunity.

It was small consolation to notice one of the boys draw the attention of the others to him, and overhear him say: "Look at that chap travelling in a special car like a young millionaire. I say, fellows, that must be great fun, and I'd like to try it just for once, wouldn't you?"

The others agreed that they would, and then the group passed out of hearing, while Alaric said to himself, "I only wish they could try travelling all alone in a special car, just to find out how little fun there is in it."

The following morning Portland, Oregon, was reached, and here the car was side-tracked that its occupants might spend a day or two in the city. The Sonntaggs seemed to have many acquaintances here, and for these they held a reception in the car, gave a dinner at the Hotel Portland, and ordered carriages in which to drive about, all at Amos Todd's expense. In these diversions Alaric was at liberty to join or not, as he pleased, and he generally preferred to remain behind or to wander about by himself.

The same programme was repeated at Tacoma and Seattle in the State of Washington, and at Vancouver in British Columbia. In the last-named place Alaric's chief amusement lay in watching the lading of the great white ship that was to bear him away, and the busy life of the port with its queer medley of Yankees and Britishers, Indians and Chinamen, tourists, sailors, and stevedores. The last named especially excited his envious admiration—they were such big men, and so strong.

At length the morning of sailing arrived, and as the mighty steamship moved majestically out of the harbor,[Pg 432] and, leaving the brown waters of Burrard Inlet behind, swept on into the open blue of the Gulf of Georgia, the boy was overwhelmed with a great wave of homesickness. Standing alone at the extreme after end of the promenade deck, he watched the fading land with strained eyes, and felt like an outcast and a wanderer on the face of the earth.

After a while the ship began to thread a bewildering maze of islands, in which Professor Sonntagg made a slight effort to interest his moody young charge; but finding this a difficult task, he quickly gave it up, and joined some acquaintances in the smoking-room.

Alaric had not known that the Empress was to make one stop before taking her final departure from the coast. So when she was made fast to the outer wharf at Victoria on the island of Vancouver, the largest city in British Columbia, and its capital, he felt like one who receives an unexpected reprieve from an unpleasant fate.

As it was announced that she would remain here two hours, the Sonntaggs, according to their custom, at once engaged a carriage to take them to the most interesting places in the city. This plan had been suggested by Amos Todd himself, who had bidden them spare no expense or pains to show his son all that was worth seeing in the various cities they might visit; and that the boy generally declined to accompany them on these excursions was surely not their fault—at least, they did not regard it so.

The truth was that Alaric had taken a dislike to these pretentious people from the very first, and it had grown so much stronger on closer acquaintance that now he was willing to do almost anything to avoid their company. Thus on this occasion he allowed them to drive off without him, while he strolled alone to the head of the wharf, tossing his beloved baseball, which he had carefully brought with him on this journey, from hand to hand as he walked.

"Hello! Give us a catch," shouted a cheery voice. And, looking up, Alaric saw a merry-faced squarely built lad of about his own age standing in an expectant attitude a short distance from him. Although he was roughly dressed, he had a bright, self-reliant look that was particularly attractive to our young traveller, and without hesitation he tossed him the ball. They passed it back and forth for a minute, and then the stranger lad, saying, "Good-by; I must be getting along; wish I could stop and get better acquainted, though," ran on, with a laugh, and disappeared in the crowd.

ALARIC MAKES HIS FIRST DECISION.

An hour later Alaric was nearly half a mile from the wharf, when the steamer's hoarse whistle sounded a warning note that signified a speedy departure. He turned and began to walk slowly in that direction, and a few minutes later a carriage containing the Sonntaggs dashed by without its occupants noticing him. At sight of them Alaric paused. A queer look came into his face; it grew very pale, and then he deliberately sat down on a log by the way-side. There came another blast of the ship's whistle, and then the tall masts, which he could just see, began slowly to move. The Empress, with the Sonntaggs on board, had started, and one of her passengers was left behind.

[to be continued.]

Bobby (who heard his uncle say he lost his lawsuit). "That's nothing: why don't you ask papa for one of his old business suits?"

THE ARCTIC HARE.

THE COURAGE AND ENDURANCE OF ARCTIC ANIMALS.

BY THE CHIEF OF THE GREELY EXPEDITION.

Among the many errors that enter into popular belief regarding the arctic regions there are none more pronounced than some of those relating to its animal life. In many of their ideas the general public have been justified, for until the early part of this century even works of scientific research were not wholly free from fables and fictions of this character. Among these errors is one—i.e., that all arctic animals migrate to the south with coming winter—which especially pertains to the subject under consideration, for the fact that the animals treated of in this article are permanent residents of the arctic regions is one of the most convincing signs of their courage and endurance.

It was not unnatural for early travellers to believe that all arctic animals were migratory, and one need not go back farther than the narratives of Parry to find this opinion advanced. Instinct and a desire for self-preservation, it was said, impelled animals to pass to the southward, where the rigors incident to winter life would be less severe, and when spring came, with a similar instinct, they fled their coming foes from the south to seek safe breeding-places in the north. We now know that these animals abide in the north through the winter, but most people do not know how bitter their struggle for existence is.

Consider for a moment the winter environment of arctic animals, so as to fairly view the very adverse conditions under which, with a courage and endurance scarcely equalled elsewhere, they manage to maintain life from the passing of one summer to the coming of another. In order to speak with truth and exactness, the writer dwells on the arctic regions best known from personal observation—i.e., those portions of Greenland and Grinnell Land beyond the 80th degree of north latitude. These countries stretch not less than a thousand miles beyond the arctic circle, to within four hundred miles of the North Pole, and are from two to three hundred miles farther north than any human inhabitants.

Here arctic animals live and thrive in large numbers, under the disadvantages of darkness, cold, the inland ice, snow, and limited food-fields. The sun is totally absent for a period ranging from four to five months, during which time the darkness is such that even at mid-day first-class stars are clearly visible. With the passing sun comes the winter cold, so extreme that quicksilver becomes and remains solid for weeks at a time, and so prolonged that for successive months the temperature never rises above zero. Indeed, for only six scant weeks following midsummer does water remain unfrozen.

It should be borne in mind that the greater portion of these regions is eternally covered with what is known as the inland ice or ice-cap, which at irregular intervals covers and destroys the fertile meadows that furnish vegetable food. So it is that in this age there remain feeding-grounds for herbivorous animals only in such valleys as are yet untouched by the advancing ice-sheet, or from which the changing conditions of a thousand years have withdrawn the glaciers and restored the hardy arctic plants.

[Pg 433]

At first sight it would seem that no animal could live a single winter under the physical conditions just enumerated, the disadvantages of which are, if anything, understated. In truth, not only do these animals flourish, but it may be even said that the very severity of the climate and the difficulties of existence are the primal causes which populated these lands with races of selected mammals of unusual endurance, strength, and courage. Here stern nature extends no favor to the weak, slothful, or improvident, and only the best, the strongest, and the most cunning survive in person or by descendants.

Of the smaller mammals the lemming and hare entered the very high regions to escape their inveterate enemies, the ermine and the fox, who in turn followed these—their main food supply. Wandering here and there for pasturage, the musk-ox found the more northerly grounds less infested with wolves, and not at all frequented by man, so that here, in a measure unmolested, are now found the only known extensive herds of musk cattle. The predatory wolf naturally followed the musk-ox, the fox, and other smaller animals on which he subsists.

Let us now turn to the means and methods by which these animals succeed in maintaining life, which, it has been made evident, can only be done by the highest order of intelligence, courage, and endurance.

The smallest of these arctic animals is the lemming, which looks to one not a naturalist like a thick, short-tailed mouse, some four inches long, excluding his scant inch of tail. The lemming forms the principal food of the ermine and fox, while in summer it is likewise pursued by the robber gulls and the arctic owl. His color is not unlike that of the mouse in the summer, but with advancing winter the tips of the individual gray hairs gradually blanch and become pure white. Whenever the wind blows, or the lemming's fur is rubbed, it presents in winter a pepper-and-salt appearance, for the lower portion of the hairs always retain the summer coloring. The little fellow feeds entirely on arctic vegetation, but his principal and probably favorite food is the buds of the purple (oppositifolia) saxifrage.

This plant is possibly the hardiest of all arctic vegetation, and early in February, after weeks of cold which kept the mercury solid, specimens covered scarcely by an inch of snow were found to be sending forth their tender green shoots. But how does the lemming reach the snow-covered plant? Farther to the south, in the Parry archipelago, Dr. Sutherland observed that the snow near the lemming's burrows in the shingle was marked by his tracks, and here and there he had been scratching to reach the vegetation beneath. In one place the snow surface was broken over a tuft of purple saxifrage, which was covered by half an inch of snow. "What instinct," he adds, "could have led the creature to single out the exact spot on which to bestow its toil?"

Farther north the problem changes with increasing darkness, and the field-mouse meets it by building his house under the snow, in the centre of a flourishing patch of saxifrage or dryas. The tiny animal shows himself to be a nest-builder equal to some of our Southern birds. Finding a valley favored with vegetation, whereon the drifting snow from the adjacent hills has spread a protecting layer, the lemming proceeds to sink a shaft to the ground. He drives tunnels hither and thither until he has opened up a good pasture-ground, and then, gathering bits of grass from the bare ground elsewhere, constructs in the most suitable place a comfortable nest, which serves as his headquarters for the winter and as a cozy birthplace for the babes. He knows well that he is not safe from the ravenous ermine or the cunning fox, so be proceeds to tunnel from his nest in an opposite direction to the entrance of the burrow—a passage which ends in the open air at a considerable distance from the original place of entrance. The dry arctic snow above the nest packs with such closeness that any footfall thereon extends its vibrations a long distance, so that unless the little lemming is asleep, his acute senses give him warning of the stealthy coming of the ermine or fox in his pursuit.

THE LEMMING INSTANTLY BACKED UP AGAINST A ROCK.

In the open the lemming can easily escape if the friendly snow is at hand, for his pure white fur makes it difficult for the eye to follow the tiny animal on the surface of the new snow, while the rapidity with which he burrows in it astonishes an observer, and usually discomforts a pursuer. Now and then the mouse is caught napping, and doubtless he meets often as sudden and untimely a fate as did one under my notice. Hurrying along the ice-foot with one of the largest of our Eskimo dogs, we started a lemming under our very feet. The animal instantly backed up against a rock and uttered shrill cries of rage and defiance at the dog, who jumped for the lemming, and I for the dog. As my hands were closing around the dog's neck, he seized the unfortunate rodent, and actually gulped him down without stopping to bite. As far as I could judge the lemming must have gone into the dog's stomach in a living condition—a process easy for the dog, who was daily accustomed to bolt pieces of meat much larger than the animal he had swallowed.

There is no doubt that the lemming's characteristic rashness is as fertile a source of danger as is the activity of his pursuers. Often when escape is certain, a delay to show his courage proves fatal. If he is quite a distance from his burrow or a snow-bank, his chance of escape by direct flight is hopeless. When this is the case, he always dies with his face to the foe. Backing up against a stone or any inequality of the frozen ground he shows no sign of fear, boldly making little rushes towards the enemy, and as suddenly retreating to his coign of vantage as they fail to stop. All the while the air is vocal with a series of sharp little squeaks that are most surprising to the observer. The diminutive size of the animal and the small volume of sound are so disproportionate to the evident courage[Pg 434] with which he utters his notes of defiance, as to make the lemming at bay a most amusing were it not a pathetic sight for an observer. One cannot fail to feel an admiration for his courage, not unmixed with pity for the helplessness of so tiny an animal.

It is probable that the arctic lemming shares with his Norwegian cousin periodical frenzies of migration, so that the large number in Grinnell Land in 1876 was followed by a great diminution in 1881-3 in the same region. Whether the migration was towards Greenland is unknown, but it is certain that in 1882 the lemming was found along the coast of Greenland to the most northerly point ever reached by man. At this extreme northern point two lemmings were caught, one being run down by the ravenous, half-starved sledge dogs, the most fortunate dog swallowing him whole to avoid having the lemming torn from his jaws.

The lemmings that were held in captivity gradually yielded to kind treatment, but they showed always an irritable, uncertain temper, and even in mildest moods tried their teeth gently and playfully, but with a certain air that promised aggressive action if Mr. Lemming's rights were not fully respected.

The naturalist in naming the common hare called it timidus (timid), which in popular opinion describes its most striking quality. If this species lacks the elements of courage, it would be injustice to bring this charge against his northern brother, for the polar hare is bold, tenacious, and enduring to an astonishing degree. He thrives in the most northern regions under apparently the most adverse conditions, for within five hundred miles of the North Pole, at Lady Franklin Bay, a hare, killed two weeks before the return of the sun, after a winter of unparalleled severity, was in such excellent condition that it weighed eleven pounds, against an average of nine pounds for his kind.

He keeps the field throughout the year, and, like the hare of the south, does not regularly burrow. For the greater part of the year he lives in a "form," or a depression in his pasture among the saxifrages, willows, or lichens; occasionally one seeks a sheltered crevice or overhanging rock.

Nature, indeed, provides him with a winter undergrowth of fur consisting of the finest, fleeciest hair imaginable, resembling delicate down; but even with this defence it seems astonishing that he can endure an almost continuous exposure to temperatures that hold quicksilver as solid as steel. In a manner the polar hare accommodates himself to the situation, and if he does not, like the lemming, gather materials for a shelter, he does at least learn to use snow as a protection against the worst of weather. Possibly he would burrow like the rabbit if the frozen earth was not like iron, for he does at times tunnel the snow, to which uncheery quarters he resorts from his adjacent pasturage. These snow excavations or burrows are infrequent, for while they add to the bodily comfort of the hare, they render him more liable to fall a victim to the fox or wolf, always in search of this arctic dainty.

One of these snow burrows is described by Colonel Feilden, the naturalist of the Nares expedition in 1875, in 82° 27' N. Hunting the hare, two weeks before the sun reappears at mid-day, February 24th, in a temperature 56° below zero, Feilden continues: "I started a hare from its burrow, a hole about four feet in length scratched horizontally in the snow. I have no doubt but what the same burrow was regularly used, as the snow was discolored by the feet of the animal and a quantity of hair was sticking on the sides." All around the hole he had been scratching up the snow and feeding on the saxifrage, nibbling off the delicate green buds which were shooting out from the brown withered plant of last year's growth.

Dr. Sutherland, some three hundred miles further to the south, says: "The hares burrow in the snow. One burrow which I measured was eight feet in length, in a southern exposure, but it was never more than five or six inches beneath the surface. From the appearance of the snow which must have been removed in the process of excavation, it was my impression that the burrow had been opened during the winter. The hares were so wary, standing on their hind legs and spinning away in this upright posture, with watchful eyes on all our movements, that all our efforts to shoot them were useless."

The skill, rapidity, and peculiar manner with which the hare travels when closely pursued are worthy of attention. The first case noted was by Sergeant Rice, one of my command, who shot and pursued a hare which escaped him, although wounded. The animal would travel for a hundred yards or more at a time on its hind legs alone, jumping a distance of six to eight feet at each jump, when he would land upon his hind feet, only to repeat the operation, never touching the ground with his fore feet. Occasionally, for a change, he resorted to the usual method of travel. Rice at first thought he was suffering from an optical delusion, but as the actions were repeated he carefully examined the tracks, which confirmed his eyesight, showing that only the hare's hind feet touched the ground. Later the same method of travel fell under my own observation, except that the hare did not follow it for any considerable distance; probably it is resorted to only in dire distress.

Other instances could be cited of the tenacity to life and desperation with which a wounded hare struggles, but the following experience of Lieutenant Kislingbury, of my party, was probably the most striking that fell within our experience.

Kislingbury first shot a hare through one of its hind legs, and knocked him over, but he immediately straightened himself up and commenced to hop away, leaving the snow marked with his blood. He travelled so rapidly that the Lieutenant followed him for more than a mile before he was able to get another shot, when a ball was put through the hare's stomach; still it proceeded, losing here and there pieces of its entrails. For two miles further the animal was followed, when a third ball broke both fore paws just as the animal was in the act of jumping to reach a high rock. The force of the blow carried the animal over a cliff, where it rolled down a steep decline for nearly two hundred feet, and when picked up it still showed signs of life. It seemed to us to be a most astonishing example of tenacity on the part of any animal, much more of one usually thought to be timid and weak.

A. W. Greely.

LITTLE SCARECROW.

A SPANISH TRADITION.

Once upon a time there was a comely hen who lived comfortably in a farm-yard, surrounded by her numerous family of chickens, noticeable among which was a lame and deformed one. But this was precisely the one which the mother loved most dearly; for that is always the way with mothers. The lame chicken, that had been hatched from a very diminutive egg, was, in fact, only half a chicken, and to look at him one might have supposed that the sword of Solomon had executed on his person the famous sentence pronounced on a certain occasion by that wise King. He had only one eye, one wing, and one leg; yet for all that he put on more airs than his father, who was the handsomest, the most valiant, and the stateliest rooster in all the farm-yards for twenty leagues around. The chicken thought himself the Phœnix of his race. If the other young roosters made sport of him, he thought it was through envy, and if the young hens did so, that it was because he took so little notice of them.

One day he said to his mother: "Mother, I have something to say to you. The country bores me. I have made up my mind to go to the court; I want to see the King and the Queen."

The poor mother trembled when she heard these words. "Son," she exclaimed, "who can have put such nonsense in your head? Your father has never left his native place, and he is the honor of his race. Where will you find a yard like this? Where wholesomer or more abundant food, a hen-house so sheltered and so near the station, or affection like that of your family?"

"Nego," said Little Scarecrow in Latin, for he prided himself[Pg 435] upon his learning, "my brothers and sisters and my cousins are nothing but a set of ignoramuses."

"But, my son," responded his mother, "have you never looked at yourself in the glass? Don't you see that you have only one foot and one eye?"

"Since you take that tone," replied Little Scarecrow, "let me tell you that you ought to drop dead with shame to see me in such a condition. Pray who is to blame for it but yourself? But perhaps I may meet with some skilful surgeon," he added, with his comb as red as fire, "who will supply the members that I lack. So say no more, for I am going away."

When his mother saw that there was no way of dissuading him from his purpose, she spoke as follows:

"Hear at least, my son, the prudent counsels of an affectionate mother. Try to avoid passing by any church where there is an image of St. Peter; the saint has little liking for cocks, and much less for their crowing. Shun also certain men whom there are in the world called cooks. They are our mortal enemies, and they would wring the necks of us all, if they could, in the twinkling of an eye. And now go and ask your father for his blessing."

Little Scarecrow approached his father, bent his head to kiss his parent's foot, and asked him for his blessing. The venerable cock gave it to him with more dignity than tenderness, for, owing to the bad disposition of the chicken, his father had no love for him. His mother, however, was so greatly affected that she was obliged to wipe her eyes with a dry leaf.

Little Scarecrow started off at a trot after he had flapped his wing and crowed thrice by way of farewell. Presently he came to the edge of a Brook that was almost dry—for it was summer—whose slender current had been stopped on its way by some branches. The Brook, as soon as it saw the traveller, said to him:

"You see, friend, how weak I am. I can scarcely take a step, and I have not strength enough to push aside those troublesome branches that obstruct my way. Nor can I give a turn and avoid them, for that would fatigue me too greatly. You can easily take me out of this difficulty by removing them with your beak. In exchange, not only can you quench your thirst in my current, but you may count upon my services when the waters of heaven shall have restored my strength."

"I could, but I will not," responded the chicken. "Do I by chance look like the servant of a shallow and miserable Brook?"

"One of these days, when you least expect it, you will remember me," murmured the Brook in a fainting voice.

"All that was wanting was that you should give yourself the air of a great river," said Little Scarecrow, insolently. "Any one would suppose that you had drawn a prize in the lottery or that you were counting to a certainty on the waters of the deluge."

A little further on he met the Wind, who was lying stretched on the ground, almost lifeless.

"Dear Little Scarecrow," said the Wind to him, "in this world we all have need of one another. Approach and behold me. Do you see to what a condition the heat of Summer has reduced me—me who am so strong and so powerful; who raise up the waves, who lay low the fields, whose force nothing can resist? This sultry day has killed me. I fell asleep, intoxicated with the fragrance of the flowers that I was playing with, and here I am now completely exhausted. If you would only raise me a couple of inches from the ground and fan me with your wing, that would give me strength enough to fly, and to go to my cavern where my mother and my sisters, the Storms, are busy mending some old clouds which I tore to pieces. There they will give me some soup, and I shall gather new strength."

"Cavalier," responded the perverse chicken, "many a time you have diverted yourself with me, pushing me from behind, and spreading my tail out like a fan, for every one who saw me to laugh at me. No, friend, to every pig comes his St. Martin's day, and so good-by to you for the present, Sir Harlequin." So saying, he crowed thrice in a clear voice and strutted haughtily away.

In the middle of a field covered with stubble, to which the harvesters had set fire, a column of smoke was rising. Little Scarecrow drew near, and saw a tiny spark which was fast dying out among the ashes.

"Beloved Little Scarecrow," said the Spark, when it saw him, "you have come just in time to save my life. For want of nourishment, I am at the point of death. I don't know where my cousin, the Wind, who always helps me in these straits, can have hidden himself. Bring me a few straws to revive me."

"What have I to do with your affairs?" answered the chicken. "Die if you wish. For my part, I have no need of you."

"Who knows but you may yet have need of me," responded the Spark. "No one can tell what he may one day be brought to."

"Hello!" said the perverse animal. "So you are still haranguing. Take that, then." And so saying, he covered the Spark with ashes; after which he began to crow, according to his custom, as if he had just performed some great exploit.

Little Scarecrow arrived at the capital, and passing by a church, which he was told was St. Peter's, he stood still before the door, and there crowed himself hoarse, solely for the purpose of enraging the saint, and having the pleasure of disobeying his mother.

As he approached the palace, which he desired to enter to see the King and the Queen, the sentinel cried out to him, "Back!" He then went to the rear of the palace, and entering by a back door, saw a very large apartment where a great many people were coming in and going out. He asked who they were, and was told that they were his Majesty's cooks. Instead of running away, as his mother had warned him to do, he went in with crest and tail erect; but one of the scullions caught him on the instant and wrung his neck in the twinkling of an eye.

"Bring some water here and let us pluck this scarecrow," said the scullion.

"Water, my dear Doña Cristalina," cried the chicken; "please don't scald me! Mercy! Have compassion upon me!"

"Had you compassion upon me when I asked your help, perverse bird?" answered the Water, boiling with rage and flooding the chicken from head to foot, while the scullions left him without so much as a feather.

The cook then took Little Scarecrow and put him on the gridiron.

"Fire! brilliant Fire!" cried the unhappy bird, "you who are so powerful and so resplendent, take pity upon my situation, repress your ardor, quench your flames, and do not burn me."

"You impudent rogue!" responded the Fire, "how can you have the courage to appeal to me, after having stifled me, because you thought, as you said, that you would never need me? Come here and you shall see something fine."

And, in fact, not content with browning the chicken, the fire burned him until he was as black as a coal. When the cook saw the chicken in this condition he took him by the foot and threw him out of the window. Then the Wind took possession of him.

"Wind," cried Little Scarecrow, "my dear, my venerated Wind, you who rule over everything, and who obey no one, powerful among the powerful, have compassion upon me; leave me at rest on this heap."

"Leave you!" roared the Wind, seizing him in a gust and whirling him about in the air like a top. "Never!"

The Wind deposited Little Scarecrow on the top of a belfry. St. Peter extended his hand and fastened him firmly to it. From that time to this he has remained there, black, thin, and bare, beaten by the rain and pushed about by the Wind, whose sport he forever is. He is no longer called Little Scarecrow, but Weather-Cock; but there he is, expiating his errors and his sins, his disobedience, his pride, and his perversity.

A MARINE SIMILE.

The fish are ships that swim the sea
In sunshine and in gales;
Their tails the trusty rudders are,
Their fins the spreading sails.

[Pg 436]

FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

V.—FROM JACK TO BOB.

Old Man of the Out House.

DEAR BOB,—Your two letters from the steamer got here yesterday. Sandboys says your polite Pirate was stuffing you about that money in Venezuela, and he thinks you'll get your money back when oysters climb trees and not before, and I sort of agree with him. That story about jumping overboard and getting washed back don't seem to me ought to be told to people that love truth. Anyhow Sandboys didn't like it, and he told me to tell you to tell your old Pirate that he can do his own Grand Viziering when he gets to his Island Kingdom and save his ten dollars a week—there's more money in carrying ice-water up and down stairs here, Sandboys says, and he's going to stick to it.

I'm pretty lonesome for you this summer, though there's a half a dozen pretty good fellows here; one of 'em's named Billie Tompkins and he lives out in Chicago. He says there's no place like Chicago in this world for fun. It's situated right out in the prairies and he's got a sand-yacht that he goes sailing about in every spring. I never heard of a sand-yacht before and neither did Sandboys, but Billie Tompkins described it to us and I should think it would be a pretty good thing to have. It has wheels, and is built just like a cat-boat with a mast and a rudder, but no keel. He says that he's sailed over pretty much all of Illinois with it and had lots of adventures with Indians and kiyoots. Of course you know what kiyoots are, they're prairie wolves and they're very dangerous to people that need sleep because they howl all night. He's had lots of trouble with them, but the Indians have bothered him worse than anything, frequently chasing him for miles just to get his scalp. One of 'em caught him once, when he was out sailing one day in March. He had a little seal-skin cap on fortunately, and the Indian ran away with that thinking sure he'd caught his head of hair. Ever since that time he's worn seal-skin caps for sailing. The most exciting time he ever had though was last spring. He'd gone out for an afternoon's cruise and had got about forty miles out on the prairie. He was sailing along beautifully before the wind when he saw a black speck off on the horizon coming towards him like lightning. He didn't know what it was at first but as it alarmed him just a little he took a tack off to the East, and then he knew that the object was bearing down for him for it changed its course just as he had and came on in hot pursuit. In about five minutes he saw that it was an Indian on horseback and he began to get sorry that he'd disobeyed his father and come so far out. You see his father isn't a millionaire and was rather put out about his losing that seal-skin hat, and he'd told him to keep away from where the Indians were. It's pretty tough to be placed where you're bound to get hurt whatever happens, and Billie got pretty anxious contemplating—how's that for a word?—getting scalped or spanked. He steered his yacht right about, so's she'd fly before the wind, which was his only chance, but it was too late. The Indian was close enough to lasso him. Suddenly the pursuer's rope shot out, but by some mistake in the aim didn't catch Billie, but got the mast right in the noose. The horse stopped short, braced himself and the Indian began to grin, expecting to see the boat capsize, but he forgot that the boat had a speed of a hundred miles an hour on and weighed three times as much as the horse in the bargain. He found out in a minute though, for the rope snapped taut, yanked the horse out from under the Indian, threw the Indian over on his own neck and broke it, and went sailing over the prairie with the poor, kicking horse in tow. Billie stopped the yacht as quick as he could for the horse's sake, though it couldn't hurt him much towing him through the soft sand. The horse got on his legs again, as meek as you please. Billie fastened him to the rudder post and went back to where the Indian was and found he was deader than a door-nail, and, strangely enough, hanging from his girdle was the identical seal-skin cap that had been scalped off Billie's head two years before.

He sailed home in triumph, having made a horse and recovered his cap as well, and his father forgave him for not having minded, and when the horse was sold later on for fifty dollars he gave Billie five dollars of it all for himself.

Sandboys says that was a wonderful adventure and I sort of feel that way myself. He says if Billie keeps on having adventures like that there's no reason why he shouldn't grow up to be as successful a man as your Pirate, but he thinks Billie ought to stick by Chicago and not go seeking his fortune anywhere else because there isn't another city in the world where a thing like that could happen, which I guess is true. It certainly couldn't happen anywhere around Boston, because even if they had a prairie and Indians you couldn't steer a yacht through the fearful crowds of bicyclers they have there, without having a collision.

Speaking of bicyclers there's a fellow here that's going to coast down Mt. Washington next week and he's awfully proud of himself, which he needn't be. It would be much harder work to go up Mt. Washington on a bicycle, Sandboys says, and he ought to know, because he's done both, and last year he came down all the way on one roller skate without touching his other foot once. If you see your Pirate ask him what he thinks of that.

Barring Billie and Sandboys everything's pretty slow here. We've only changed the boots in the hall once, and the new head waiter has got eyes like a ferret so's no one can sneak an apple or a banana out of the dining room without its getting in the bill. We boys are going to hold a Mass Meeting this week to see what can be done about this. It isn't any fun eating fruit at the table, and what's the good of nuts and raisins if you can't carry 'em off in your pockets? If you see any live Dukes tell me about 'em.

Always yours,
Jack.

[Pg 437]

3. The Finish. 2. The Stride. 1. The Start.

From instantaneous Photographs of T. E. Burke, Champion Quarter-miler of the World.

Boardman. Lakin. Crane. Kilpatrick. Hollister. Kingsley.

Start of Half-mile Race at the Inter-collegiate Games, 1895.

RUNNING THE MIDDLE DISTANCES.

The middle distances are the hardest events for an athlete to work at without the assistance of a trainer; but this fact should not discourage the beginner, because there is a vast amount of preliminary work that he can do which will put him into such condition that when he does at last come under the care of a coach he will be able to make rapid progress toward proficiency. The term "middle distances" is usually applied to the quarter and half mile races only, for these have become recognized as the standards by amateur associations and clubs. The quarter-mile is sometimes set down on the card as a 440-yard dash—for it is practically a dash from start to finish, as run nowadays—and the half-mile is frequently called the 880-yard run. It is becoming more usual, however, to look upon these events as fractions of a mile.

The preparatory work for the quarter should begin at the close of winter with walks of from two to three miles across country, ending up with a half-mile jog and a good rub-down. This sort of exercise should be taken every day for three weeks, in order to harden the muscles and get the body into regular habits of physical exercise. Let us presume that at the end of this time the weather has moderated sufficiently to permit of out-door work in light running costume. This should consist of running at an easy gait distances longer and shorter than a quarter-mile on alternate days. For instance, on Monday, run 220 and 300 yards a couple of times, with a rest in between; on Tuesday run 600 yards or half a mile; on Wednesday run the short distances again; and keep on doing this for a month or more. Occasionally—say once a week—try a 100 yards for speed, and about every tenth day take a trial quarter on time.

The most important of all things in running the middle distances is that the athlete should become a judge of pace. He must know just how fast he is going. It takes time, of course, to acquire this knowledge, but the good men in the events know just how rapidly they are travelling around the track, and can tell to a fifth of a second what their gait has been for any fraction of the course. That is why these events are the hardest to run. The best[Pg 438] way to acquire this knowledge of gait is to get some one to hold a watch on you every time you run. When you have not a trainer, however, this is not always possible. But there is no reason why you should not hold the watch yourself. And it is well to keep a record of your speed as it increases.

Frequent runs of 150 and 300 yards on time will serve to show how your speed is getting along, and the distances being short, this will enable you to judge of pace so that you can tell very closely how you are travelling over the various portions of your distance. As I have said, the quarter as now run is a sprint from start to finish, and the best thing to do in competition is to jump into the lead at once and head the field all the way if you can. As in the 100 and 220, no heed should be given to the other competitors, and, above all things, never look back.

There is little more to be said in the way of instruction for this event, for it is one that must be worked over according to the powers and capabilities of each individual. The general training after the first four or five months is about the same as for the sprints, which was described in this Department last week. As for the start, it is optional with the individual whether he shall stand or crouch. Burke, the world's champion quarter-miler, who is represented in the series above, uses the standing start, but many others get off from the crouching position. The second picture of the series gives a good idea of the pace and the general position of the body, both of which are identical with sprinting form. The finish is somewhat different. There is always plenty of space ahead after a quarter-mile race (which, of course, has to be run on a curved track) for the runner to keep on going as long as he wishes to, and thus he can pass the tape at top speed and keep on as far as he likes. Many hundred-yard sprinters coming down a short straight track lose a fraction of a second of their speed by slowing up too soon.

The half-mile run requires even a greater judgment of gait than does the quarter, and it is a much harder race to run, having now been developed into such a speedy contest that a man should never attempt to enter any other event in games where he runs a half-mile. Moreover, the athlete who adopts the half-mile as his specialty should give up every other event and train continuously and solely for that distance. He must get himself into such shape that he can tell to a fraction of a second just how fast he is going. This is learned only by having a watch going all the time, and while training there ought to be some one on the track to shout the time every furlong or so.

The preparatory work for this distance is similar to that of the quarter—that is, there should be long and short work, over and under the distance, on alternate days. A half-mile trial on time once in two weeks is sufficient. The start and gait are the same as for the quarter. In the illustration of the start of the half-mile race at the Intercollegiates of 1895 it is plain to see that Kilpatrick is determined to get the pole if he can, while Siebel and Kingsley, who have inside positions, are determined to keep them even if they have to take a sprinting start. Hollister, on the other hand, has apparently made up his mind to let Kilpatrick set the pace, and then try to pass him. This was wise of Hollister, because he knew Kilpatrick's habit is to run a very fast first quarter, and he himself has been trained to sprint hard at the finish. Thus he felt that if he could keep up with Kilpatrick for the first three-eighths he could sprint past him at the finish. Hollister won.

I give this illustration of the tactics of half-mile racing to show how very much strategy has to come in in this event. You must know how your opponents run, and you must distribute your energies over the race so as to counteract as far as possible those of the other competitors. It would have been unwise for Hollister to fight with Kilpatrick for the lead in this case, because the latter could have run him off his feet. That is Kilpatrick's style. But by letting Kilpatrick set the pace, Hollister had an easier time of it in the first quarter, because he did not have to give any thought whatever to his gait. When it came to the stretch, all he had to do was to sprint. Nevertheless, the best general rule for a novice is to jump to the lead and hold it if he can. When he gets to be a first-class man he can devote more thought to the individual work of his opponents. One of the best things for any one working at the half-mile is to attend every meeting he can and watch the work of other half-milers. In fact, it is well for every athlete to follow big games, and study his own event in the work of others. Big championship games should never be missed if it is a possible thing to witness them.

In announcing the date of the New York I.S.A.A. spring games of May 9th, some of the daily papers said that the events would be open to "all preparatory schools of the United States." This was erroneous. The games are open to members of the N.Y.I.S.A.A. only. It is evident that no team could be chosen to represent the New York Association at the National meeting if these games were open to outsiders who could come in, and, by taking a number of firsts, make it necessary for the New-Yorkers to hold another field meeting to find out who their own best men were.

Baseball prospects in the Long Island League are bright. The St. Paul team, which won the championship last year, is almost the same again this spring. Starrs, Goldsborough, Baker, Hall, and Mortimer are back again in school. Adelphi has excellent material in Brooks, Graff, Crampton, Corbett, Forney, Langdon, and Baucher; while almost all of the High-School team of last year are on hand to play again this season. Poly. Prep. has as good a pitcher as any school in the League, and plenty of athletic material to pick from, and the Latin-School players promise to develop a strong nine. Baseball practice in New York has not begun in earnest yet, but it is probable that the average of the teams will be stronger than they were last spring, as there seems to be a renewal of interest in the national game, which has led a pretty precarious existence here for the last two seasons.

The interscholastic contests that are being held from time to time in the gymnasium of the New Manhattan Athletic Club are excellent things, and will serve to develop a good many young athletes who would not otherwise have a chance to show what there is in them. A strong incentive to energetic effort is afforded in the way of a trophy for the school that shall have earned the greatest number of points when the series of games has ended. This prize will be of small intrinsic value, but as a trophy it will be worth the having. These games will also develop a better spirit among the lads who follow athletics, for they are looked after by the N.M.A.C.'s new athletic manager, Mr. Cornish, who is as strict an enforcer of the amateur laws and the amateur spirit as can be found anywhere. Mr. Cornish can have a very strong influence for good over this rising generation of athletes if he cares to. His strongest hold upon the young men's confidence is that he knows his business, and if he now compels them to walk the straightest of straight lines, they will do so all the more cheerfully because they know that he has the right of the question on his side, and intends to stand by his principles.

Readers of this Department will remember that I urged the New York Athletic Club almost a year ago to show some interest in the sports of the rising generation, to cultivate the young men, and to encourage their efforts. I cited the Boston Athletic Association as an example, and spoke of how that organization holds meetings for scholastic contests, and helps the younger men with advice and suggestion. In fact, the meetings of the Boston Inter-scholastic Association's committees are held in the B.A.A. Club-house. The New York A.C., however, did nothing as an organization to advance the interests and promote the welfare of the boy athletes. Some of its members as individuals have done a great deal for the young men, but[Pg 439] most of their work has been in the nature of acting as officials at meetings conducted by the schools.

The New Manhattan Athletic Club, however, after having stagnated in a mire of unclean sportsmanship, finally gets an injection of new and healthy blood, and realizes that from the boys of to-day are to be drawn the athletes of to-morrow. The Club thereupon sets out to do all it can to promote and encourage scholastic sports. It offers the services of its gymnasium and of its athletic instructors, it organizes a large in-door meeting and shoulders the entire financial and executive responsibility, and does everything, in fact, that a club can do under the circumstances.

Of course all this is done with the ultimate object of making the N.M.A.C. a successful and prosperous organization. But with all this aim there is a great deal more unselfishness about the movement than selfishness. The Club is not by any means trying to secure control of scholastic sports. I feel confident of this from what I know of the men in control. What the club is trying to do is to help the young men interested in sport by relieving them, as far as possible, from the business part of athletics, and thus to make sport purer; and after this has been successfully accomplished, the N.M.A.C. will be very glad to see all these honest young sportsmen competing as members of its organization—an organization which, I hope, will stand for cleanliness in sport just as prominently as at one time it stood for the very opposite.

The gymnasium work of the Trinity School has developed a new game there. The sport was originated and first played in New Orleans, I believe, and is called "The Newcomb." The boys of Trinity School were perhaps the first to play it in this section of the country, and they have found it to be exceedingly interesting. The game is on the order of basket-ball, which was spoken of in this Department last week. A line is drawn in the centre of the gymnasium; then another line is drawn on either side of this, and about eight feet from it. These are called the "base-lines." The distance may vary, it depending on the size of the room. Two sides are chosen by captains, the number playing depending upon the available space and number of boys present. Twelve or fifteen on a side is a good number. The teams then take their positions between the base-line and wall, so that they face each other, and are separated by the distance between the two base-lines. A basket-ball or football may be used. The referee, standing out of the way, throws the ball to one of the sides. The object of the boy who catches it is to throw it toward his opponent so that it will touch the floor behind the base-line. If he succeeds in doing this it counts as three points for his side.

The player on the side to which the ball is thrown must try to keep it from touching the floor, and if he succeeds in doing so he must immediately throw it back to his opponent's side. This passing to and fro is kept up until a touch-down is made. If the ball is thrown and touches the floor between the base-lines, one point is scored against the side making the throw. The principal rules are that the ball may be thrown with one or both hands, but the person must not throw it while he is down or on his knees. He must not run with the ball, and he must not step over the base-lines. Breaking any of the above rules counts as a foul, and one point is given in each case to the side not at fault. The length of game is decided upon by the captains of the teams and the referee before play is started, and the side having the most points at the end of the allotted time is the winner. Two halves of twenty-five minutes each, with a ten minutes' rest, are usually played.

At the annual in-door games of the Hotchkiss School, at Lakeville, Connecticut, four of the school records were broken—R. B. Hixon established a new school record in the fence vault of 6 ft. 11 in.; C. D. Noyes in the high kick of 9 ft. 1 in.; H. H. Wells in the standing broad jump of 10 ft. 3¾ in., and J. P. Goodwin in the running high jump of 5 ft. 5 in. The first two records are most creditable for scholastic athletes, and are better, unless I am mistaken, than the Yale records for the corresponding events. Hotchkiss School made such a strong showing at the annual games of the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. at Hartford last spring that they must be counted as dangerous opponents at any future meeting. They are unfortunately at too great a distance from New York to send representatives to the N.M.A.C. meet.

The Graduate.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

No other aid to the housewife so great, no other agent so potent in relief for the dyspeptic, has ever been devised. ROYAL Baking Powder is simply indispensable where the finest, purest, most wholesome and economical foods are desired.

ROYAL BAKING POWDER CO., 106 WALL ST., N. Y.

Monarch

Mounted on this king of bicycles, you are Monarch of all you survey. All nature is yours as you speed along on your ride of health and happiness. You can depend on the Monarch in any emergency. There's "Know How" in the making.

4 models. $80 to $100, fully guaranteed. For children and adults who want a lower price wheel the Defiance is made in 8 models, $40 to $75.

Send for Monarch book.

Monarch Cycle Mfg. Co

Lake, Halstad and Fulton Sts., CHICAGO.

83 Reade Street, NEW YORK.

CARDS

The FINEST SAMPLE BOOK of Gold Beveled Edge, Hidden Name, Silk Fringe, Envelope and Calling Cards ever offered for a 2 cent stamp. These are GENUINE CARDS, NOT TRASH. UNION CARD CO., COLUMBUS, OHIO.

Two

Beauties.

The DeLONG hook and eye and the CUPID hair pin. The one will not unhook of itself, the other will not slip out of the hair.

Both made by

Richardson & DeLong Bros.,

Philadelphia.

[Pg 440]

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

Before we take up the maps again a word should be said concerning the purchase of a wheel for the ensuing year. Just at this time every bicyclist is longing for a $100 '96 wheel, and looking with disgust on his '95 or '94 machine, which has served him many a time, and carried him over many a good mile. Of course the '96 is better than the same make of '95. That is required of manufacturers if they wish to keep up with the best things of the time. There are certain improvements this year in bearings and tubes, in increasing the easy running of one, and strengthening without adding to the weight of the other; but in spite of those improvements, this year for the first time there have been no great changes in wheels. If you have a '95 wheel, therefore, which has run about a 1000 miles, two courses are open to you. You may be able to get $50 for it, and by putting another $50 with that, buy a new one; or you can spend ten or fifteen dollars on the '95 wheel and have a bicycle practically as good as can be obtained for ordinary use. If you are riding bicycle-races, or going in for long-distance records and thousand-mile tours, it will unquestionably pay you to get what you can for the old machine, and buy a new one of the highest price. On the other hand, if you seldom do more than ten to twenty miles a day once or twice a week, or if you use it for riding to and from the railroad station each day, or for going to and returning from school, the one you have already used a year, if it has been well cared for, will meet every requirement as fully as the new bicycle could. Indeed, a '95 or '96 bicycle of good make ought to keep in good condition with such use for three or four years without requiring more than five or ten dollars a year. There are cases to-day of '92 and '93 wheels which run as well as many '95 bicycles, and which have had constant use for three or four years. Naturally they are heavier, and the running gear is not as perfect as in the later wheels, but this year the improvements are so insignificant, compared with those of past years, that '96 and '95 wheels are not different in important details. In a place like New York city, or Chicago, or Philadelphia, or Boston, one can pick up a good wheel for half price which will be sure to last him a year without expense or annoyance. Somebody with a superfluity of money is willing to let his wheel go at any price in order to have an excuse for buying a new one; and such a man usually gives a bicycle a minimum amount of use.

In purchasing such a second-hand bicycle several important points should be noted. In the first place, and most important of all, take the bearings of front, back, and sprocket wheels apart and see if the balls are worn. Put them in place and note if they "rattle round" more than they should. Here is the first place where a bicycle begins to lose its usefulness. If the bearings are worn, either from use or lack of care in keeping dirt out, the wheel will never again run easily. Next look closely at the pedals, not only at the bearings in them, but at the condition of them generally. They get a large amount of wear and tear, and they strike obstacles which come in the way of the bicyclist more often than any other part of the wheel. From this they are apt to be imperceptibly bent in one place or another, which will account for an otherwise inexplicable difficulty in sending the wheel ahead. Then look at the tires carefully. If they have had several punctures you might as well pay out the money at once to get new ones as to spend it in piecemeal, at great inconvenience to your riding because of frequent punctures. Sometimes, too, the rubber is not of the best grade, and in a year will become dried and likely to crack. Sometimes the owner has not been careful to keep the tires well filled with air, and the rim of the wheel cuts partly through them, making them likely to burst at that point. Aside from these three important points, with the addition of sprocket chain and spokes, the faults of a wheel will show themselves.

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

The quality of one's voice in conversation has much to do with the pleasure listeners find in their part of the exercise. "A low voice," says Shakespeare, "is an excellent thing in woman." I agree with him, adding on my part the adjective "clear." A low mumbling voice is not agreeable, but when a voice has pleasant modulations, is low-toned, sweet, and distinct, it is as delightful to hear it in speech as in song.

One sometimes meets a charming girl who has a beautiful complexion, bright eyes, a pleasant manner, and a merry laugh. But, alas! her shrill, screaming voice, or her nasal tones, or her harsh discordant way of speaking, neutralizes her other advantages. With my eyes shut, simply by hearing a girl's voice in another room, or in a public conveyance where she sits at my back and I cannot even glance at her, I can tell whether a young girl is well or ill bred; almost I can state positively whether she belongs to the better-educated or the untaught classes in our land. Her voice tells the whole story. It is a surer indication than anything else about her of the people she has lived among, the care that has been taken in her upbringing, and the sort of character, refined or coarse, which she bears.

There are little mannerisms of speech which belong to certain parts of the country, and which are caught up unconsciously by young people, so that when they go away from home those who meet them have little difficulty in deciding from what point they started. For instance, if a young girl drops her final g's, and says mornin', evenin', greetin', meetin', comin', and goin', I know where she comes from. I have visited in a place or two where the sweet-voiced people nearly all cut off their final g's. And if she rolls her r's, and says the words that have r in them with a burr, I recall a journey I made one summer, and I remember numbers of nice girls who all paid r the compliment of twisting it lovingly around their tongues as they used it. A girl who says daown for down and caow for cow labels herself as plainly as if she labelled a trunk, and so does a girl whose vowel sounds are all matters of conscience to that degree that she speaks as if she were mentally spelling her words.

We ought to try to pronounce correctly. There are changes in pronunciation from time to time, but the dictionaries and the usage of well-educated persons will guide us, if we care about the matter and take pains to be right. But if we happen to hear some old-fashioned lady or gentleman pronounce a word in a by-gone manner, we shall, of course, be too polite to take notice, nor will we, as rude people have been known to do, repeat the same word in our own turn, with a different accent. I cannot too strongly urge my girls to be polite in all circumstances. Politeness is merely consideration for others, real unselfishness.

Kathie asks me to give her my views about flirting. My dear child, I haven't any. I cannot imagine school-girls flirting, if by this is meant interchanging looks and smiles in a silly way with strangers. No well brought up girl ever does this; and when a girl allows herself to infringe on the code of behavior which holds her aloof from[Pg 441] strangers, she shows herself to be either very ignorant or very stupid.

When you are travelling, or are in any place where a stranger performs a kind and obliging act, acknowledge the courtesy by a simple bow and a thank you. The man who rises and gives you a seat in a car is entitled to this acknowledgment, and so is any one who, at any time, shows you politeness. But you must not enter into conversation with strangers, nor make new acquaintances in public.

Any question 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.

Owing to the number of questions received and replies given, we are compelled to omit this Department this week.

E. G., of Worthington, Ohio, asks what is the best kind of water to use in photography, and what is done with the different solutions after they have been used. The best kind of water is distilled water, but as this cannot always be obtained, amateurs get along without it. Water which has been filtered through blotting paper is free enough from sediment to make it all right for ordinary purposes such as developing, toning, etc. In washing pictures after toning, or in washing negatives in running water, it is a good idea to tie a flannel bag to the faucet, as this catches all sediment, and prevents gritty particles settling in the soft film. Photographers who use a great deal of material usually save their solutions and separate the gold, but amateurs do not find it of enough value to pay, as the quantity used is so small. Toning solutions are usually thrown away after the gold is exhausted. Developers can be used over several times if fresh is added to keep up the strength. Hypo after being used for a batch of pictures should be thrown away, for dirty hypo will stain negatives, and as it costs but little it is better to have it fresh, and thus ensure good results.

Sir Knight Louis A. Dyar, of Winona, Minn., asks why pictures taken with a camera that makes a picture 3½ x 3½ are not allowed in prize competitions; how to make platinotype prints; if sepia prints are considered artistic; if it is possible for one to take a good instantaneous out-of-door figure study; and if a camera is not perfect, if the manufacturers would repair it. The reason why pictures made with a camera smaller than a 4 x 5 are usually excluded from prize competitions is because the small cameras do not admit of so much scope in the pictures, and while many artistic "bits" are taken with the small camera, they cannot really enter into competition with pictures taken with a larger camera, which requires more care and skill in making. Prints made in sepia tints are considered quite artistic for some pictures. Sepia tints would not be appropriate for snow pictures or for marines, but for some landscapes sepia tones are better than black or gray. It is possible to take a good instantaneous figure study out of doors, but the contrast between the lights and shadows is apt to be too strong if the picture is taken in the sunlight. With a quick plate and lens one may make a good instantaneous with the subject placed in the shadow of a building. If a camera is found to be defective it should be taken to the dealer from whom it was purchased, who will return it to the manufacturers and have the defect remedied.

Sir Knight Leslie T. Redman, Lexington, Massachusetts, says that the film from his negatives has a tendency to rise from the glass, and wishes some remedy. This is what is called "frilling," and is usually caused by the solutions being used at too high a temperature. A little alum in the fixing bath will harden the film. The following is a good formula: Hypo, 16 oz.; water, 64 oz.; pulverized alum, 1 oz. Mix thoroughly till the hypo and alum are dissolved. Let it stand for twenty-four hours till the precipitate formed by the alum has settled at the bottom. Then either syphon off the clear liquid or turn it off carefully, so as not to disturb the sediment at the bottom. The negative should remain in the fixing bath five minutes after the silver has been removed.

F. P., Mok Hill, California, asks for a good formula for an intensifier. F. P. will find in No. 824 (August 13th) three formulas for intensifying a plate, and one in No. 839 (November 26th) in answer to Sir Knight John H. Curtis. If not successful in their use, please write to the editor of the Camera Club.

Sir Knight Robert H. Ewell, sent, last May, directions for making spirit photographs. The publication has been withheld until the present time, as winter seems the best time for trying experiments, there being little of out-door work for the camera. Drape a sheet about a person, letting it fall below the feet. Take a picture of this person standing near or behind a chair with the arm extended, making a short exposure. Close the shutter, leaving the camera in same position, pose some one in the chair—the ghost having, of course, been removed—and take his picture. The first exposure for the spirit should be quite short, while that for the real photograph should be exposed as for any portrait. Develop the plate, and the negative should show the dim outline of the "ghost" standing by the person photographed. The editor has seen many amusing photographs made in this way.

Sir Knight Teebor Rolyat, Newark, N.J., asks if the Night Hawk is a good camera for a beginner, and if it is suitable to take good pictures; what is the simplest and best solution for a beginner to use; and if it would spoil a plate when the sun is shining on the camera from the front. The Night Hawk is considered an excellent camera for beginners, and it will take good pictures if the owner will use care and judgment. Some of the pictures which won prizes in a recent contest were taken with an outfit costing less than twenty dollars. One must use that camera as the painter advised his pupils to mix paints—"With brains, sir!" A beginner would be more successful if he used one of the ready-prepared developers when first learning. They are prepared by expert chemists and accurately mixed. After a little experience in developing, one can then mix his own solutions. Many formulas have already been given, and others are to follow soon. Two formulas for developers are given in No. 844 (December 31). The sun shining into the camera and striking the plate would fog the plate, but if the lens is shaded so that the direct rays of the sun do not strike it, the camera may be pointed directly toward the sun.

FALSE ECONOMY

is practised by people who buy inferior articles of food. The Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk is the best infant food. Infant Health is the title of a valuable pamphlet for mothers. Sent free by New York Condensed Milk Co., New York.—[Adv.]

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Arnold

Constable & Co

SPRING IMPORTATIONS.

PARIS LINGERIE.

Peignoirs, Matinées, Jupons, Chemises de Nuit.

Fancy Trimmed Waists,

Organdie, Batiste, and Linon.

Silk Petticoats,

Silk Waists.

Children's Wear

Hand-made Guimpes, School Frocks,

Fancy Lawn Dresses,

Piqué Coats, French Caps.

Broadway & 19th st.

NEW YORK.

WALTER BAKER & CO., limited

Established Dorchester, Mass., 1780.

Breakfast Cocoa

Always ask for Walter Baker & Co.'s

Breakfast Cocoa

Made at

DORCHESTER, MASS.

It bears their Trade Mark

"La Belle Chocolatiere" on every can.

Beware of Imitations.

Postage Stamps, &c.

STAMPS! 300 fine mixed Victoria, Cape of G. H., India, Japan, etc., with fine Stamp Album, only 10c. New 80-p. Price-list free. Agents wanted at 50% commission. STANDARD STAMP CO., 4 Nicholson Place, St. Louis, Mo. Old U. S. and Confederate Stamps bought.

$117.50 WORTH OF STAMPS FREE

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

C. W. Grevning, Morristown, N. J.

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

500 Mixed Australian, etc., 10c.; 105 varieties, and nice album, 10c.; 15 unused, 10c.; 10 Africa, 10c.; 15 Asia, 10c. F. P. Vincent, Chatham, N.Y.

FOREIGN STAMPS ON APPROVAL. Agents wanted at 50% com. Lists free. CHAS. B. RAUB, New London, Conn.

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

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

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

BOOKS OF STAMPS at 33-1/3% com. References required. Model Stamp Co., W. Superior, Wis.

WANTED Vol. I. HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, bound or unbound. H. WILLIAMS, 25 East 10th Street, New York.

Harper's Catalogue,

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

[Pg 442]

From a Naval "Veteran."

On Wednesday, October 2d, I saw the new United States armored cruiser Brooklyn launched in Cramps' ship-yard. There was a large crowd outside the gates when I arrived. The Brooklyn rested on an inclined platform, which was well greased with tallow. She looked superb and gigantic as she rested there waiting for the time to come for her to take her first plunge. When the time did come the cheering of the spectators and the shrieks of the whistles were deafening. The launch was entirely successful from every point of view.

The Brooklyn's keel was laid in the summer of 1893, and she will be finished next February, when she promises to be superior to any cruiser afloat. After the launch I had a look at the United States war-vessels Indiana, Massachusetts, and Iowa, and the steamers Curaçoa and Comanche. About two weeks later I again visited Cramps' and went on board the Brooklyn. All over her were men busy finishing her. I was also aboard the Comanche and Paris. The Indiana and Curaçoa were no longer in the yard, and as the Massachusetts was being repaired no one except the employés were permitted on her. I expect to see the Iowa launched. On Saturday, October 5th, accompanied by a younger brother and a friend, I visited the United States Navy-yard, which is situated on League Island in the Delaware River. We saw the monitors Montauk, Canonicus, Mahopac, Manhattan, Lehigh, Catskill, Jason, and Nahant, which lay in the arm of the Delaware that separates League Island from the mainland. For fully an hour we clambered all over the monitors, which had but one turret and two guns apiece, and we thought, as we left them, that the Catskill was the best.

These monitors, as well as the ones we saw later, were in the civil war, and since then, up to the middle of last August, when they were ordered here, they have been lying in the James River, not far from Richmond, Va. Crossing the island we went on board the receiving-ship Richmond, where boys are "received" for the United States Navy and then sent to Newport, R. I., to be instructed before entering active service. We also saw the monitors Miantonomoh and Ajax. The former has two turrets, each containing two great guns. Upon our giving him a "tip," a man showed us all over her, and explained how her men and officers "bunked," how she was ventilated, how her turrets were moved, how her guns were loaded and fired, etc. After a jaunt of an hour or more over the island, we wound up our visit with going on board the United States dynamite cruiser Vesuvius, which we inspected in every part.

I am much interested in naval matters, and am collecting, besides stamps and autographs, pictures, scenes, etc, of the navies of the world. I like Mr. W. J. Henderson's stories, especially "The Old Sailor's Yarns," and Afloat with the Flag. Any one who is interested in naval matters, and who would like to enter the Naval Academy at Annapolis, I will give a sample of the style of entrance examinations, and also a few hints.

Sir John H. Campbell, Jun., K.R.T.
413 School Lane, Germantown, Phila., Pa.

Santa Barbara's Flower Festival.

I do not think that you have heard much of the yearly flower carnival held in Santa Barbara. This city is noted for its large and beautiful flowers and foliage, and also for semi-tropical trees, such as palms, bananas, guavas, lemons, oranges, and loquats. The festival lasts about three or four days, and comes almost always in the middle of April. The one I am going to describe is that of last April. Unfortunately about a week before it the pavilion in which was to be the carnival ball was burned, and with it all the flags, bunting, and other decorations. This dampened the spirits of the people, but thanks to the help of some of the prominent citizens, money was soon raised for the decorations and a temporary pavilion was built.

State Street, the main thoroughfare, was beautifully decorated, and several arches spanned it. Tribunes were erected for a block and a half, in which the people were to sit while the procession passed by. The carnival opened on Monday. The first feature was the riding at rings at the race-track. On Wednesday there was the flower show at the pavilion, followed in the evening by a concert. On Thursday the grand floral parade took place, and this was the gala day of the carnival. Floats, spring wagons, surreys, phaetons, carts, and horses were covered with flowers, and prizes were awarded to the best-decorated vehicles. Friday night a grand flower ball took place, opened by the French minuet in costume, and attended by a number of United States naval officers of the United States cruiser Olympia.

Sir Fredric N.
California.

A Bit about the Old Hall.

We visited Independence Hall one day while in Philadelphia. It was most interesting. In one room were the portraits of all the men that signed the Declaration. On the floor were the chairs that the men sat in. In the hall there hung the great Liberty Bell "with many a chip and crack." In the west room was the arch that Washington walked under when in the house.

In a case on the right of the door were a piece of Penn's elm, the paper England tried to make us use before the Revolution, and some old-fashioned money. On the left was the frame on which the Liberty Bell used to hang. Right near it was a case with Lafayette's epaulets In it, also a drum, a gun, a cannon-ball, and many other things. We went out wishing we had more time to spend. Shall I write again and tell you about our visit to Girard College?

Julian Breitenstein.
Tidioute, Pa.

If you please.

The World and the Ancients Again.

Not long since the question was asked, "How the ancients knew there were poles without having some idea of the roundness of the earth." A phrase, intonnere poli, was quoted from Virgil which is certainly translated "The poles resound with thunder." As I interpret this it means the heavens thunder—the "heavens" being symbolized by the "poles" upon which they were supposed to revolve. According to the ancient idea the earth was a circular disk, above which was the "starry vault of heaven," of solid metal, and below which was the deep cave of Hades.

Around the earth flowed the black waters of the River Ocean, and beyond this the heavens met the lower world in much the same manner as the one half of a hollow sphere joins the other. But the shape was not spherical, it was elliptical, and this peculiar mass whirled on an axis extending from the highest point of heaven down through the centre of the earth to the lowest point of Hades. Either extremity of this axis was a pole, hence the use of "poles" for "heavens," but whether this axis was an imaginary one or whether it is to be taken literally I have been unable to ascertain.

The earth was thus completely enveloped by the upper and lower worlds, separated from them by strong horizontal pillars, and held in its place by Atlas; but notwithstanding the fact that an axis passed directly through it, the earth had no rotary motion; in other words, the earth was in the interior of a spinning mass. These are some of the most important facts, and I hope an answer to the question. In looking over the Grecian and Roman mythology a great many conflicting theories are noticed, and the ancient mind appears to have been most unstable and unsatisfied in regard to the idea of the construction and arrangement of the universe.

Paul A. Sinsheimer.
San Luis Obispo, Cal.

Navajo Indians.

I am going to try and tell the readers a little about the Navajo Indians, near whose reservation I live. The Navajos, as a rule, are not a tall race, although there is one living about two miles from town who is over six feet. His white friends call him "Lengthy." The squaw who went to the World's Fair as being the best Navajo blanket-maker of the tribe has two photographs, one of herself and another squaw, and one of the Government Building which was at the Fair, which she delights in showing to every one that goes to her hut. She talks about "much people" whom she saw while there.

Some of the Indians are quite old, but as active as when young. One squaw has great-grandchildren who can do as much work in field or house as a man. Three years ago la grippe came among them; but few died, as they have a way of curing it which they will not reveal. One man died who had curly black hair which came to his knees—the only Indian ever known hereabouts to have curly hair. Between Fort Defiance and here, about nine miles, there is a large hill which was made by the Indians, who, as they went from one place to the other, would throw, as they passed this spot, a stone, stick, or handful of dirt on it, praying that they would accomplish their journey in safety.

It is seldom that those who have been to school for a year or two live when they return to their tribe, because, after becoming used to our food, they cannot live on their own, it being very poor and insufficient. The Navajos live principally on corn, mutton, beans, melons, and green pease, in their season, which they raise themselves, besides tea, coffee, and sugar for those that can buy or beg it. They have a bread made of a mixture of flour, meat, water, and red pepper which has a very sharp taste. There are two silversmiths in the tribe, who make buttons, belts, rings, bridles, and bracelets out of silver money. One of them had his nose hurt on the point, and he immediately filled it with clay and put plaster over it, and now the skin has grown partly over it, giving him an odd appearance indeed.

The clothing of the men usually consists of one or more calico shirts, cut and made by themselves, a pair of overalls, and moccasins, with a blanket tied around the waist, which is worn at all times, with a hat sometimes, and sometimes not. The squaw usually has four or five calico dresses, either made by herself or given to her by some white friend, with blanket and moccasins the same as the men. They make no money except a few dollars or cents now and then by doing small jobs, running errands, and selling their beautiful blankets for half what they are worth.

Mary D. Tarr, R.T.L.
Manuelito, N. M.

Geographical Hiding-places.

1, Find meat in an English river. 2, Find a mineral paint in American mountains. 3, Find a small steamer in a European country. 4, Find a floor-covering in a country of South America. 5, Find a destructive animal in a New York watering-place. 6, Find a kind of clay in an Atlantic sound. 7, Find a carriage in a lake. 8, Find a small carpet in an Asiatic island. 9, Find small talk in an Asiatic sea. 10, Find a discoverer in a continent. 11, Find a part of the foot in a Virginia city. 12, Find a useful fowl in a city of New York.

Answer.—1, T-ham-es. 2, C-umber-land. 3, Por-tug-al. 4, U-rug-uay. 5, Sa-rat-oga. 6, Albe-marl-e. 7, Ni-car-agua. 8, Su-mat-ra. 9, Kamt-chat-ka. 10, Am-eric-a. 11, W-heel-ing. 12, Sc-hen-ectady.

Blue-fishing off Nantucket.

I have been to Nantucket two summers and have watched the fishing that is carried on there at all times of the year. In the summer the blue-fish are the ones most caught. They are taken in seines. The men who fish with these seines are called seiners. The blue-fish are caught at a place called Great Point, where the water is very shoal. Great Point is about twelve miles from the town of Nantucket, but it is a part of the island.

A seiner starts from the town about 4 a.m. By law no net may be used in the harbor or within a mile of the shore. When a seiner sights a school of blue-fish he sends row boats out to surround the school. As the nets are hauled into the sail-boat the blue-fish are taken out and put in barrels. Sometimes one seiner gets as many as a thousand blue-fish. The fish are then sent to New Bedford, where they are loaded into "tank-ships." I have never seen a tank-ship in Nantucket.

F. A. Judson.
Lansingburg, N. Y.

[Pg 443]

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.

Since "specialization" has become fashionable many stamps which have a larger or smaller perforation, a different water-mark, or a decided difference in shades of the same color, etc., have increased in value enormously. For instance, the 4c. slate, Hong-Kong, perforated 14, is worth 6c. used, or 8c. unused. The same stamp, perforated 12½, is worth $5 used, $50 unused, and hard to find even at those prices. The cataloguing of all these minute varieties has resulted in lists which simply bewilder the beginner, and in catalogues of 600 pages or more in small type. These minute varieties are out of the reach of all except the very rich collector. Some thirty-five dealers recognizing the needs of the smaller collectors have united in issuing The American Standard Stamp-Catalogue, which omits these "varieties," simply listing the stamps in the regular colors, etc.; and I learn the demand for this catalogue has been so great that the first edition was exhausted on the day of publication.

P. W. Varney.—This Department does not give dealers' names. The gold dollar, 1849, is worth $1.50.

F. Brengle.—The capped 2's of the 1890 issue are sold by dealers at 10c. each. Immense quantities are on hand, as every one saved them.

G. W. Schaick—U.S. stamps issued previous to 1861 can not be used for postage. All others can.

G. Carliss.—The $1 and $2, present issue, can be bought cancelled at half face.

W. Hilles.—See the Round Table for December 17, 1895, and January 14, 1896, for values of U.S. coins. Circulated coins of the last seventy-five years have very little value beyond face.

O. H. Sampson.—The coin is worth 5c., the "shin-plaster," 20c.

W. G. Waldo.—The prices quoted are those asked by dealers. See answer to W. Hilles.

R. A. Hayes.—U. S. stamps cut in two and used on letters have no postal value, and collectors do not care for them.

F. C. Small.—There are literally millions of Roman coins in existence. Every little while some one digs up a whole boxful. Dealers sell many of these coins at 10c. each.

L. Hubbard.—The unused reprint of the 3c. 1869 U.S. is worth $15. The reprint is on a different paper. It is worth about the same used.

E. C. Wood.—A few of the 1875 reprints were used for postage, and they can be used for postage to-day. No rule can be given, but as a general thing, when the catalogue does not price a stamp in both used and unused condition, the inference is that so few copies are known that no definite market value has been established. Jefferson and Perry.

S. Manning.—Defaced coins are worth metal value only; possibly some such coins would be redeemed at face value at the Sub-Treasury in New York.

R. H. Martin.—I shall always be glad to examine any rare stamps, but it is not worth the expense to send common or ordinary stamps.

E. C. Allen.—Thank you for your courtesy, but I see all the new stamps as soon as they reach New York. Re-engraved stamps have all their lines deepened, and they lose the clear look of the originals.

Original Subscriber.—Your coin is of private mintage. The initials S.M.V. stand for "San Francisco Mint Value." The coin is worth bullion only ($5).

A. B. Taylor.—The 3c. 1869, unused, is worth 25c. The 1875 reprint, unused, on a different paper, is worth $15. Many of the 1869 issue were faintly grilled, or escaped grilling entirely.

G. Wilson.—.The foreign coins are worth metal value only. The U. S. coin list was published in the Round Table for December 17, 1895, and January 14, 1896.

H. L. Grand.—Scotland uses the stamps of Great Britain. The Columbian 1c. to 15c. can be bought for 45c. used, $1 unused.

R. Sands.—The Massachusetts coin can be bought for $2. The 5c. piece is worth face only, if it has been circulated.

B. M.—The stamp you describe is one of the five or six varieties of U.S. Revenues, of which hundreds of millions were used, hence no value.

Philatus.

If art embroidery be soiled
And washed with common soap, 'tis spoiled;
But Ivory Soap preserves the hue
As brilliant and as fresh as new.

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

PRINTING OUTFIT 10c.

G. A. R. 25c.

Brownies 10c.

For printing cards, marking linen, books, etc. Contains everything shown in cut. Type, Tweezers, Holder, Indelible Ink, Ink Pad, etc. Thoroughly practical for business or household use and a most instructive amusement. Sent with catalogue illustrating over 1000 Tricks and Novelties, for 10c. in stamps to pay postage and packing on outfit and catalogue. Same outfit with figures 15c. Large outfit for printing two lines 25c.

Brownie Rubber Stamps—A set of 6 grotesque little people with ink pad; price, postpaid, 10c.

G. A. R. series Rubber Stamps, 12 characters. Makes all kinds of Battles, Encampments and other military pictures, 25c. postpaid. Address

ROBERT H. INGERSOLL & BRO.

Dep't No. 62,

65 Cortlandt St., New York.

BREAKFAST—SUPPER.

EPPS'S

GRATEFUL—COMFORTING.

COCOA

BOILING WATER OR MILK.

A NEAT BOX, containing 12 mineral specimens from Millard County, Utah, including genuine gold and silver ore, copper, onyx, etc., postpaid to any address for 25 cts. J. A. Robinson, Clear Lake, Utah.

PLAYS

Dialogues, Speakers for School, Club and Parlor. Catalogue free. T. S. Denison, Publisher, Chicago Ill.

HOOPING

COUGH

CROUP

Can be cured

by using

ROCHE'S HERBAL

EMBROCATION

The celebrated and effectual English cure, without internal medicine. W. EDWARD & SON, Props., London, Eng. Wholesale, E. FOUGERA & CO., New York

DOLL CLOTHES

Eleven Complete Patterns (all separate), for every article of Dolly's clothing, with full directions for making, and one yard of fine lace, all sent to any address for only Ten Cents (silver or stamps). Address

Doll Supply House, East 51st St., Bayonne, N. J.

MAKE MONEY by writing stories. Our Literary Bureau is the Open Door. Stamp for samples and particulars. Current Events, Cleveland, O.

CARDS

FOR 1896. 50 Sample Styles AND LIST OF 400 PREMIUM ARTICLES FREE. HAVERFIELD PUB. Co., Cadiz, Ohio.

POEMS BY MRS. SANGSTER

Little Knights and Ladies

Verses for Young People. By Margaret E. Sangster. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

On the Road Home:

Poems. By Margaret E. Sangster. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

Home Fairies and Heart Flowers.

Twenty Studies of Children's Heads. With Floral Embellishments, Head and Tail Pieces, Initial Letters, etc., by Frank French. With Poems by Margaret E. Sangster. 4to, Cloth, $6.00. (In a Box.)

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

[Pg 444]

TOLD BY FLORENCE.

William J. Florence, the comedian, had a reputation for bright stories and practical jokes. The following one is said to have been told by him at a dinner one night, when the conversation turned on travelling theatrical companies:

"Years ago," said Florence, "I was in a small company skipping from town to town. We had met with extremely bad luck up to our landing in the town of D——. There we found the lowest ebb of all, for when the curtain rolled up there were just two persons in the audience, a young girl in an orchestra chair, and a young man in the front row of the balcony. We went on with the performance, however, possibly to warm ourselves more than anything else. According to my part, I was helping the heroine to escape the clutches of the villain, and in one of my lines I said, 'Have you noticed that even the bright moon is rising to light us on our way.' Before she had time to reply, the young man in the balcony called out, 'I am not so certain about the young lady downstairs, but I can see it all right.'"

A LITTLE TOO ECONOMIC.

A gentleman residing in New York recently hired a colored boy for a valet. The boy proved a valuable acquisition in everything except one, and that was his practice of economy. He was forever endeavoring to save money for his employer. One day he was sent to get some letters stamped and to post them. Upon his return the gentleman asked him if he had attended to it all right. The boy replied, "I's found a lot of gemmen getting stamps, and as they didn't charge them anything to put the letters in the slot, I saved you twenty cents, 'cause I slipped yours in without stamps." That colored boy was too economic, and he was dispensed with.

An awkward man attempted to carve a turkey, and in so doing pushed it from the platter to the floor.

"There, now, we've lost our dinner," wailed his wife.

"Oh no, we haven't; I've got my foot on it!"

Bobby. "Boo! hoo! hoo!" (fingering a big bump on his forehead.) "They do give things the most 'diculous names. I don't see what they call that bicycle a safety for."

CLASS IN NATURAL HISTORY.

Teacher. "Johnny, what do we call a creature with two legs?"

Johnny. "A biped, ma'am."

Teacher. "Name one."

Johnny. "A man, ma'am."

Teacher. "Are there any feathered bipeds?"

Johnny. "Chickens and ostriches, ma'am."

Teacher. "That's right. Willie, what is a quadruped?"

Willie. "A thing with four legs, ma'am."

Teacher. "Name one."

Willie. "An elephant."

Teacher. "Are there any feathered quadrupeds?"

Willie. "Yes, ma'am."

Teacher. "What?"

Willie. "A feather-bed, ma'am."

A "PUPIL OF THE CELEBRATED MASCAGNI."

Almost every boy and girl has heard of Pietro Mascagni, the composer of Cavalleria Rusticana, made so famous in the world through its beautiful intermezzo, and also through having the good fortune to be sung by some of the most brilliant artists of the nineteenth century. One day, when sitting in his study, an organ-grinder stopped below his window, and began grinding out the intermezzo from the Cavalleria so rapidly that it could hardly be told from a jig. Mascagni jumped up in a rage, and, rushing out, seized the handle of the organ, and played it slowly, as it should be, explaining meanwhile that he was the author, etc. This somewhat appeased the wrath of the organ-grinder, and before Mascagni had finished, a broad smile illuminated his face. Shortly afterwards Mascagni and some friends had the pleasure of passing the same organ-grinder, and thereupon his organ was a large sign that read: "Pupil of the Celebrated Mascagni."

RAILROAD REPARTEE.

A very smart young man wishing to supply amusement for a group of young ladies that accompanied him, accosted the conductor of a railroad train as follows:

"My dear conductor, what—er—do you call an up train!"

"Why, a train that blows up, explodes, goes to smash—anything of that sort."

"Ah, yes, to be sure. And—er—what do you call a down train?"

"Down train!—why, that's a train that goes down an embankment, or through a trestle-work; has some sort of a fall, you know."

The young ladies were laughing heartily at these answers, which embarrassed the young man, and desperately pointing to the train they were about to board, he asked,

"And where might this train be going?"

"Oh," replied the conductor, "we never agree to answer those questions beforehand."

KIND-HEARTED PRESIDENT FAURE.

Felix Faure, President of the French Republic, has made the hearts of many of the little girls of his country beat with joy. It is one of his practices to devote at least two mornings a week to visiting hospitals. His visits are not of the hasty order, but much the other way, as he spends time passing through the different wards, especially among the sick children. One of his favorite questions is to ask the little unfortunates what he can do for them, and in the case of little girls the answer is invariably une poupée (a doll). Then with a kind-hearted smile President Faure takes out his pad and pencil and writes down the child's desire. The next morning usually finds several boxes of dolls at the hospital, all of them very handsome. It is said that his generosity has already cost him over one thousand dolls since he has occupied the Presidential chair.

THE TRICK BEAR AND THE PUNCHING-BAG.

(A Comedy in four Acts.)

1.

2.

3.

4.