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

THE APPRENTICESHIP OF ARTHUR.

BY FRANCIS STERNE PALMER.

One evening early in April two boys of about fifteen were talking together at the home of one of them in New York city. They were close friends as well as classmates in one of the largest schools for boys in the city. In a few days this school closed for the spring vacation.

George Corey, who was a stalwart, athletic fellow, was speaking. "How about the vacation, Arthur? Have you made any plans for spending it?"

"There are several works on chemistry that I want to read, and I think I'll give the two weeks up to them," said the other, somewhat wearily. He had a pale, intellectual face, and his languid movements were in strong contrast to his friend's healthy alertness.

George laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. "See here, Arthur, you'll kill yourself studying. I know it's fine in you to be ambitious and to work so, and some day you're going to be a great scientist and make us all proud of you. But you mustn't neglect your body altogether—'a healthy brain in a healthy body,' as some old philosopher says."

"But there are so many things one ought to learn," protested the other.

"Yes, and there are some things that can't be learned from books. Now I've a plan to propose to you. You know my uncle has a cottage at Chateaugay Lake in the Adirondacks; I've visited him several times in the autumn, and had a fine time. At this season, of course, there is no shooting; but there's the fishing, and, I dare say, plenty of other things to do. My uncle's there now for the salmon-trout fishing, and he writes to know if I want to spend my vacation with him; and what's more, he says I may ask a boy to go with me. Arthur, I want you to go."

At first Arthur could not reconcile himself to this disarrangement of his plans; but by the next afternoon, having consulted his family in the mean while, he was ready to go. Such an opportunity was not to be lost; moreover, he hoped to be so strong after his return that it would be easy to work harder and make up for lost time.

On a fine spring morning, two days later, the boys left the little narrow-gauge railroad at Lion Mountain, and were driven to the shore of Chateaugay Lake; there they were met by a boat of Mr. Corey's, and rowed to his cottage.

That afternoon and the next day they spent trolling for salmon-trout. Arthur enjoyed it; sitting quietly in the stern of a boat and being slowly rowed over the lake required no unpleasant exertion of the body. The fish did not "strike" often, and much of the time he could sit with closed eyes and dream. But George chafed under this inaction, and finally he took an old guide, Antoine Brusoe, into his confidence. "I want to have some camping out and tramping in the woods; and that's what my friend needs too."

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"Ask your uncle to let me take you to Tamarack Lake. It's much wilder than this, an' there's good fishin'. If you want to tramp, you can go gummin'; that's about all that's goin' on at this season. An' if you don't want to keep the gum, you can give it to me; spruce gum's worth fifty cents a pound in Chateaugay village."

Tamarack Lake, or Pond, was little known and seldom visited; a dense growth of tamarack-trees on its shores gave it a gloomy, wild appearance. The friends and their guide reached it early in the afternoon, and Antoine at once set to work to repair a little bark "lean to" which he had built on a former visit.

That evening by the light of their fire Antoine made a "gumming-pole" for each; this, as Antoine made it, was a stout pole about eight feet long, to the end of which was firmly fastened a small coverless tin can. It was a simple instrument; but Antoine assured the boys that this was the best kind—much better than "the new-fangled poles you buy at the store."

He added, to encourage them, "Spring is when the gum breaks off easiest, an' we ought to get a big lot of it."

During the forenoon the boys staid near the camp, amusing themselves by fishing and by gathering gum from the spruce-trees growing near by.

A large brook ran into the lake, and in the afternoon they decided to follow this brook back into the woods. As long as they kept the stream in sight there was no danger of getting lost. They started off, each carrying a pole and having a gummer's bag slung from his shoulder. For an hour or more they pushed on together, gathering gum as they went. Finally they came to a place where the brook forked, and here they decided to separate, each taking a branch of the stream.

"We can't get lost as long as we keep by the brook, but don't go too far, for night comes on quickly in the woods," said George, as they parted.

Arthur went on alone very contentedly; he was beginning to enjoy the woods and appreciate them. As he followed up the brook he found himself in a rocky ravine, a wild place where the stream tumbled over great bowlders or—being swollen by the melting snows—-spread into a pool. On the bank of one of these pools, which must have been eight or nine yards across and four or five feet deep, grew a tall hemlock. In the air near its upper branches two hawks were circling. At short intervals they screamed as if in anger and distress.

Arthur looked more carefully, and could now see their nest. His pleasure in the woods had put him in an unusually adventurous mood, and he decided, on the impulse of the moment, to try to secure some of the hawk's eggs; they would be interesting mementoes of his trip to the lake.

At first sight the tree seemed a difficult one to climb, for there were no branches within twenty feet of the ground, and the trunk was too large for him to clasp. But close to it grew a slender spruce, and Arthur, leaving his pole and sack on the ground, had no trouble in "shinning" up the smaller tree; it was then easy to transfer himself to the hemlock's lowest branches. Some distance below the hawk's nest a large branch stretched out from the trunk, and now, when Arthur looked up at this branch, he saw what he had before failed to notice; along it lay a plump little animal, gray in color, and about as big as a house cat two-thirds grown. It looked at him stupidly, and did not move.

He thought it might be a young raccoon, or perhaps an opossum—his knowledge of Adirondack animals was not very accurate—and as it seemed so dull and meek he thought he would try to capture it. Near him a partly dead limb stood out from the trunk; this, after some trouble, he was able to break off, and then had a stout club in case any weapon was needed. In the mean while the little animal watched him over the edge of the big branch, but did not move. Arthur was now about twenty feet from the ground, the animal being six or eight feet above him. Of a sudden it seemed to grow interested in what was going on below, and putting its head over the side of the branch, gave a low whine. Instantly there was an answering whine from the ground.

A grayish catlike animal about as large as a spaniel-dog was crouching at the foot of the hemlock; as it looked up Arthur could see its yellow eyes shine angrily. Its shape and size made him think it was a lynx; and the conviction flashed upon him that the little animal on the branch above was the kitten of the savage-looking creature on the ground below. He was separating mother from child, and it was evident from her grim expression that the old lynx meant to call him to account for interfering with her domestic affairs.

With a reassuring cry to her kitten, the lynx sprang from the ground and began slowly to climb up the trunk of the hemlock.

Below the branches on which Arthur was sitting was the section of the trunk, twenty feet in length, that rose from the ground free of any branch, so that there was no vantage-ground from which the lynx could spring upon him as she came crawling up. He drew up his legs, clutched the club firmly, and got ready to do his best to beat her back; at the same time he shouted as loudly as he could, hoping that George would hear him.

His shouts and pounding on the tree made the animal hesitate, and when she was eight or ten feet below him she flattened herself against the bark and clung there, glaring up at him. What seemed a long time to Arthur, but was probably not more than ten minutes, passed, and yet she did not move. He kept up an almost continual shouting, for he hoped, as the two branches of the brook joined each other at an acute angle, that George was not far distant. The strain on his nerves was making him faint. As the lynx eyed him, he recalled stories of cats that had alarmed and captured their victims merely by looking at them; he trembled violently, and his shouts became weaker and weaker.

It was a relief when, in answer to an especially plaintive cry from her kitten, the lynx gave a low whine and began to creep upward, growling defiance as she came. The spell was broken, and Arthur felt his strength return. He raised his club and leaned forward; as the animal's round head came within reach he struck it a heavy blow. With a scream of pain the lynx shrunk back, and began watching him as before; every minute or two she snarled and growled—evidently the blow she had received had not improved her temper.

Arthur had just begun, with renewed vigor, to shout again, when there was an answering shout, and George appeared, running towards him through the woods. For a moment his joy in seeing a friend and possible rescuer made the frightened boy forget everything else.

"Arthur! Arthur! Where are you, and what's the matter?" cried George.

"Here I am, up in this tree! And, oh, George, look out! there's a lynx on the trunk just below me!"

The warning came late. George was already on the bank of the pool, and only a few yards from the hemlock. The lynx saw him, and finding another enemy in her rear, she turned as if to attack him.

George had only the briefest instant in which to grasp the situation and act. He turned and sprang into the pool, and plunged to its centre; there he could barely touch bottom.

The animal did not follow; like all the cat tribe, a lynx dislikes and fears the water, and this one was daunted at the prospect of a fight in the hated element. She circled about the pool, looking for some way of reaching him without getting a wetting. Baffled on every side, she then crouched at the water's edge and screamed with rage. A whine from the hemlock made her remember the kitten. She turned and dashed up the tree; there was now no hesitation; she was enraged, and meant to revenge herself.

Her onslaught was so sudden that Arthur had no time for any preparation. In his panic and hasty excited effort to settle himself so that he could strike to advantage, the club slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. He cried out, and George saw what had happened. When the lynx reached him, Arthur used his feet so vigorously against her head that for a moment or two she was checked. He was screaming in a frenzy of terror.

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"Help me, George!" he cried. "Help! help! help!"

It seemed almost like inviting certain death to attack the enraged animal when armed with no better weapon than his gumming-pole; but George could not resist his friend's agonized appeal for help. He rushed ashore and to the foot of the hemlock. From there he could just reach the animal's flank—she having recoiled a little before Arthur's desperate kicking—and he began to belabor it with the can on the end of his pole. The lynx partially turned, seeming to hesitate whether to charge the enemy above or to fling herself upon this new assailant.

While this noise and commotion was going on, the kitten had got more and more frightened. Trying to seek safety in flight, it had crawled along the big branch until it reached almost the extreme end; the branch snapped under its weight, and with a long cry it fell through the air. Fortunately for it, it had crawled so far along the branch that when it fell, instead of striking the earth, it came down in the midst of the pool.

It fell just as its mother was hesitating which one of the boys to attack. She saw it strike the water, and forgetting all else in this new peril to her offspring, she leaped over George's head and plunged into the water to its rescue—showing that even in a lynx the mother's love or instinct is stronger than rage or the passion for revenge.

Holding the kitten in her teeth, she got out of the water as soon as possible. On the bank she paused for a moment, as if in doubt whether to attack George or not. But again maternal feeling asserted itself. The kitten was safe now, and she could not afford to further endanger its precious life; holding it, drenched and whimpering, in her mouth, she trotted off into the woods and disappeared.

It was dusk when the boys got back to Tamarack Lake, for Arthur found himself badly exhausted after this experience, and they had walked slowly. The legs of his boots were torn, and in several places claws had left their marks on his ankles.

"I'll bet 'twas the same lynx that we saw here last year!" exclaimed Antoine, when they told their story, sitting by the camp-fire that evening, "An old Canada lynx with a kitten is about the savagest creature in these woods—nearly as bad as a panther. I tell you, you boys were lucky to get off as you did, with only a scare an' a few little scratches! But don't get scared, thinkin' this is goin' to happen every day; you're not likely to see a lynx again in a year—no, nor in five years."

"Well, I suppose you've had enough of the woods," said George, as he and Arthur rolled themselves in their blankets and prepared to go to sleep. "We've had a rather tough experience, and perhaps we'd better start back for Chateaugay to-morrow."

"No; I don't think I've had enough of the woods, and I'm in no hurry to leave. If I'd had a little more of them in my life, I wouldn't have gone to pieces as I did to-day, dropping my club and screaming like a baby! And, George, I won't forget in a hurry how you, with only a gumming-pole to fight with, came to the rescue and pitched into that angry lynx."

AN HOUR IN BICYCLELAND.

WITH AN ACCOUNT OF A PNEUMATIC CIRCUS.

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

II.

It was not hard to push through the crowd, because the people, when off their bicycles, didn't stand very steadily, as Kenneth soon discovered after toppling several of them over in brushing against them. All the way through the crowd they kept hearing the man talking about the wonderful horse, and warning people to keep back from the ropes, and hold on their hats when the animal snorted. Just as they got to the front of the crowd a man came round from behind with a measure of oats on the end of a long pole, and pushed it cautiously through between the bars.

Kenneth looked at the marvellous horse about which everybody was excited. He saw a round and comfortable-appearing gray pony, which looked as if it had always been employed in jogging about hitched to a basket-phaeton, carrying some mild old gentlewoman, in a white cap, and her grandchildren.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," shouted the man standing on a box beside the cage, "watch the Titantic Terror of the Jungles lash his sides with his Audacious and Caudalogical Tail as he devours his food with Ravenous and Oats-destroying Teeth! See him stamp his Adamantine Hoofs as in his Savage Imagination he tramples upon the Prostrate Form of that Victim of a thousand battles, the Hardy Hunter! See him wave his crafty, whisper-detecting Ears as he buries his Horriferous Snout in the Iron-bound Oats and grinds them to Powder with his Dreadful and Molariferous Fangs from which fly the Lurid Sparks in all directions!"

"Well," said Kenneth, "I'm sure I don't think it's quite so bad as that man seems to think."

"Hush!" answered his companion; "the horse might hear you. I'm pretty sure I saw one spark. And of course you don't expect things in a circus to be just as they say they are."

"I suppose not," admitted Kenneth; "but it does seem to me they might have got a horse a little bigger."

"Bigger?" replied the other. "Why, he's twice as high as a bicycle!"

"Oh yes, I suppose he'll do pretty well. But I don't believe he's stamping his feet because he wishes he had the hardy hunter under them. I think he's doing it to scare away the flies."

"Flies!"' exclaimed the young man, scornfully. "Do you think as large an animal as that would be afraid of anything as small as a fly?"

"Well, it doesn't seem so," said Kenneth.

"Though, to be sure," went on the other, thoughtfully, "a tack is small, but how a bicycle will shy around one when it sees it! But we mustn't stand here any longer. I want to get into the other tent, and see Señor Chinchilla, the celebrated bare back-rider."

"Then they have more horses, do they?" asked Kenneth.

"It's so hard for you to learn," answered his companion. "Of course not! The Señor rides a bicycle."

By this time they were in their seats and looking down at the big ring, which was much larger than the ordinary circus ring. There were pneumatic cushions to sit on and to lean against. There was a brass band at one side of the tent which seemed louder than any brass band which Kenneth had ever heard before. He noticed that the musicians did not put the horns and other brass instruments to their lips, but that they held big rubber bags in their laps, to which they were attached. He asked his companion about it.

"Pneumatic bags. Full of compressed air. Blows the horns. Saves wear on lips," he answered, shortly. He was becoming much excited about the coming performance.

Soon the band began to play louder than ever, the curtains at one side of the tent parted, and the grand parade slowly filed in. The audience broke into such a hand-clapping that Kenneth was obliged to hold his own hands over his ears. It was like a dozen Fourth of July's. He looked around to find the cause, and saw that everybody was wearing gloves with big fat puffy palms, which they were clapping together as hard as they possibly could.

"What are they?" he asked of the young man, who also had on the funny gloves, and was clapping away harder than anybody else.

"Pneumatic! pneumatic!" he shouted, and kept on clapping.

In the ring the performers were all mounted on bicycles, which were slowly bearing them around, two abreast. The wheels were painted all colors, and the riders wore fancy and bright costumes. The band had also mounted bicycles, and went round with the rest, playing as hard as ever. The young man pointed out Señor Chinchilla and all of the noted performers, and Kenneth could hear him[Pg 624] above the uproar quoting more from the bills. At the end of the procession was the clown, almost as round as a ball, riding a wheelbarrow instead of a bicycle, but which seemed to be trained to go nearly as well as the bicycles. Kenneth had seen clowns wearing clothes all padded out before, but never one so round and ball-like as this one; but his companion was laughing so at the clown that it was a long time before he could explain, and then all that Kenneth could catch was "pneumatic suit."

"Can't he walk?" asked Kenneth.

"Oh no," chuckled the young man. "He's too round. He just rolls everywhere he wants to go. Did you ever see anything so funny?"

"Well, I don't know," answered Kenneth; "I guess the horse was 'most as funny."

The young man looked hurt. "Well, I guess," he said, "that if that horse took you in his jaws once and bounded away into the Trackless Jungle, where the Baffled and Vociferous Cries of the—that is, I mean you wouldn't think him so funny."

"What are they going to do next?" asked Kenneth.

"Ground and lofty tumbling," said his companion. "See the big pneumatic mattress."

Half a dozen men came in and began turning all sorts of handsprings and summersaults on this, always bounding up very high. The clown kept getting in the way and rolling about, and sometimes the performers would bound on him. Suddenly two of the men seized him and threw him on the cushion, and he bounded up so high that he struck the top of the tent, and everybody roared again.

"Suppose he should come down on a tack?" suggested Kenneth.

"My, I wish he would!" laughed the other. "Wouldn't it be fun? He'd look just like a burst balloon."

There was a great deal more performing of various kinds, with the clown rolling about in the way all the time. Once when two strong men were tossing cannon-balls and lifting heavy weights, the clown bothered so much that they took him and played football with him, kicking him back and forth across the ring and having fine sport. There was also a grand race of the trained pneumatic kangaroos. They played leap-frog and did some high jumping, and were almost as funny as the clown. Suddenly Kenneth's companion exclaimed:

"Señor Chinchilla comes next. Now look out!"

The Señor came rolling in, sitting gracefully on his bicycle, Sir Sky-Rocket, all dressed in red and green. He dismounted, made a fine bow, and stood fanning himself while the ring-master made a little speech full of words which caused Kenneth's companion to open his eyes and mouth in astonishment. Another man took the saddle and handle-bar off the bicycle, and then the Señor bounded lightly on to the top of the frame, where he stood easily as the ring-master cracked his whip and the bicycle shot away around the ring. The clown was so impressed that he rolled away and disappeared. The band played, and the young man became so excited that Kenneth was sure he would tumble out of his seat, and so took hold of his arm.

"The Ten-Thousand-Dollar Challenge Bareback Bicycle-Rider of the World!" he exclaimed. "Without the aid of Saddle, Padding or Trappings, he boldly performs feats upon the Rearing and Plunging Wheel which Startle while they Enchant, and cause the Chilled Blood to stand still within the Frightened Vein, while they hold the Enraptured Gaze with the Marvellous Efflorescence of their Rich Ambiguity. That's what the man said, and I believe he's going to do it!"

"He does ride well," said Kenneth, watching the performance with great interest. Round and round went the Señor, leaping over banners and through hoops, but always alighting on his bicycle without mishap. He also turned summersaults, stood on his head, danced, and otherwise showed his skill. Then the band played faster, and the ring-master cracked his whip louder, and the bicycle also danced and cavorted first on one wheel, then on the other; and then it leaped over hurdles and finally through a big hoop, with the Señor still on its back. Then it went around the ring a dozen times, so fast that it could hardly be seen, with the Señor doing everything at once so fast that he could hardly be seen. Then they shot away behind the curtains, and everybody cheered harder than ever before, and the young man actually did fall out of his seat at last, and Kenneth had to drag him back, though it was scarcely necessary, as the performance was over, and they went out with the crowd.

Outside they found their wheels, and got on them and rode away along the road they had come, with the young man trying to do half the things he had seen the Señor do, and talking about the wonderful horse. Everybody was excited, and Kenneth's bicycle seemed to catch the excitement and began to run away. He did his best to hold it, but it kept going faster and faster. The young man tried to keep up, but he couldn't. The last thing Kenneth heard was his voice shouting something from the bills; then all he could feel was the rush of the wind as he shot along the road like an arrow from a bow. But suddenly he stopped with a great bump, and the next thing he knew he found himself lying on the grass under a tree.

"Well did you have a good ride on your new bicycle?" asked Kenneth's father. (They were at supper.)

"Oh yes!" answered Kenneth.

"Did you see anything new?" went on his father.

"Well, I don't know, or—no, I guess not much. I was reading circus posters on a big fence while I was going out, and I got pretty tired, and lay down under a tree to rest, and I think perhaps I may have fallen asleep a few minutes, and—and—had a little nap."

"I'm glad you didn't catch cold," said his mother. "You oughtn't to sleep on the ground."

PRACTICAL GOLF.

BY W. G. van TASSEL SUTPHEN.

(In Five Papers.)

I.—THE GAME.

Given a bat and a ball, and the combinations that may be evolved are practically infinite in their variety. Every generation or thereabouts a new game or some modification of an old one suddenly rises into favor, and all the world plays croquet or tennis or golf. To-day it is golf, and yet the game divides with polo the honor of being the oldest of which we have any records. It has been played in Scotland for hundreds of years, but it is only within the last ten that it has become generally known and taken up. In this country the game is hardly two years old, but already there are over a hundred courses or grounds, a national association, and championship meetings for nearly every class of players. There must be something of good in a sport which has been taken up with such enthusiasm, and although "Young America" is very properly opposed to anything that harbors a suspicion of slowness, it is only fair to look into a case before deciding upon it.

A TEEING-GROUND.

Of course the first thing is to inquire into the object and[Pg 625] nature of the game. A golf course is generally laid out over rolling ground for the sake of variety, and standing at the first tee, or striking-off place, we see before us a stretch of turf that has been cleared of long grass and bushes, and in the distance (say 150 or 200 yards away) a square patch of smooth, hard lawn, in the centre of which a flag is fluttering. The square patch is the putting-green, and the flag marks the location of a small hole four inches in diameter and six inches deep, and generally lined with tin. Each player is provided with an assortment of curious-looking clubs and a small white hard-rubber ball, and the object is to finally knock the ball into the hole in the fewest possible number of strokes. Each player has his own ball, and the play begins from a particular spot, called the teeing-ground, and marked by whitewash or pins driven into the turf. This first stroke is called the tee-shot, and the player is allowed to tee his ball, or place it upon a little mound of sand, so that he may have the best possible chance of hitting it. But once the tee-shot is played, the ball cannot be touched again, except by a club, and no matter how short a distance it may go, or even if the ball is missed altogether, it still counts a stroke. The player who is farthest away from the hole always plays first, and he must keep on playing until he has passed the place where his adversary's ball is lying. When both balls have finally been played into the hole, the player who has accomplished the task in the fewest number of strokes or actual hits at the ball is said to have won the hole, and counts one scoring-point.

A short distance from this first hole is the second teeing-ground, and the players take up their balls and, walking over to the new point of departure, tee their balls, and strike off in the direction of the second hole. We will suppose that A, the first player, holes his ball this time in six strokes, and B does the same. The hole is then said to be halved, and is counted for neither side. But A, having won the first hole, is still ahead by one point, and this is called "one up." If he had won this second hole, he would have been "two up." Or again, if he had lost it, the game would have been "even all."

The full course is eighteen holes, but very good golf may be played on a course of twelve, nine, six, or even five holes. The game is won by the player who wins the greater number of holes, and this is the original game, now called match-play. Nowadays medal-play is more common, the only practical difference being in the scoring. In medal-play the total score for all the holes made by each player is added up, and the lowest number wins. For instance, if A goes around a six-hole course in 40, and B in 39, B is the winner.

One of the great advantages of the game is that you can play and have good sport even if there is no one to go around with you. You can try to beat your own best previous record, and, if possible, to lower the best score ever made by anybody over the course. If you succeed in this last, you will have gained the proud distinction of holding the "record for the course." Another good modification of the game is the "foursome," where there are two partners on each side, striking alternately at the same ball. But the ordinary match is against one adversary, and there is no reason why a girl may not play an interesting game against her brother. She may not be able to hit the ball quite so far, but once near the hole, where accuracy and not strength is required, she should be able to hold her own, and it is an old saying that many a game is won on the putting-green. Or again, she may be handicapped by an allowance of so many strokes, for in golf, as in billiards, handicapping does not detract from the interest as it does in tennis. There is no fun playing tennis against a very much weaker opponent, for you win rather on your adversary's mistakes than by your own skill, and this is fatal to true sport.

MODERN GOLF CLUBS.

1. Cleek. 2. Mashie. 3. Brassy. 4. Putter. 5. Driver. 6. Lofter. 7. Iron.

Now that we know what we have to do, let us take a look at the instruments with which the work is done. In the illustration seven clubs are pictured, and there is, at first glance, but very little difference between them. Of course, to see and handle the clubs themselves is far more satisfactory than any description, but the following hints may enable you to recognize them when you do see them. And first as to the different parts of the clubs and their name.

The striking surface is called the face, and the bottom, or the place where it rests on the ground, is the sole. The[Pg 626] part nearest the angle made by the handle is the heel, and the extreme end is the nose. Both the wooden and the iron clubs are made in two pieces, the striking part being called the head, the long handle the shaft, and the place where they are joined together the neck or (in the case of the iron clubs) the hose. Some of these names may strike you oddly, but remember that the game is very old, and these terms have grown on to it somewhat as barnacles upon a ship's bottom.

The driver (No. 5) is a wooden club; it has generally the longest shaft of all the clubs, and is supposed to be the most powerful. It is always used for the first, or tee, shot, and in a good player's hands it will drive the ball from 150 to 200 yards. A boy's driving, especially at first, will be about 50 yards shorter, and a girl should be able to cover from 70 to 100 yards.

After the tee-shot the driver may be used again if the ball is lying clean—that is, in a good position—but most players prefer the brassy (No. 3), which is so called because its sole is shod with a brass plate. Generally, too, its face is spooned, or slanting slightly backwards, so as to raise the ball in the air, and its range is but little short of the regular driver.

Should the ball be lying in a hollow of the ground (called a cup), the cleek (No. 1) is the proper club to use. This is the straightest faced of all the iron clubs, and usually has a slightly longer shaft than the others. The cleek is also a powerful club, and its use is generally confined to free hitting when the object is to send the ball the longest possible distance.

But with the ball deeply imbedded in a cup, or with a sand bunker or other difficulty to surmount, it is necessary that the ball should be lofted, or raised higher in the air than the cleek can do it, and in such a case use the lofter, or lofting iron (No. 6), whose face is still further laid back. Or in the bunker itself you may take the mashie (No. 2) with its short head and very much laid back face. Its shape fits it to enter cart ruts and other places where the longer head of the cleek or lofter would stick fast. The iron (No. 7) is simply a modification between the cleek and lofter, and its carrying or driving power varies in about the same ratio. The beginner need not include it in his set, nor bother about it at all until he has played for some time.

POSITION OF THE HANDS IN HOLDING THE CLUB.

Last of all comes the putter (No. 4), with a perfectly straight face and springless shaft. Its great essential is good balance, and it is used for the final act of holing out or putting proper.

These six—driver, brassy, cleek, lofter, mashie, and putter—are all that are actually needed for the game, and quite enough for the beginner to experiment with. They cost at the shops from $1.25 to $1.50 apiece, and they are made in lighter weights for girls and young boys.

The best way to start is to play a round at once, standing up square to the ball and hitting naturally at it. Grip the club as though it were a hammer, and you were about to strike a blow straight down upon the anvil. Then, without altering the position of your hands, place the club flat on the ground close behind the ball, and hit. By the time next week comes around you will have shaken yourself down into some kind of position, and will be ready for more detailed instruction.

Keep your eye on the ball.

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

BY MARION HARLAND.

CHAPTER VI.

"Do not move until I give you leave, if you have to sit there until to-morrow morning."

Flea recalled the exact words, and said them over as her death-sentence. For she would be dead when they opened the school-house to-morrow morning. Even her father would not interfere when he heard that she was kept in. He always upheld the teacher's authority, and this teacher was put into his place and backed by Major Duncombe. Her father would not dare to come for her to-night. She slid from the bench to the floor, resting her aching head within her arms upon the seat. The roaring and singing in her head hindered her from hearing the sound of the door as it opened and shut softly. The rustling of a skirt and fall of feet upon the floor were not louder than the play of the dead leaves had been. She did start and spring to her feet as a hand was laid on her head, and found herself face to face with Miss Em'ly.

"Why, my dear little scholar!" cooed the visitor. "What is all this about? I can't believe you mean to be naughty."

She pulled Flea to a seat beside her and kept hold of her hand. She had never looked prettier than now. Her blue riding-habit and cap became her fair skin and bright curls; her cheeks were like roses, her eyes were kind. As she drew the girl to the bench she gave her a little squeeze that opened the sluiceway of the tears Flea had believed would never flow again.

"Tut! tut!" coaxed Miss Em'ly. "This will never do. Eliza and Robert and I came to get Mr. Tayloe to go riding with us. We've got his horse out yonder. He says he can't go because you must stay in until you say something he told you to say. Now, dearie, you won't spoil my ride—will you?"

Flea could not speak, but she shook her head vehemently.

"That's what I said! and I ran right off here to get you to say whatever it is to me—don't you see? Then, I'll make him let you off. What is it? Say it, quick!"

Flea's wet eyes looked straight into her friend's.

"He wants me to say 'A thorn scratched my face as I came through the woods.' It isn't true, Miss Em'ly."

"How did you get hurt then? Tell me that."

The child took a sudden resolution.

"You'll never never tell, Miss Em'ly? Upon your word of honor?"

"Never, once! Never, twice! Never, three times!" crossing her heart playfully.

"And you won't feel bad about it?"

"You little goose! Why should I feel bad about what you have done?"

When she had heard the short story, artlessly told, the young lady's tone and countenance altered. Tears gathered in the blue eyes and rolled down upon Flea's upturned face as the listener kissed her once and again upon the scratched cheek.

"YOU DEAR, BRAVE, SPLENDID CHILD!"

"You dear, brave, splendid child! To think you have done all this for me! I'll never forget it to my dying day."

"I would have died before I would have told on you, Miss Em'ly!" cried the excited girl, her eyes shining with the enthusiasm of self-sacrifice.

Miss Em'ly's serious mood had passed already. She called Flea "a little goose" again, and bade her "get her books and things and run along home."

"I'll settle everything with Mr. Tayloe. Kiss me 'Good-by' and be off."

"It's all right!" she called gayly from the school-house steps. "May she go? She's said it."

"If you go security for her," answered Mr. Tayloe, coming towards them, and Flea was off like an arrow out of a bow. He should not see that she had been crying.

The teacher was not altogether satisfied.

"You really made her repeat what I said she must before she could go?" he said, in settling Miss Emily in her saddle.

She pouted prettily, "I really made her say, 'A—thorn—scratched—my—face—as—I—came—through—the—woods,'" dropping the words in mock solemnity. "Now let us talk of pleasanter things than school worries."

Not one of the horseback party gave another thought to the overseer's daughter, racing through woods and over ploughed fields in an air-line for home, her heart as light as a bird, and as full of music.

"I'll never forget it to my dying day," was to her a solemn pledge of eternal friendship. To have won it was[Pg 627] worth all she had borne that day. As she ran, she sang and smiled like the owner of a blissful secret. In the fullness of her joy she even forgot to hate Mr. Tayloe.

Her short-cut took her through a matted wilderness of shrubs and weeds, past a deserted cabin set back from the main road. A negro, driven crazy by drink, had murdered his wife and child there years before, and the hut had never been occupied since. The negroes believed it to be haunted. Not a colored man, woman, or child in the region would have ventured within a hundred yards of it after nightfall. The deserted hovel had a weird charm for Flea, and, finding herself a little tired after her run, she sat down upon the stone door-step to enjoy the sunset, and to go on with a "poem" inspired last week by the haunted house. Four lines were already composed, written and hidden away in the hair trunk where she kept her clothes at home. A nameless diffidence kept her from speaking of the fragments of stories and rhyme entombed under flannel petticoats and home-knit stockings. She said the four lines aloud while she rested. Unpruned trees grew over the grass-grown path leading to the closed door. Sumac bushes, vivid with scarlet leaves and maroon velvet cones, had sprung up close to the walls. In what was once a garden wild sunflowers bloomed rankly.

The girl's poetic soul felt the charm of a melancholy she could not define; she longed to clothe with language the feelings excited by mellow light, rich colors, and silence that yet spoke to her. She recited her rhymes in a low, deep voice:

"It stands beside the weedy way;
Shingles are mossy, walls are gray;
Gnarled apple branches guard the door;
Wild vines have bound it o'er and o'er."

Then and there two more lines came to her with a rush that sent the blood throbbing to her cheeks:

"The sumac whispers, with its leaves of flame,
'Here once was done a deed without a name.'"

She leaned against the door, weak and trembling. It was as if virtue had gone out of her. She had breathed poetry! When grown-up people have such flushes and thrills we call them "poetic fire," and "the divine afflatus." The halting lines were not poetry, but the child believed that they were. That did quite as well—for her.

While she sat and exulted, the sound of a doleful whistle arose on the evening air. Shaking off the spell that bound her, she tore her way through a web of vines, sunflowers, and purple brush, jumped over the broken palings, and ran down the sloping field to the road. Dee sat upon a stone in a corner of the fence, whistling "Balerma." His hat was off, and he looked tired and out of spirits.

"Why, Dee!" cried his sister, "I thought you were at home hours ago."

"I warn't a-goin' without you, ef I stayed here till plumb night. An', Flea"—as she kissed his freckled face—"I tole Bea she might's well let 'em think at home 'twas me that was kep' in. Twouldn't be no rarity for me to be kep' in, you see. One or two times more wouldn't make no difference."

"Wouldn't that be acting a lie, Dee?" She could not scold him, but conscience urged her not to let the matter pass without notice. "And I couldn't let you be scolded instead of me. Perhaps father and mother may not ask any questions. Maybe my luck has turned."

Their hopes were not disappointed. Mrs. Grigsby was busy in the kitchen helping Chancy to make soap, and had not seen Bea return without the other children. Mr. Grigsby did not get in from the plantation until supper was on the table, and was too weary to ask questions. Flea's secret was safe for the time.

"To-morrow will be another day," she said to Bea, who "reckoned," as they were undressing that night, that Flea "had made a bad start with the new teacher." "I'm going to do my best, and, as Chancy is always saying, 'angels can't do no more.'"

People did not talk of "pluck" and "grit" and "sand" then. But our heroine had an abundance of what the slang words imply.

The school settled down to the business of the session in a surprisingly short time. With all his faults, Mr. Tayloe had the knack of imparting knowledge. He was strict to severity, never letting an imperfect lesson or a breach of discipline pass unpunished, and his pupils quickly learned that they must work and obey rules or get into serious trouble. Flea studied as she had never studied before, partly from sheer love of learning, partly because she had determined to prove her fitness to enter the higher classes in the face of the teacher's unwillingness to promote her. Courage and spirits arose with every new obstacle.

On the last day of the month the severest test of will and courage was laid upon her. At the close of the afternoon arithmetic lessons Mr. Tayloe asked for her slate, worked at it for a while, and returned it to her. The curve of his smile was like a horseshoe as he saw her eyes dilate with alarm at what she read there:

1844)368873761575231504(

He had written the same upon Annie Douthat's slate, and also upon Fanny Tabb's.

"If you three girls can do it by to-morrow morning, you can go into the next higher class. If not, you stay where you are. And look here, all of you, nobody must help you. If I find that you have been helped to so much as a single figure, you will be publicly disgraced."

On the same afternoon the first monthly reports were given out. It was a new measure to all the scholars, and when they learned that the papers were to be taken home, signed by the parents, and brought back next day, the most careless were impressed with a sense of the dignity of the transaction. The roll was called, each boy and girl in turn marched up to the desk, received a folded paper, and marched out of the school-house. Flea Grigsby got with hers a glance that went to her heart like the stab of ice-cold steel. It was unexpected, for her recitations had been perfect throughout the month, and she had striven hard to carry herself modestly and respectfully towards the despot of the little domain. Warned by the peculiar gleam of the light-blue eyes, she tucked the report between the leaves of her geography, instead of opening it, as every one else did, on the way to the door or as soon as he or she gained the outer air. Bea had walked on with another girl, but Dee was waiting for Flea at the bottom of the steps. She wished that he had not hung back to go with her. Even his honest, affectionate gaze would add to the humiliation which she felt was in store for her when that fatal bit of paper should be opened. She longed, yet dreaded, to know exactly what form the new shame would take. No one seemed to think of asking her what was in her report. The other scholars were too busy discussing their own, and rejoicing or lamenting over the contents. Dee was naturally incurious. He showed his report. It said, "Lessons indifferent. Conduct good."

"It mought 'a' been worse," observed Dee, philosophically. "I don' see what good the doggoned things do, anyhow."

Flea changed the subject, chatting of any thing and everything except the report she fancied she could hear rustling between the leaves of Olney's Geography, her nerves more tense every minute. By the time they reached the haunted house—they had taken the short-cut across the fields—she could bear the suspense no longer.

She sat down upon the flat stone that did duty for a door-step, took off her hat, and stretched her arms out, yawningly. "Don't wait for me, Dee. It is so nice and quiet here that I think I'll begin to work at that horrid sum. I can think better than at home with the children around. Tell mother I'll be in before supper-time."

The little fellow obeyed dutifully. He was growing daily more fond of the sister who helped him with his lessons, and never scolded him for being slow, and told him secrets of what they would do together when she became famous. Her conscience smote her slightly as he trudged off, his hands in his pockets, his bag of books slung over his shoulder by a twine string, and humping his calves as he walked. He knew but one tune, and that was "Balerma." He began to whistle it as soon as he turned his back. He[Pg 628] would whistle it all the way home. He called it, "O happy is the soul."

Flea laid the slate she had carried carefully, lest the test sum should get rubbed out, as carefully upon the stone beside her, and took Olney's Geography from her bag. The report was written upon an oblong piece of foolscap, folded once. Mr. Tayloe wrote a round, clear hand:

"October 31, 184-.

"Felicia Jean Grigsby: Lessons, usually fair. Conduct—room for improvement!

"James Tayloe."

There was a sneer for Flea in each of the three words that came after the dash. The line that emphasized them was heavy and black, and raised a welt upon her heart.

The sun had gone down, and the recessed door-step was dim with the shadows of the neglected vines overgrowing it, before she lifted her head from her knees to listen to footsteps in the dry weeds at the back of the cabin. Some laborer was probably passing by on his way home from the field. If she did not move, he would go on without seeing her. The steps came closer to her, until somebody stooped under the overhanging creepers, shutting out the light of the sky, and Flea felt hot breath upon her very face. She jumped up:

"Who are you?" she began.

A strong hand gripped her arm, another covered her mouth, and she was lifted bodily from her hiding-place. As the light showed her features the rough hold was slackened; a cracked laugh relieved her fright.

"Bless yo' soul, honey! How you skeered me! I 'clar' to gracious, I thought you was a ghos', or maybe the Old Boy hisself. I won' git over the turn you give me fur a week."

In proof of the shock to her nervous system Mrs. Fogg dropped herself upon the stone from which she had drugged Flea, and began to suck in her breath loudly and irregularly, as if the air were a thick fluid, fanning herself at the same time with her gingham apron.

"I was sitting here thinking, Mrs. Fogg, on my way from school," stammered the girl, really shaken by the adventure. "It's one of my favorite resting-places."

"I wouldn't come hyur much ef I was you, honey," sinking her voice, and glancing over her shoulder at the closed door. "It's a norful place for snakes an' scarripens" (scorpions) "an' lizards. An' it's wuss fur ha'nts. I've been see things here with my own two eyes o' nights, an' heered sech scritchin' an' bellerin' as 'mos' tarrified me to death. Stay 'way from hyur, honey. You're too sweet an' pretty to be cyarried off by the ole Satan."

Flea collected her bag, books, and slate from the ground, and gave a hard, miserable laugh.

"Satan lives in a better house than this, Mrs. Fogg. He wears broadcloth every day and Sunday too, and a fine gold watch and chain. I've seen him too often to be afraid of him."

The old woman pricked up her ears sharply; her bony hand reached up to clutch Flea's wrist.

"What you talkin' 'bout, honey-pie? Ole Nick couldn't w'ar a gold watch"—cackling at her joke; "'twould git melted. Don' yer understan'?"

"He lays it on the desk by him to see how long boys and girls can stand the torment," rushed on the girl, recklessly. "He lives most of the time in the school-house. That's his work-shop, where he ruins people's souls and tortures their bodies. Look here, Mrs. Fogg! I told you once that I'd ask Major Duncombe to let your grandchildren go to school. He's been away from home ever since, and I haven't had a chance to speak to him. I tell you now that I don't mean to ask him any such thing. They'd better grow up dunces, without knowing their A B C's, than to go to school to that—that—Evil!"

It was the strongest word she could think of, and she flung it out in a passion of loathing. The crone eyed her curiously, making odd noises in her throat, like a clucking hen.

"You don' say so—you don' say so—now! I suttinly is mighty sorry to hear it, my sweet young lady. I was jes a-sayin' to my daughter yistiddy how I meant to stop you termorrer mornin' as you went by the gate an' remin' you o' what you done promise' me. An' the chillens are crazy to go to school. Larnin' is a mighty fine thing for anybody. That's what I keep on a-tellin' on 'em. 'Larnin' is a good thing,' says I. In the fear of the Lord, of course—"

"There's no fear of the Lord in that school!" interrupted Flea, bitterly. "I ought to know, if anybody does. Good-by, Mrs. Fogg."

She had dashed over the tumble-down fence and was flying across the field before the old woman could stop her, if, indeed, she wished to prolong the interview.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 629]

RICK DALE.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XIX.

A TREACHEROUS INDIAN FROM NEAH BAY.

To his great disappointment, Skookum John could not find the cutter that he had heretofore so carefully avoided and was now so anxious to discover. She no longer lay where he had seen her the day before. He even went far enough into Commencement Bay to take a look at Tacoma harbor and identify the several steamers lying at its wharves. The cutter was not among them, and he made the long trip back to his own camp in a very disgusted frame of mind. At the same time he was determined to redouble his efforts to gain that reward, for at the prospect of losing it it began to assume an increased value.

With one source of income cut off, it was clearly his duty to provide another. And how could he do this better than by securing the good-will of those on board the white piah ship? There was no danger of them being captured and driven out of business, and if he could only get them into the habit of paying him for doing things, he could see no reason why they should not continue to do so indefinitely.

The old Siwash had already persuaded himself that they would give him twenty-five dollars for one tenas man (boy), and by the same course of reasoning he now wondered if they might not be induced to give him fifty dollars for two boys. It was possible, and certainly worth trying for. If they should consent, he could not see how, in justice to himself and his family, he could refuse to give up the hyas doctin (Alaric) along with the tenas shipman (young sailor). After all, the former had not placed him under such a very great obligation, for he would have found Nittitan himself in a very few minutes.

So the cunning old Indian, having persuaded himself that his meditated treachery was pure benevolence, reached his camp in good spirits in spite of his disappointment, and determined to make the stay of the boys so pleasant that they should offer no objection to remaining with him until the return of the cutter to those waters.

The boys had been awake and out for an hour, and Alaric was fairly intoxicated with the glorious freedom of wild life, of which this was his first taste. Already had he taken a swimming lesson, and although in his ignorance he had recklessly plunged into water that would have drowned him had not Bonny and Bah-die pulled him out, he was confident that he had swum one stroke before going down.

Upon Skookum John's return his guests sat down with him to a breakfast which their ravenous appetites enabled them to eat with a hearty enjoyment, though it consisted of only fish, fish, and yet more fish.

"But it is such capital fish!" explained Alaric.

"Isn't it?" replied Bonny, tearing with teeth and fingers at a great strip of smoked salmon. "And the oil isn't half bad, either."

After they had finished eating, and their host had lighted his pipe, he told Bonny that his early-morning trip had been taken out of anxiety for their safety, and to discover the whereabouts of their enemies, the revenue-men.

"They mamook klatawa?" (Have they gone away?) inquired Bonny.

"No; piah ship mitlite Tacoma illahie." (No; steamer stay in Tacoma land.) "Shipman Tyhee cutters wan wan." (The sailor chief made much worthless talk.)

"Mesika wan wan Tyhee?" (Did you talk to the Captain?) inquired Bonny, anxiously.

"Ah ah me wan wan no klap tenas man. Alta piah ship kopet Tacoma illahie. Mesika mitlite Skookum John house."

[Pg 630]

By this sentence he conveyed to Bonny the idea that he had told the Captain the boys were not to be found. At the same time he extended to them the hospitality of his camp for so long as the cutter should remain at Tacoma.

When Bonny repeated this conversation to Alaric, the latter exclaimed: "Of course we would better stay here where we are safe until the cutter goes away, even if it is a week from now. I hope it will be as long as that, for I think this camp is one of the jolliest places I ever struck."

"All right," replied Bonny. "If you can stand it, I can."

So the boys settled quietly down and waited for something to happen, though it seemed to Alaric as though something of interest and importance were happening nearly all the time. To begin with, they built themselves a brush hut under Bah-die's instruction, the steep-pitched roof of which would shed rain. Then they both took lessons from the same teacher in sailing and paddling a canoe.

The supply of fish for the camp had to be replenished daily, and this duty devolved entirely upon the younger children, for Bah-die went always with his father to draw the big seine net, in which they caught fish for market. As the lads were anxious to earn their board, they sometimes went in the big boat, and sometimes in the small canoes with the children, by which means they learned all the different ways known to the Indians of catching fish. With all this, Alaric's swimming lessons were not neglected for a single day, and he often took baths both morning and evening, so fascinated was he with the novel sport.

In return for what Bah-die taught him, he undertook to train the young Siwash in the art of catching a baseball. The latter having watched him and Bonny pass the ball and catch it with perfect ease, one day held out his hands, as much as to say, "Here you go; give us a catch."

Alaric, who held the ball at that moment, let drive a swift one straight at him. When Bah-die dropped it, and clapped his smarting hands to his sides with an expression of pained astonishment on his face, the white lad knew just how he felt. He could plainly recall the sensations of his own experience on that not-very-long-ago day in Golden Gate Park; and while he sympathized with Bah-die, he could not help exulting in the fact that he had discovered one boy of his own age more ignorant than he concerning an athletic sport. Then he set to work to show the young Siwash how to catch a ball, just as Dave Carncross had shown him, and in so doing he experienced a genuine pleasure. He was growing to be like other boys, and the knowledge that this was so filled him with delight.

Nearly every day Skookum John sailed over to Tacoma, ostensibly to carry his fish, but really to discover whether or not the cutter had returned, and each night he came back glum with disappointment. Bonny often asked to be allowed to go to the city with him, as he was impatient to be again at work; but the Indian invariably put him off, on the plea that if the cutter-men discovered one whom they were so anxious to capture, in his canoe, they would punish him for having afforded the fugitive a shelter.

The young sailor could not understand why the cutter remained so long in one place, for he had never known her to do such a thing before, and many a talk did he and Alaric have on the subject.

So time wore on until our lads had spent two full weeks in the Siwash camp, and had become heartily sick of it. To be sure, Alaric had grown brown and rugged, besides becoming almost an adept in the several arts he had undertaken to master. His hands were no longer white, and their palms were covered with calloused spots instead of blisters.

Two things, however, distressed Alaric greatly, and one was his clothing, which was not only ragged, but soiled beyond anything he had ever dreamed of wearing. His canvas shoes, from frequent soakings and much walking on rocks, were so broken that they nearly dropped from his feet. His woollen trousers were shrunken and bagged at the knees, while his blue sweater, besides being torn, had faded to a brownish-red. With all this he was comforted by the reflection that he still had a good suit in reserve that he could wear whenever they should be free to go to the city.

His other great trial was the food of that Siwash camp. He had never been particularly fond of fish, and now, after eating it alone three times a day for two weeks, the very thought of fish made him ill. He loathed it so that it seemed to him he would almost rather go to prison, with a chance of getting something else to eat, than to remain any longer on a fish diet. From both these trials Bonny suffered nearly as much as his companion.

One day when the boys had decided that they could not stand this sort of thing any longer, they were out fishing in the swift sailing-canoe with Bah-die, Skookum John having gone in the larger boat to Tacoma. While they gloomily pursued their now distasteful employment a sail-boat containing two white men ran alongside to obtain bait. As these were the first of their own race with whom the boys had found an opportunity to talk since coming to that place, Bonny began to ply them with questions. Among others, he asked:

"What is the revenue-cutter doing at Tacoma all this time? Has she broken down?"

"She isn't there," replied one of the men.

"Isn't there?" repeated Bonny, incredulously.

"No; nor hasn't been for upwards of two weeks. We are expecting her back every day, though."

Then the men sailed away, leaving our lads to stare at each other in speechless amazement.

CHAPTER XX.

AN EXCITING RACE FOR LIBERTY.

"What do you suppose it all means?" asked Alaric, as the boat containing the two white men sailed away.

"If it is true, it means that somebody has been fooling us, and you know who he is as well as I do," replied Bonny, who did not care to mention names within Bah-die's hearing. "If I'm not very much mistaken, it means also that he is trying to hold on to us until the cutter comes back. You know they offered him a reward to find us."

"Only twenty-five dollars," interposed Alaric, who could not imagine anybody committing an act of treachery for so small a sum.

"That would be a good deal to some people. I don't know but what it would be to me just now."

"If I had once thought he was after the money," continued Alaric, "I would have offered him twice as much to deal squarely with us."

"Would you?" asked Bonny, with a queer little smile, for his comrade's remarks concerning money struck him as very absurd. "Where would you have got it?"

"I meant, of course, if I had it," replied the other, flushing, and wondering at his own stupidity. "But what do you think we ought to do now?"

"Sail over to Tacoma as quick as we can, and see whether the cutter is there or not. When we find that out we'll see what is to be done next."

"But we may meet John on the way."

"I don't care. That's a good idea, though. I've been wondering how we should get our friend here to agree to the plan." Then turning to Bah-die, and speaking in Chinook, Bonny suggested that as the fishing was not very good and there was a fine breeze for sailing, they should run out into the sound and meet the big canoe on its way back from Tacoma, to which plan the Siwash unsuspectingly agreed.

Half an hour later the swift canoe was dashing across the open sound before a rattling breeze that heeled her down until her lee gunwale was awash, though her three occupants were perched high on the weather side. The city was dimly visible in the distance ahead, and near at hand the big canoe which they were ostensibly going to meet was rapidly approaching. Bonny was steering, and Bah-die held the main-sheet, while the jib-sheets were entrusted to Alaric.

Skookum John had already recognized them, and as they came abreast of him motioned to them to put about; but Bonny, affecting not to understand, resolutely maintained his course. They were well past the other craft, which was coming about as though to follow them, before Bah-die realized that anything was wrong. Then obeying an angry order shouted to him by his father, he let go the main-sheet[Pg 631] without warning, causing the canoe to right so violently as to very nearly fling her passengers overboard, and attempted to wrest the steering-oar from Bonny's hand.

BAH-DIE LEAVES THE CANOE AND GOES TO JOIN HIS FATHER.

Seeing this, and with the desperate feeling of an escaped prisoner who sees himself about to be recaptured, Alaric sprang aft, seized the young Indian by the legs, and with a sudden output of all his recently acquired strength, pitched him headlong into the sea. Then catching the main sheet, he trimmed it in. Down heeled the canoe until it seemed as though she certainly must capsize; but Alaric, looking very pale and determined, held fast to the straining rope, and would not yield an inch.

It was well that he had learned this lesson, and was possessed of the courage to apply it, for the canoe did not gather headway an instant too soon. Bah-die, emerging from his plunge furious with rage, was swimming toward her, and made a frantic attempt to grasp the gunwale as she slipped away. His clutching fingers only missed it by the fraction of an inch, and before he could make another effort the quick-moving craft was beyond his reach. He was too wise to attempt a pursuit, and turned, instead, to meet the big canoe, which was approaching him.

"That was a mighty fine thing to do, Rick Dale!" cried Bonny, admiringly, "and but for you we should be on our way back to that hateful camp at this very moment. Of course they may catch us yet with that big boat, but we've got a show and must make the most of it. So throw your weight as far as you can out to windward, and don't ease off that sheet unless you see solid water pouring in over the gunnel."

"All right," replied Alaric, shortly, almost too excited for words.

Both lads realized that after what had just taken place it would be nearly as unpleasant to fall into the hands of Skookum John as into those of the revenue-men themselves, and both were determined that this should not happen if they could prevent it. But could they? Fast as they were sailing, it seemed to Alaric as though the big canoe rushing after them was sailing faster. Bonny dared not take his attention from the steering long enough even to cast a glance behind. Managing the canoe was now more difficult than before, because they had lost one hundred and fifty pounds of live ballast.

When Alaric looked at the water flashing by them it seemed as though he had never moved so fast in his life, while a glance at the big boat astern almost persuaded him that they were creeping at a snail's pace. It was certain that the long wicked-looking beak of the pursuing craft was drawing nearer. Finally it was so close at hand that he could distinguish the old Indian's scowling features and the expression of triumph on Bah-die's face. The lad's heart grew heavy within him, for the city wharves were still far away, and with things as they were the chase was certain to be ended before they could be reached.

All at once an exclamation from Bonny directed his attention to another craft coming up the sound and bearing down on them as though to take part in the race. It was a powerful sloop-yacht standing toward the city from the club-house on Maury Island, and its crew were greatly interested in the brush between the two canoes.

Either by design or accident, the yacht, which was to windward of the chase, stood so close to the big canoe as to completely blanket her, and so take the wind from her sails that she almost lost headway. Then, as though to atone for her error, the yacht bore away so as to run between pursuer and pursued, and pass to leeward of the smaller canoe. As the beautiful craft swept by our lads with a flash of rushing waters, glinting copper, and snowy sails, a cheery voice rang out: "Well done, plucky boys! Stick to it, and you'll win yet!"

Alaric could not see the speaker, because of the sail between them, but the tones were so startlingly familiar that for a moment he imagined the voice to belong to the stranger who had talked with him on the wharf at Victoria, and whom he now knew for a revenue-officer. If that was the case, they were indeed hopelessly surrounded by peril. He was about to confide his fears to Bonny, when like a flash it came to him that the voice was that of Dave Carncross, whom he had not seen since that memorable day in Golden Gate Park.

Although he had no desire to meet this friend of the ball-field under the present circumstances, he was greatly relieved to find his first suspicion groundless, and again directed his attention to the big canoe, which, although she had lost much distance, was again rushing after them. The boy now noticed for the first time, not more than half a mile astern of her, a white steamer with a dense column of smoke pouring from her yellow funnel, and evidently bound for the same port with themselves.

Soon afterwards they had passed the smeltery, saw-mills, and lumber-loading vessels of the old town, and were approaching the cluster of steamships lying at the wharves of the Northern Pacific Railway, which here finds its western terminus. Off these the yacht had already dropped her jib and come to anchor. The big canoe was again overhauling them, and looked as though she might overtake them after all. A boat from the yacht was making toward the wharves, and Bonny, believing that it would find a landing-place, slightly altered his course so as follow the same direction.

All at once Alaric, who was again gazing nervously astern, cried out: "Look at that steamer! I do believe it is going to run down the big canoe."

Bonny glanced hastily over his shoulder, and uttered an exclamation of dismay.

"Great Scott! It's the cutter," he gasped. "And they are right on top of us. Now we are in for it."

"They are speaking to John, and he is pointing to us," said Alaric.

"Never mind them now," said Bonny. "Ease off your sheet a bit, and 'tend strictly to business. We've still a chance, and can't afford to make any mistakes."

A few minutes later, just as a yawl was putting off from the cutter's side, the small canoe rounded the end of a wharf and came upon a landing-stage. On it the yacht's boat had just deposited a couple of passengers, who, with bags in their hands, were hastening up a flight of steps.

"Here, you!" cried Bonny to one of the yacht's crew who stood on the float, "look out for this canoe a minute. We've got to overtake those gentlemen. Come on, Rick."

Without waiting to see whether this order would be obeyed, the boys ran up the flight of steps and dashed away down the long wharf. They had no idea of where they should go, and were only intent on finding some hiding-place from the pursuers, whom they believed to be already on their trail.

As they were passing a great ocean steamer whose decks were crowded with passengers, and which was evidently about to depart, a carriage dashed up in front of them, so close that they narrowly escaped being run over. As its door was flung open a voice cried out:

"Here, boys! Get these traps aboard that steamer. Quick!"

With this a gentleman sprang out and thrust a couple of bags, a travelling-rug, and a gun-case into their hands. A lady with a little boy followed him. He snatched up the child, and the whole party ran up the gang-plank of the steamer as it was about to be hauled ashore.

Our lads had accepted this chance to board the steamer without hesitation, and now ran ahead of the others. The clerk at the inner end of the gang-plank allowed them to pass, thinking, of course, that they would deposit their burdens on deck and immediately return to the wharf.

With an instinct born of long familiarity with ocean steamers, Alaric made his way through the throng of passengers to the main saloon, and Bonny followed him closely. Here they placed their burdens on a table, and, with Alaric still in the lead, disappeared through a door on the opposite side.

Five minutes later the great ship began to move slowly from the wharf, and our lads, from a snug nook on the lower deck, watched with much perturbation a revenue-officer, who had evidently just landed from the cutter, come hurrying down the wharf.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 632]

A MAY-DAY PLAY.

BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY AND MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Characters:

Scene.—A lawn or field. Upon a small raised platform a chair covered with green (the throne) is placed. A drum is heard in the distance. It approaches, and appears upon the stage. Behind the Drummer-Boy in procession march the May-Queen, Maids of Honor, May-pole Dancers, Guests, Philosopher, Messenger. They march two or three times around the stage.

Drummer-Boy. Here our long march ends. My lady Queen, behold your rustic throne. Be pleased to grace it, and rest yourself.

Queen. But I am not your Queen yet. I have no crown.

Philosopher. Madam, 'twere wise to secure your throne. A crown is an empty honor. Better a throne without a crown than a crown without a throne.

Queen. But, sweet sir, may I not have them both?

First Guest. Lady, thou mayst. Had I a thousand crowns to give, they should be thine.

Philosopher. Pity of the head with the weight of a thousand crowns upon it. Under one, the neck is often sorely bent.

Queen. There thou art right. One is enough for most mortals. But one I fain would have.

First Maid of Honor. Dear Queen, thy crown is here. Trust me, it has not been forgotten. My sister and I will lightly place it on thy brow.

[The two Maids of Honor hold a wreath over the head of the Queen, who kneels.]

First Maid of Honor } (in concert).

Second Maid of Honor }

We crown thee Queen of May.
Rule gently, fairest maid;
Let flowers strew thy way
On hill and glen and glade.

[The Maids of Honor lead the Queen to her throne, and sit on the platform at her feet. Others sit on the grass or stand about her.]

Messenger-Boy (presents a sceptre).

Take this sceptre, gracious lady,
Hold it with imperial sway.
We are watching, only anxious
All your bidding to obey.

Queen (accepting).

The sceptre is a trust indeed;
I'll bear it lightly as a flower;
And yet no wand like this I need,
So much I trust your hearts this hour.

First Guest. Truly a gracious Queen!

Second Guest. One worthy of the day and the lovely spring.

Queen. Most true and loyal subjects, it is our will that you pass a merry holiday. Leave care behind. Let no one dare to frown. Let all be generous and mirthful. And first let the May-pole dancers come forward. Know ye where a May-pole grows—tall, straight, beautiful?

All the May-pole Dancers. We know.

Queen. Fetch one, then, right soon. See that it be gorgeously bedecked with flowers and greens and waving streamers. (Exeunt May-pole dancers.) And now we desire to secure a fair day. Come hither, Messenger. Take our love to the Clerk of the Winds and Showers, and beseech his attendance at our May-day festival.

Philosopher. Thou must mount to the top of the weather bureau. 'Tis a tall place and hard to climb.

Messenger. I can climb. I go then to bid the Clerk of the Winds and Showers to be thy guest. [Exit.]

Queen. And while we wait, let our Master Philosopher here propose us riddles.

Philosopher. What is the first flower of the spring?

First Maid of Honor. Call'st thou that a riddle?

Philosopher. Canst answer?

First Maid of Honor. Not I.

Second Maid of Honor. Nor I.

Queen. Go, then, search and find. Shame upon us if we cannot answer his riddle. (Exeunt Maids of Honor.) And now another, sir, if it please you.

Philosopher. What is the first bird that comes from the south and sings to the north in spring?

First Guest. Why, that is no better than the other.

Philosopher. Canst answer it?

First Guest. Not I.

Second Guest. Nor I.

Queen. Haste, then, fair Guests, go to the forests and find out. Do not let these riddles go unanswered.

[Exeunt Guests.]

Philosopher. And now I would ask thy Drummer-Boy a riddle.

Queen. Thou mayst ask. Attend, sirrah.

Philosopher. Where maketh the bumblebee his nest?

[Pg 633]

Drummer-Boy. I think in the hollow of a tree.

Queen. Go, child, find the bumblebee's nest, and answer his riddle.

Philosopher. But look not in hollow trees.

[Exit Drummer-Boy.]

Queen. Knowest thou thyself the answers to thine own riddles?

Philosopher. Madam, a true philosopher finds riddles everywhere, but the answers are harder to get.

Queen. Then thou knowest them not. Fie! a child can ask questions.

Philosopher. And a fool can answer them. What would your Majesty for a riddle? A play upon words or a silly question? Nay, then, ask not me for riddles.

[A distant horn is heard.]

Queen. Who comes hither? If friends, Sir Philosopher, we will proffer our hospitality. If foes, why, then, we would best retreat. (Enter two Hunters.) Good-day, sirs. Come ye to grace our May-day festival, or do ye come to disturb our holiday?

First Hunter. Fair Queen, we had forgot that 'tis the first of May. We were bent on duty stern. But far be it from us to mar the pleasure of the Queen of May.

Second Hunter. We marvel that she seems to celebrate in a lone fashion, saving only this old man to attend her.

Philosopher. Old man, sayest thou?

Second Hunter. Old, I said. Thou art not toothless nor blind, but wise, if I mistake not; and how canst thou be wise and not old?

Philosopher. I take no offence. But, sir, I dare say thee now, thou art older than I.

Second Hunter. It may be. I too am old. We are all old beside thy lovely Queen.

Queen. A flatterer. But what is thy stern duty of which thou didst speak?

First Hunter. Our chief hath lost his lady. She did but walk by herself awhile, and hath disappeared. He, her husband, is disconsolate.

Queen. Who is this bereft husband?

First Hunter. The renowned Prince of the woods—no less a person than Robin Hood.

Queen. Ay, we have heard of Robin Hood.

Philosopher. And the lost lady is?

First Hunter. Maid Marian.

Queen. Well, indeed! We sorrow greatly for the Prince. But will not your lord grace our May-day feast with his presence? (To Philosopher.) This is a rare opportunity. We have long wished to see this renowned Robin.

Philosopher. The Queen invites Sir Robin Hood to her feast. Will it please you to find him and bring him hither?

First Hunter. That we will, right gladly.

Queen. And come yourselves.

Both Hunters. Thanks, Queen. We will. [Exeunt.]

Queen. Now if only Maid Marian could be found.

Enter Messenger with Clerk of the Winds and Showers.

Clerk of the Winds and Showers (dropping on one knee). Your Majesty, thanks for your courtesy. It gives me much pleasure to attend your May-day festival.

Queen. Gracious sir, thou honorest us by coming. What is the outlook for the weather?

Clerk of the Winds and Showers. Madam, there is a disturbance in the Barbadoes travelling slowly northward. The storm over the lakes is concentrating its energy along the fiftieth parallel of latitude. It will reach Hudson Bay to-morrow evening. Stationary temperature prevails in the Gulf, cloudy to partly cloudy weather, with high barometer, on the Pacific coast.

Queen. Sir Philosopher, do you make out a pleasant afternoon?

Philosopher. Nay, ask me no weather questions. They are riddles which no man can make out.

Queen. We would we knew if the sun would hold till nightfall.

Clerk of the Winds and Showers. A violent electric disturbance is noticeable around the north pole.

Philosopher. May it shake the north pole to its imperilling. Fellow, why canst thou not give our Queen a straight answer? Will it rain to-day?

Clerk of the Winds and Showers. I have given thee the morning bulletins, and thou mayst gather for thyself—that is, if thy wits be not already gone a wool-gathering.

Queen. No disrespect. I pray thee. We will hope for the best.

Enter May-pole Dancers and Maid Marian.

First May-pole Dancer. Hail, fair Queen! We bring thee a fine pole, tall, straight, well bedecked, as thou didst desire.

Queen. You have indeed found a pretty pole. We will ourself join in a dance around it. But whom hast thou here? What stranger lady?

[Pg 634]

Second May-pole Dancer. Dear Queen, this is a lost damsel. She hath become separated from her friends. So we asked her to join our merrymaking, and forget for a time her woes.

Queen (to Philosopher). Mayhap this is the lost maid. I will speak to her. Dear lady, who art thou, and why art thou astray in these woods?

Maid Marian. Fair Queen, I am called Maid Marian, but in truth I am the lawful wife of Robin Hood, of whom your Majesty may have heard. I was taking a stroll by myself in the woods, and missed my way, so that I could not return.

Queen. Thou art young to be a wife; but I counsel thee not to mourn. Enjoy thyself with us, and it is possible thy husband may find thee. Thou art our honored guest.

Maid Marian. Thanks, madam. Could I forget him whom I have lost here in your sweet company, I could be well content.

[The May-pole Dancers set up the pole, and, catching the streamers, dance around it.]

May-pole Dancers.

Merrily, merrily round and round
We dance for the purest pleasure;
Cheerily, cheerily o'er the ground
We tread to a joyful measure.

Happily, happily here we pass,
And the blue sky bending o'er us,
Tenderly, tenderly, clear as glass,
Lists to our lilting chorus.

Queen. That is well danced and sung. But here come our Maids of Honor, and with them pretty children.

Enter Maids of Honor, Titania, Calla-Lily, Rosemary, Sweet-William.

First Maid of Honor. Dear Queen, we have sought far and near for the answer to the Philosopher's riddle. We bring thee several early spring flowers; but now they are blooming all together, how can we tell which was first?

Second Maid of Honor. And as we were looking we found these sweet wood-fairies, and have asked them to join in our mirth to-day.

Queen. Right glad am I to welcome you, sweet wood-fairies. How may we call you?

Titania.

Call us elves and trolls and fays,
Call us friends who love you dear;
Down beneath the tree-roots for you
We are spinning all the year.

Right gladly I will stay awhile,
And bask within the May-Queen's smile,
But soon I'll have to flit away;
The fairy Queen not long can stay.

Calla-Lily.

I bring grace and Parian whiteness,
Where I bloom is loveliest brightness.

Rosemary.

For remembrance, Queen, am I;
Let me in your bosom lie.

Sweet-William.

I am always your true knight;
I will serve you at your will;
Always ready, brave, and steady,
Sweet and cheery still.

Queen. It is well. And now shall we learn about the flowers?

First Maid of Honor. Here are what we have found—anemones, wind-flowers, saxifrages, red columbines.

Second Maid of Honor. Claytonias, beauties of spring, and violets soft and yellow.

[They throw the flowers in the Queen's lap.]

Queen. Are these the first?

Calla-Lily.

Deep in the shadow, where the pine-trees grow,
I found the sweet arbutus, it will blow
Where brown leaves lie; you push them soft away,
There, shy and pink, the darling flowerets stay.

Rosemary.

Blood-root and anemone,
These, fair Queen, my gifts to thee.

Sweet-William.

I know you love the graceful ferns,
The slender maiden-hair;
They seem to suit your style, my Queen,
So innocent and fair.

Titania.

Hepaticas, blue-bells, and buttercups sweet
I will weave a rich carpet to lay at your feet.
And the sweet nodding grasses and dear blushing clover
One day I'll make ready for you to step over;
But the first and the coyest of all the sweet flowers
Is hepatica, favorite of spring's early hours.

Philosopher. Right art thou, Titania. The first and the sweetest flower of spring is the hepatica. (Enter two Guests.) And now methinks we shall hear the reading of the second riddle. Our Guests have returned.

Queen. We are glad to welcome you again. Tell us then, what is the bird that first comes from the south and sings to the north?

First Guest. The woods are full of birds, and how can we tell which came first?

Second Guest. There are sparrows and finches, red-polls, warblers, brown thrushes, and cheery bobolinks. Each one we asked, "Wert thou the first?" and they but cocked their funny little heads one side and warbled sweet notes. How could we tell what they said?

Calla-Lily.

You have to learn bird language
And live among the dears,
And really to know them well
Would take a hundred years.

Titania.

Song-sparrows and robins and bluebirds bring luck
In the very first dawn of the spring.

Queen. Here, then, we have thy second riddle answered.

Sweet-William.

If the mortals choose to look,
Open eyes all secrets read;
Nature's page is but a book,
Never sealed to those who read.

Enter Hunters and Robin Hood.

Maid Marian (rushing into Robin Hood's arms). Oh, my Robin! I truly had thought never to see thy face again, and now thou comest to me.

Robin Hood. Poor little lass! Thou wast hunting for me and I for thee. Didst thou not hear these fellows' horns?

Maid Marian. My ears were closed with fright and grief. But I will present thee to the lovely May-Queen, and do thou, Robin, kneel and kiss her hand after thy most knightly fashion.

Robin Hood. Gracious Queen, thou shalt reckon me one of thy loyal knights and true subjects.

Queen. Our thanks, brave Robin. You shall grace our merrymaking. (Enter Drummer-Boy, crying.) But now we hear a sound that comports not with merrymaking. What ails thee, child?

Drummer-Boy. Madam, do not let Mr. Philosopher send me on more riddle-reading. Truly I have met with many mishaps, yet the bumblebee's nest found I not. I spied a hole in a tree. With much ado I climbed to it and thrust my hand within. Something bit me sorely, so that I cried out with pain and hastened to slide down. A squirrel's saucy eyes peered at me from the hole. Then I would fain have pelted her with a stone, but that she withdrew quickly within her hole.

Rosemary (picking a leaf). Boy, give me thy hand. So, I will bind it in this leaf, and the wound will quickly heal. Doubtless the squirrel hath young ones, and looked upon thee as an intruder.

Philosopher. Said I not to thee, look not in hollow trees?

Drummer-Boy. Too late I remembered that. Well, I wandered on, and soon I saw what I took to be a bumblebee. I followed him till he came to a fence-post, and I saw him enter a little hole. "Here I have him!" said I, and I gave the post vigorous knocks to make him come forth. He did, indeed, and his fellows with him, and I was well stung for my pains.

Calla-Lily. What kind of a bee was it that stung thee?

[Pg 635]

Drummer-Boy. A long thin black body had he, and it concealed a wicked needle.

Calla-Lily. Thou hast been stung by a mason-wasp. I have some ointment that will take away the pain, and thou shalt anon forget thy adventures.

Drummer-Boy. The pain is gone already.

Titania. Come here, and I will whisper the answer to the riddle. [Whispers.]

Drummer-Boy. The bumblebee maketh her nest in the ground. She diggeth a long narrow hole, layeth her egg, placeth beside it a lump of pollen and honey, then closeth that cell, and maketh another over it, providing food for the grub in like manner, then closeth that cell, and so on till all her eggs are laid.

Philosopher. Well said, boy. Thou hast found a rare teacher.

Queen. A gracious teacher, surely. And now shall we gather for the dance?

Robin Hood. It were well, my Queen, to proceed with the merrymaking. I see a darkening of the sky in the west, and fear a shower later on.

Queen (to Clerk of the Winds and Showers). Sir, how is that? Did we not desire thee to keep the skies bright?

Clerk of the Winds and Showers. There are signs of wet. The barometer is falling, the wind is shifting. But I will telephone to the weather bureau. The storm may be diverted to another quarter. [Exit.]

Queen. We hope he may succeed. Take partners all and form the dance.

[The May-pole Dancers go about and form the figure for the dance. Queen and Robin Hood, Maid Marian and Philosopher, Titania and Sweet-William, Calla-Lily and Messenger, Rosemary and Second Guest, First Maid of Honor and First Hunter, Second Maid of Honor and Second Hunter, First Guest and Drummer-Boy, First and Second May-pole Dancers, Third and Fourth May-pole Dancers. They march and dance around the pole, singing:]

We dance for love of moving,
Our hearts are light and free;
What joy in pleasant May-time
It is alive to be,

When buds are fast unrolling,
And birds are on the bough,
And all the world is stepping
To merry music now!

We dance, because we cannot
Walk soberly and slow
When round the flowery May-pole
We're moving to and fro.

Enter Clerk of the Winds and Showers.

Clerk of the Winds and Showers. Hasten, Queen, and ye merry men and maidens all. The storm cometh. It is at my heels. I have tried, but could not keep it back. Lightning flashes, thunder rolls. The May-day merrymaking must cease.

Queen. Alas! where shall we fly for shelter?

Maid Marian. Are we so far from our house in the woods, Robin dear?

Robin Hood. No, not far. We may go thither and be safe. It is a rustic place, madam, but not a drop shall fall on thy fair head, so we reach it anon. Huntsmen, take your partners and lead the way. Bid prepare a supper for these friends, and we will follow.

[Exeunt Hunters and partners.]

Queen. So the hospitality is from thee, and not from us. Oh, fie! my Clerk of Winds and Showers! Why couldst thou not make the sun shine till we had finished our dance?

Philosopher. Grieve not for that which cannot be cured. Meet disappointment with a smiling face, and you turn it into good fortune.

First Maid of Honor. Will it not be in the way of pleasant adventure to visit the abode of Robin Hood?

Queen. You are right. It will make our day the merrier. And after the storm there may be time to tread another dance before we go to our homes. Follow, all, and let us run a race with the gathering clouds.

[Exeunt omnes, except Clerk of the Winds and Showers.]

Clerk of the Winds and Showers. Curious. That's the fifth time the weather bureau has had it wrong this week. That storm now, in the lake region. It should have passed to the north. There was no word sent to us of "local showers." Think I'll take a dance around the pole myself. (Dances.) It seems to be growing lighter. That shower is not coming here, after all. See, it is passing by to the north. They will come back and have another dance. And they will thank me for my good offices in their behalf. After all, the weather reports are occasionally correct.

[Curtain.]

TOMMY ON NATURE.

The blossoms ripple in a sea
About the garden way,
And on that old black apple-tree,
With bluebirds more than gay,

I watch those fragrant flakes of snow
That tremble in the air,
And in the breezes softly blow,
And frolic here and there.

I think that Nature is too slow—
For she that blossom spray
Should turn to apples all aglow,
And do it right away.

R. K. Munkittrick.

A LITTLE HERO.

Ruggsy was black, and it would have been a difficult matter to discern him in the dark tunnel of the mine were it not for the little flickering lamp he carried, and his occasional "Go 'long there, Lazybones!" that he addressed to his patient mule. Ruggsy drove a tram-car through the tunnels of a coal mine, and all his little life was wrapped up in the mule, the miners, and the click of their picks. But Ruggsy is a hero, and the way he became one is best told as he describes it:

"You see, boss, it wuz jes like this. De mule an' I wuz er workin' up towards de upper gallery on de steep grade when Ise heerd a rumblin'. Ise knew what dat meant. One of dem trams had slipped de brake, an' wuz er comin' down de grade mighty fast. Tell yer, boss, Ise wuz er scared little nigger. Way down de grade, in de narrow part, der wuz er lot er men widenin' de tunnel, an' Ise knew de car would be on dem befo' dey could get outen de way. Ise hit ol' Lazybones er smash wid de whip, an', he! he! dat wuz funny! He neber felt it dat way befo', yer see. He gib an awmighty kick, an' started pullin' like mad. Yer see, dere wuz a switch 'bout a short bit ahead er me, and er blind sidin' ran offen it. If Ise could get dere befo' de tram got dere, Ise could throw de switch an' send her plum into de wall at de end o' de sidin'. But, boss, I's mos' frightened; dat rumblin' was growin' louder an' louder, and Ise spect dat Ise would be too late. Ise could see it er comin', an' old Lazybones saw it, an' he done gone an' balked, a thing he neber done befo'. Ise jumped off de car an' ran as fast as Ise could to de switch. It wuz stiff, an' Ise tugged at it till de car wuz on me. Ise felt a smash an' Ise knew de switch turned, but somethin' hit me. Say, boss, when Ise come to dey had me up to de surface, an' all de whole crowd er miners wuz up dere too. Dey cheered like dey does 'lection-times. I wuz hurt bad, but Ise been a hero eber sence, an' de foreman gib me a job up here in de engine-room."

[Pg 636]

FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

XIII.—FROM BOB TO JACK.

Paris.

MY DEAR JACKY,—Did I say London was a circus? If I did, this place is two of 'em. And I tell you what, one of the queerest things in the world is to get into a country where people speak another language, even the children. Pop says there's even such a thing as French baby talk. It seems awful queer to ask a fellow what time it is in just the simplest way you know how, and have him look as if you'd asked him a question in algebra that he hadn't ever studied about. And yet that's happening all the time. They don't even understand the word Hullo; and Pop says some of 'em don't know French very well either, because he'd tried some of his on them, and they've just stood still and looked blank at him. I don't know what I'd do if Pop hadn't hired a courier to look after things. Ma said she didn't think a courier was necessary, but Pop said he thought he was. "You can talk French well enough to make yourself understood," Ma said. "I know that," said Pop, "but these French can't. If I want to go to the Luxemburg in a hurry I can ask a John Darm the way, but when he tells me, I have to sit down on the curb-stone for an hour or two and get out my pocket dictionary to translate what he says into English so that I can make use of his information." "But a courier is expensive," said Ma. "Three dollars a day," said Pa, "and I waste fifteen dollars' worth of nerves every hour going on as we do now." So we took him. His name is Jules and he's a dandy. He can speak all languages except Chinese and a few others, and he's a native of France and Germany. He was born in Alsace when it was French, which made him French, and now Alsace is German, which makes him German. That gave him two tongues to start with and he's picked up all the others since that time. His English is splendid, but as Pop says a little unexpected sometimes because he's got some of his words out of a slang dictionary, like corker for instance. When Pop asked him if there were any fine pictures to be seen anywhere he said the Luxemburg was full of "shay doovers—or as ze English say it has in it the very best corkers of modern times."

He's a fine fellow, Jules is, and for exciting times he can beat Sandboys and Chesterfield. He's seen a bull-fight in Spain and if he hadn't learned how to play leap-frog when he was a boy he'd have been killed at it, because the bull got loose and came straight for him, being angered by Jules's red necktie. His first impulse was to run, but when he saw how fast the bull was coming he knew he wouldn't have any chance in a running match, so he just stood still and the minute the bellering beast came within reach he grabbed hold of his horns and leap-frogged right over his back. The bull stopped short and kept gazing round the sky after him, thinking he'd tossed him and intending to catch him on his way down, and while this was going on Jules pulled the sword out of his cane, crept around in front and stabbed him to the heart. So you see leap-frog isn't such a waste of time after all, though I don't know what we could use it for at home unless it was to escape from a cable car, and that would be pretty hard work unless you were ten feet high.

We first met Jules at the railway station. The proprietor of the hotel sent him to see that we got through the French custom-house all right. I guess maybe he knew that we weren't quite used to the French language and that Jules would help us out and it was a good thing he did because I never saw Pop so excited as he was when we got here. He wasn't feeling well anyhow. We'd all been so awfully seasick crossing the British Channel that Pop hadn't time on board to be seasick himself, so he'd saved up a headache for the land. Then he was pretty mad at a French waiter at Calais who was such an idiot he didn't know what eggs were even in his own language. Pop asked him for uffs eight times and the fellow couldn't understand until finally Pop got mad and grabbed up a half a dozen buns and made a rush for the train forgetting to pay, with the waiter and a John Darm after him. We got the row all straightened out after a little while, but Pop couldn't get over it all the afternoon, and finally when he reached Paris he was ready to fight the whole French nation, and I heard Ma tell Aunt Sarah she was glad he didn't know enough French to insult anybody with it because she didn't want to have any trouble. And then Jules turned up and took charge of us all, even Pop. Pop didn't know who he was at first, but Jules told him, and then Pop got calm again and didn't want to fight anybody.

I have a sort of an idea that Jules is really a duke in disguise, because everybody sort of gives up to him. The custom-house people as soon as they saw Jules with our trunks never said a word but past 'em right through, and all he did was to shake hands with 'em for their trouble. Then we got in a fakir and rode to the hotel. Ma and Aunt Sarah and the children had gone ahead in an omnibus. Fakir is French for hack. They generally have only one horse and are open like a phaeton, with a little seat for boys just behind the driver. The drivers all have red faces and wear beaver hats made of patent leather some of 'em white but mostly black, and even when they cheat you they're awful cheap.

Pop tried some of his French on our driver on the way and you'd ought to have seen Jules try to keep his face straight. The driver looked amused too but Pop said he understood his French better than any other man he'd found yet in France.

"Yes, sir," said Jules. "I haf no doubt. Ze coshay he is vat you call a Irrishman."

The Paris streets are fine. They're so clean you could fall down and get up cleaner than you were when you fell and everybody's as polite as a dancing master. The hotel keeper acted as if we were some long lost relatives that he knew by the strawberry marks on our arms, he was so glad to see us, and when we went up to our rooms where the rest of the party already were, we found Ma and Aunt Sarah in a gorgeous parlor with fresh flowers on the centre table, but they still had their things on.

"We don't want this do we?" said Ma.

"Why not?" said Pop. "I think it's very nice."

"But it must be a million a day," said Ma.

"Oh no," said Pop. "I fixed that. It isn't any more expensive than back rooms on the top floor of a Yonkers hotel."

"All right," said Ma, taking off her coat and hat. "If that's so, I think we'll need two more rooms."

That shows you how very cheap everything is here.

To-morrow Jules is going to take us to see Napoleon's tomb, and I'll tell you about that and other things when I write again. I'm going out now with Pop to take a bicycle ride in the Boys de Bologna which is French for Central Park.

Good bye then for the present.

Bob.

[Pg 637]

The only artificial event now remaining on the Inter-collegiate card, and on the cards of the more important interscholastic associations, is the mile walk; and there is good reason to believe that within a year or two this will be relegated, with the standing-high-jump and the high-kick and the tug-of-war, to those regions whence acrobatic performances never return. Nothing in this life is worth doing or working at unless it is for some useful purpose, or unless there is an advantage to be gained by some one in its successful accomplishment. If the man who labors at becoming proficient in the mile walk does so because he believes he can afford amusement to the crowd in the grand stand by his acrobatics, very well. It is commendable to desire to add to the gayety of nations. But if he trains at walking—I am speaking now strictly of the heel-and-toe method—because he thinks he is doing athletic work, he is deluding himself.

Nothing, however, that is said here derogatory to artificial walking, as practised by the athlete, should be construed as reflecting in any way upon natural walking. There are few exercises for the general run of men any better than walking—walking across country at a natural gait, head up, chest out, toes turned out, and arms swinging easily at the sides. Such walking is natural and healthful. "Athletic" or "heel-and-toe" walking—exaggerated stride, heel pounding, toeing in, and all that—is artificial, and of no particular benefit. It is not harmful, of course, because it is exercise, and all normal exercise is beneficial.

The true test of the value of any field or track event is that of common-sense. For instance, it is well to learn to run 100 or 220 yards at great speed, because there are frequent occasions when it is necessary to cover those distances in quick time. It is well to train for quarter-mile and half-mile running, because if one wants to go to any place distant a half a mile of so, the quickest way to get there unaided is to run. It is the same way with the mile or the three-mile run. If you come to a brook, you use your knowledge of the running broad jump to get over it—not the standing broad jump. If you want to clear a fence (to escape a bull, for instance) you try the running high jump—not the standing high jump. If it is a high wall, and you have any knowledge of the pole vault, you likewise have an advantage. Hurdle-racing teaches you to get across country fields and fences, and both the hammer and the shot events on the card give good training for emergencies that may arise.

But there is no emergency that I can think of where proficiency in the mile walk would be of the slightest service.[Pg 638] When it becomes necessary to travel a mile, running is by far the easier and the faster gait. There is no good word of any kind, so far as I know, to be said, for the mile walk. Yes, I will make one exception: it is a great thing for the digestion. I recommend it to dyspeptics! The rolling motion of the hips keeps the digestive organs in such constant exercise that they cannot become stagnant, and so perhaps for the American nation a little heel-and-toe now and then may be of value. But still, there are less acrobatic methods of helping the digestion than mile-walking.

THE ONE-MILE WALK.

From Instantaneous Photographs of Phillips, the Harvard University Walker.

2.

1.

4.

3.

6.

5.

However, so long as mile-walking is an acknowledged feature of athletic meetings, we must recognize it—with a protest—and set down here a few hints as to how to go to work to cover the ground in the most approved fashion. The muscles that require the greatest development for walking are the abdominal and the fore-thigh muscles. Training should be begun, as soon as the snow is off the ground, by taking walks across country. Begin, of course, by taking short walks, in order to inaugurate a general hardening process, and each day, when you come to a good stretch of road, try two or three hundred yards of strict heel-and-toe walking, giving especial attention to acquiring the free and rolling motion of the hips. This motion is very clearly shown in illustration No. 3. To become a successful walker it is absolutely necessary to be loose and supple about the hips. The novice will notice pains about the abdomen at first, but he need not feel in any way alarmed. He has not caught cold. He has merely set some muscles to work that are not usually called upon to exert themselves under ordinary circumstances, and for a week or two they will feel sore and lame.

After a week of general unlimbering, the walks should be extended, and distances between five and ten miles should be covered. In all this walking the athlete must train himself to set his foot down straight, for walkers may not toe out. At the end of two or three weeks begin the alternate work as has been told of in the previous papers about the running events—that is, one day take a ten-mile walk at an easy gait, and the next day take a three-mile walk as fast as you can travel, and keep this up until you are ready to go on the track. But always rest on Sunday. One day's rest out of seven is imperative.

When work on the track begins, form is the principal thing to devote your attention to. Take long, slow walks around the cinder-path, putting the feet down straight and firmly, and devote all your energy to acquiring an easy stride, and, as far as possible, a long, swinging one. Work at the hip motion until you are master of it, and train yourself in the swinging of the arms until these become a means of assistance rather than an annoyance.

The only way to acquire speed in walking is to "sprint" (not a running sprint, but a walking sprint) from 100 to 200 yards. Here again alternate work should be done, that is, walk half or three-quarters of a mile and rest; then walk half a mile one day, and on the alternate days do short sprints several times, with rests in between. Don't try to go a mile at speed until you have been at work several months. After the first couple of weeks it may be well to take a trial half or quarter on time, but this should never be done oftener than once in a week or ten days. When you have gotten into condition at the end of four or five months, try a mile on time; but thereafter never attempt to go the full distance at speed more frequently than once in ten days or two weeks.

The costume for walking is the same as for running, except that the shoes have no spikes. The heels, too, are somewhat different, being built with a slight projection of the sole at the back, so as to make the constant pounding on the heels less severe. It seems almost needless to say here that walking differs from running in that one of the athlete's feet must be constantly on the ground; he must not lift the rear toe until the forward heel has struck, and the rear knee must lock. The illustrations show the rear knee locked in every instance. By speaking of the knee as "locked," is meant that the joint is closed.

In a race it is always well to take the lead, if possible, and walk your own mile. Before going into a contest the athlete ought to know pretty well how fast he can cover his distances, and he should disregard his competitors as much as circumstances will allow. Walking has fallen somewhat into disrepute of late, because unscrupulous athletes, proficient in the heel-and-toe method, can frequently run without apparently altering their form, and when the Judge of Walking is not at their very heels they travel rapidly but unfairly over the course. But this is not sport.

In the next issue of the Round Table will appear the last descriptive paper on track athletics of the series which has been running from time to time in this Department during the past winter. The subject will be the pole vault, and the illustrations have been made from instantaneous photographs of C. T. Buchholz, the inter-collegiate champion. All the articles and illustrations of this series, with many additional pictures, have been collected, and will be published early next month in a book to be called Track Athletics in Detail. This volume will be the first of a collection of books on all branches of amateur athletic sport, to be known as "Harper's Round Table Library of Sports."

The Pittsburg I.S.A.A. has done a very wise thing in limiting the entries for its games on June 6th to two representatives from each school. But even with such a restricted field I fear it will take the officials well into the night before they can get through, for the schedule includes fifteen events. Among these we have one circus feature—the hop, step, and jump. Four of the numbers on the card are to be bicycle-races. Through some process of reasoning, which I should be interested in having explained, the Pennsylvanians have adopted a scoring system of 3 points for first place, 1 for second, and 0 for third. I refer the Pittsburg I.S.A.A. officials to this Department in the issue of March 31st, where they will find a few paragraphs on the subject of scoring by points. I think they must acknowledge the arguments offered there to be just.

The notable feature of the Trinity School games, a week ago Friday, was Hipple's performance in the mile run. His time was 4 min. 48-2/5 sec. This breaks the scholastic record of 4 min. 55-4/5 sec., made by Tappin at the Poly. Prep. games last year, and is also better than Southwick's interscholastic record of 4 min. 52 sec.

The next few weeks will be crowded with interesting events to all lovers of interscholastic sport, and we may count on hearing of smashed records from every quarter. In a little over two weeks the New York and Long Island I.S.A.A.'s will be holding their field meetings, and then will come the Inter-City games; and then, before we know it, it will be time for the National meet. Before that, however, all the interscholastic associations in the East will have held their games, and perhaps we shall be able to form some kind of opinion as to where the national championship will go. It looks now as if it would go to Boston, but this is only a very rough guess, and I do not offer it in any way as a prophecy—but merely as a suspicion.

No trophy has been provided yet for this National championship. It is very important that there should be one, and the graduates of the schools ought to bestir themselves to collect a sufficient sum of money for the purchase of a suitable cup. I am very much afraid, however, that there is no single graduate with enough enthusiasm for the welfare of school sport to devote his time and energy toward persuading others to subscribe for a trophy, and even if there were he would have such a limited time in which to exercise his efforts that he would doubtless not be able to obtain a large enough subscription for his purpose. The cup which shall represent the National Interscholastic[Pg 639] Championship ought to be as good as any of its kind, and ought to be put up for a number of years—say ten—and each year the name of the winning league should be inscribed upon it, the trophy to finally go to that association having its name upon it the greatest number of times. Further, I think that if such a cup were offered by the graduates, the National Association ought to award each year to the winning league a miniature cup of the same pattern, as a special evidence of that year's victory.

It would be far more to the interest of sport to have a valuable trophy of this kind to be contested for by the leagues, with small tokens only for individual prizes. Let the contest be among the league teams rather than among the individuals of the associations.

The tennis season is likewise upon us. Next Saturday will see the Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Columbia interscholastic tournaments in full swing. There will also be an interscholastic tournament in Chicago, and it is possible that the winner may go to Newport for the championships.

The baseball season of the New England League began last Friday, and although it is too early yet to tell much about the various teams, it looks as if there would be some pretty good ball put up this season. Both C. H. & L. and Hopkinson's, who tied last year for first place, have strong nines. Lochman, who was the best catcher in the league last year, will take first base this season, and let Columbus go behind the bat. John Clarkson is to pitch, and his brother will play third. Both are brothers of the well-known professional pitcher, and ought to have baseball blood in their veins. Saul, captain of last year's victorious football eleven, is going into the field, and is counted on to do some batting.

For Hopkinson's, Captain Dickson will hold his old position of short-stop. Stillman is to pitch, and Carlton, who played half-back on the eleven, will catch him. Hallowell, also a member of last year's eleven, will look after left field. New men mostly will be tried for the other positions.

It seems necessary to repeat that no answers can be given in these columns to anonymous correspondents.

J. E. Downing, Locust Valley, N. Y.—In training for any kind of athletic event it is best not to eat sweets or pastry of any kind; but the most important thing is to take your meals at regular hours, and not to eat between meals.

The Graduate.

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

About six months ago a 10c. Baltimore stamp on bluish paper was shown in Boston. This unique copy was badly damaged, and when offered at auction a short time ago failed to realize the reserve price of $1500 which was placed on it. The great find of St. Louis stamps in Louisville, Ky., last winter, stimulated every owner of old correspondence in that city to overhauling the same. Some good stamps were found, among them a 10c. Baltimore on white paper. This stamp has been sold to a New York collector for $4500, the largest price ever paid for a single stamp. The New Haven envelope sold for $2000, and one of the largest dealers in New York has since offered $3000 for it, or for a duplicate equally as good, but without success.

The Canadian 15c. now current has been withdrawn, and probably will not be reprinted. Collectors here, looking over their duplicates, find that they have very few copies. It will probably be scarce and advance rapidly in value.

England is about to issue stamps surcharged O. W. for the use of the officials in the "Office Works" department. As but few copies will be used, these stamps will be much sought after.

Z.—The 1872 U.S. 12c. is worth 60c.; the 24c. is worth $2; the 40 centavos Costa Rica official, $1.

C. Broodstone.—There is no duty on stamps imported into the U.S. I cannot give names of societies, officers, etc.

Normal, Ill.—Your coin is a Spanish half-dollar. They were largely used in this country before the war, and hence are quite common.

H. M. C.—The Continental note is a curiosity, but has very little monetary value. Most of the notes can be bought of dealers at 10c. to 25c. each.

Philatus.

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[Pg 640]

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

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.

Resuming our route to Buffalo, leave Richmond Hotel at Batavia, run a little south of west across the river, and keep to the right for a few rods, taking the middle fork a short distance out where three roads converge. Follow this turnpike, which is called the Buffalo road, direct to Corfu, eleven miles from Batavia; thence, following the same straight road, proceed five miles further on to Crittenden, and thence three and one-half miles further on to Peters Corners. This Buffalo road runs a little south of west almost in a straight line from Batavia to Buffalo, and it is possible to keep to it all the way into the city; but from Peters Corners on it is not in nearly as good condition as the road which is marked as the best route. Up to Peters Corners it is hard clay, level, and in dry weather makes excellent bicycle-riding. It is not so good in rain, however. The rider is advised to take the right fork at Peters Corners, and run out through Mill Grove to Bowmansville, which is seven miles from Peters Corners. From Bowmansville keep slightly to the right, and afterwards to the left over a bridge, and cross the railroad; continue on through Shultz Corners and Pine Hill to the city line, where asphalt pavement begins; thence proceed down Genesee Street to the corner of Main Street, where the rider may put up either at the Genesee or Iroquois Hotel. The distance from Batavia to Buffalo is thirty-seven miles, and if you have reached Buffalo you have done at least 461 miles since leaving New York.

For any bicyclist, whether he lives in New York, Albany, Utica, Syracuse, or Rochester, or anywhere along the route given in the last few weeks, this tour, either towards Buffalo or towards New York, is one of the best that can possibly be taken in this part of the United States. It is the long route which is most patronized by wheelmen. Consequently people are more likely to receive and more glad to see bicyclists; the hotels are more accustomed to them, and the facilities are greater than along any other route in the United States of similar length. And these stages, as given in this Department, will be well worth the study of any wheelman who has had some little experience in short runs, and who wants to spend his vacation during the coming summer by taking a somewhat more extended trip. If he runs out through Albany and over the route as explained to Buffalo, and wishes to return to New York, it will be well for him to take the route through New Jersey and Pennsylvania, which, perhaps, may be given some time in the future in the Bicycling Department. No one nowadays can find a better way to put in a two weeks' vacation than by doing some such nine-hundred-mile run as this. He need not ride every day. He may take it easily, running ninety or one hundred miles in a day, if he feels in condition for such riding, or he may stick to the thirty-mile distance marked on these charts.

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

[Pg 641]

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.

Can I tell you how to go about learning to write a story? Well, my dear Lucie, I would do so if I could, but unless the story comes to you of its own accord, I fear there is no chance of your ever being able to write it. You may acquire the art of writing essays and poetry and letters; but stories are like visits from the fairies or the angels, and they must come floating in at your open windows and doors, like flower-seeds carried by the wind. The story-writer is born, not made.

In a general way, however, there is this to be said: Let a story tell itself naturally, and do not waste your time on an introduction. Begin at the beginning, and stop when you get through. I have said before, and I here repeat the advice, to read good books. Every girl who has an ambition to write should form her style by reading the best books and thinking them over. A very good plan is to make an abstract of every book you read, and to copy parts you like into a common place-book of your own.

Now for something quite different.

I am asked by a girl friend to give my opinion about a pretty foot. Is it a short or a long foot, a broad or a narrow one, and do I recommend a particular shoe. How is one to avoid ingrowing nails, corns, and bunions?

My dear child, these painful deformities are caused, as a rule, by ill-fitting shoes. A shoe too short for the foot or a very high heel will cause an ingrowing toe-nail, a source of endless trouble and suffering. Wear low heels, and have your shoes a little longer than your feet, and you will not be troubled by bunions, which are swellings of the joints. Change your stockings very often, and bathe the feet twice a day to prevent corns. A pretty foot is a foot in the right proportion to the rest of the figure. It is not always a small foot. Indeed, a tall, large girl should not care for a foot fit only for a wee midget who needs a tiny boot and an elfin slipper. Never be ashamed of the size of your foot, but keep your shoes and boots in the nicest possible order.

Be very careful about buttons. A shoe with one or two yawning spaces where all should be neatness and trimness gives a disagreeable impression of its wearer. Whenever you can manage it, have several pairs of shoes at a time. They last much longer if relieved by one another; and when not in use keep your shoes in a box or bag away from dust, and with tissue-paper stuffed inside their toes to preserve their shape. Wear the nicest stockings you can procure. It is true economy to purchase the best foot-gear one can afford.

Margaret R. B.—I prize your beautiful little letter, and am very glad that you like Eugene Field's verses. Do you like Stevenson's Child Garden of Verse? I hope so.

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[Pg 642]

A STORY OF STRIFE.

FIRST-PRIZE STORY.

BY F. M. MACNAUGHTON.

Was Jake Lawson a coward? Well, according to Strife Settlement standards there could be but one answer to that question, for how could a boy be anything else who was afraid of the river? The river! Why, the Strife babies were almost born in it. Its roaring was the first sound they heard. It was the lullaby that hushed them to sleep, and the morning call that wakened them. Ask any Strife boy what was the first sight he remembered, and he would say the river. Ask him when he learned to swim, find ten to one he could not tell you. Every boy in Strife learned to swim very soon after he learned to walk, and thenceforth lived almost as much in the water as out. Jake, the youngest of the four stalwart sons of Lawson, the lumberman, had done as the others—bathing, swimming, fishing, paddling—-till the day when he had stood on the rocks overhanging the Big Rapid and seen his brother Jim drowned. To shoot this rapid was the ambition of every boy living within a day's journey of it, and one day Jim, then in his thirteenth year, said to eight-year-old Jake, "I am going to shoot the Big Rapid to-day, and if you want to see me you can run down to the rocks." So little Jake had trotted off, not for a moment doubting his brother's ability to successfully accomplish this or anything else he undertook. What could not Jim do? The handsome, strongly built, daring boy was the idol of the rather delicate little brother, and Jake stood on the rocks in fancy already announcing to his playmates that Jim had run the rapid, a feat not yet performed by any boy of his age. But poor Jim had undertaken a task beyond him this time, and Jake, looking helplessly down, had seen the canoe overturned and his brother swept away by the rushing, foaming waters. Once his head appeared above the current, and Jake fancied he caught an imploring look in the dark eyes, and then he remembered no more. When a Strife boy is missed he is sought by the river-side, and there Jake was finally found unconscious. A serious illness followed, and since then his dread of the river had been unconquerable.

The Lawsons mourned their son in their rough way, and when the bruised and battered body was recovered there were sad scenes in their humble home. But there were seven other children, and as time passed Jake's affliction, for so they considered it, was perhaps the greater trial. In the lumber region a boy who is not as much at home in the water as on the land is not worth much to his family, and Jake could give little or no assistance in the labor by which the family bread was gained. To his mother, who was often weak and ailing, he was of great assistance, there being as yet no grown daughter in the Lawson household; but the shame of his position preyed upon him. He knew that in the settlement he was an object of pity if not of contempt. He could fancy that the younger boys pointed at him as "that no-account Jake Lawson, skeered of the water and only fit to help women folk." And he knew that to strangers who came out to fish he was mentioned as the one boy over fifteen who had never shot the Big Rapid. He made many efforts to overcome his timidity, even "wrestling in prayer," but no help came. He used to force himself to go down to the banks of the Strife and watch the swirling, writhing, tossing waters, only to return with an access of terror. Why! the rapid seemed to him possessed of life! It was a very demon with teeth and claws, continually roaring for prey. Fierce eyes seemed to glare at him out of the foam, and shadowy arms to stretch towards him. At this stage he commonly turned and ran, only too thankful if he could gain home unobserved by the settlement boys.

He had one comfort. Education was not much thought of in the rough-and-ready backwoods family; "but bein' as Jake is so unlike other folks," said his father, "he might as well try to get a little larnin'. It's not as though we could ever make a man of him, so I don't keer so much about his spendin' his time; and they do say that book stuff sometimes comes in handy. I don't know nothin' about it, but if Jake can make a show anywhere let him get his chance." So, though the village school was six miles distant, Jake managed to attend pretty regularly for several years. The schoolmaster, who also did the little doctoring required in the settlement, took a great interest in the boy, in whom he soon discovered an unusual aptitude for study. He taught him many things not usually included in a village school course, and Jake while studying with him forgot his misery, but at home he could not get away from it. The roaring of the Strife seemed often like a voice proclaiming his cowardice. Sometimes he fancied that even strangers must hear it shouting "There goes Jake Lawson; he is a coward, coward, coward!" About this time his dream was to do some heroic deed and then die. Once owned brave, he would be too happy to live.

One afternoon he was feeling unusually depressed. A good job of lumbering at a distant drive had offered, and his brothers, with all the men able to work, had gone off gayly in the morning. Unusually good wages were offered, and old Lawson, who had been prevented from going with the others on account of a badly sprained ankle, had been unable to conceal his vexation that Jake could not join the party. He had said a few bitter words that the son could not forget, and then hobbled off to the yard. He had not been gone ten minutes when Jake heard a fall and a cry, and, rushing out, found that his father had stumbled over a log of wood, and, falling on an axe he was carrying, had made a terrible gash in his arm. By the spurting of the blood Jake knew at once that an artery had been severed. Without an instant's hesitation he tore open his father's shirt-sleeve and grasped his arm, pressing firmly against the inner edge of the biceps muscle, calling loudly at the same time for his mother. Mrs. Lawson came in haste and uttered a scream when she saw the quantity of blood that had already flowed from the cut, which was just above the elbow.

"Do not be frightened, mother," said Jake. "Father has cut himself badly, but I know just what to do. Please take the lace out of his shoe and give it to me."

The stout leather lace was handed to Jake, who bound it firmly round his father's arm above the wound, making a deep pressure, and explaining quietly to his mother, just as Dr. Barnes had to him, why this must be done. "And now, mother," said he, when Mr. Lawson had been helped into the house, "I must leave you and go for the doctor at once; but remember that the pressure must be kept up. I do not think that the bleeding will begin again, but if it does do not get frightened, but tie a fresh cord, bringing the knot just over the same place. Tilly," addressing his twelve-year-old sister, who had stood by, "help mother all you can. Keep up your courage, father. Good-by."

He snatched up his hat and hurried out. By the road it was six miles to the village, and a mile in an opposite direction to the nearest place where he might hope to get a horse. And there were many chances that the horse might be away at work. No, he must walk, and it would be over two hours before he could bring help to his father, whose situation he knew to be critical. But there was one other way. If he went by the river the swift current would land him at the doctor's door in half an hour. It must be by the river, and he resolutely took the side path leading down to the pool where the boats were kept. A thought struck him that for a moment stayed his feet. He might not get through, and then no help would reach his father. It might be his duty to take the road, after all, unless a messenger could also be sent that way. But at that moment he sighted a boy who could be sent. Benny Masters, a ten-year-old boy, and one of the swiftest runners in the village, sat idly rocking in one of the boats.

"Benny," said Jake, "will you do something for me? Father has cut himself very badly. He may bleed to death. So I am going down to the doctor's by the river; it is father's best chance, but some one ought to go by the road in case anything happens to me. Will you go right off? And if I have not reached there, bring the doctor at once, and be sure to tell him just what the trouble is. Don't wait one minute for anything."

"Be you goin' to run the Big Rapid, Jake?" said Benny, with eyes wider open than they had ever been before.

"Yes; but don't wait a moment. I'll give you my knife if I get back; now run."

Benny raced up the path, and Jake, who had meantime untied the canoe, jumped into it and pushed it from the shore. And now for a moment his courage failed him, and he made no effort to guide the canoe, but covered his face with his hands, trying vainly to shut out sight and sound. He did not fear death; he had often wished to die, and to die giving his life for another, but he feared the demon; he felt himself in the grasp of the horrible creation of his fancy, that had held him in thrall for so many years; but the boat swept round the curve that brought the Big Rapid in sight, and the deafening roar of the waters brought him to himself, and, grasping the paddle, he headed the boat for the centre of the river.

THE WATERS FOAMED AND ROARED ALL ROUND HIM.
Drawn by P. R. Goodwin, Winner of First Prize in Drawing Competition.

The Big Rapid was nearly half a mile in length, and not really dangerous to an experienced person except in one spot, about the middle of it, where an enormous bowlder rises from the river, and, dividing the current, sends it rushing to the shores, only to fall back from the rocky walls in a wave that would upset the largest boat likely to be found on the Strife. Jake had heard so much about the rapid all his life that he knew the one chance of safety lay in passing as close to the large bowlder as possible without striking on a little reef of jagged rocks that surrounded it, and he exerted all his strength to head the boat accordingly. The waters foamed and roared all round him, and the boat was tossed about like an egg-shell; but he managed to keep it right side up and headed for the rock. In a few moments he had reached it, and was being carried towards the shore by the mighty side sweep of the current. He did his best to pull across it, but his strength was as nothing against the fierce rush of the water. Once within the grasp of that foaming wave, he knew that he and the canoe would be rolling over and over, and all hope be lost, and he redoubled his efforts. It was no use; he shut his eyes, expecting all to be over in a[Pg 643] moment, when a sudden shock almost threw him out of the canoe, and, opening his eyes, he found he was again in the centre of the river. Looking back he saw he must have been struck by a side wave from an almost sunken rock, whose head he could see just above the water a few feet from the shore, and so carried out into the river again.

How he finished the run he never quite knew, but seemed to waken from a dream to find himself floating round and round in an eddy of the pool in which the rapid ended. The river was in flood at the time, and he was doubtless safely carried over many dangers, which might have beset him at low water. Fearing he had lost time, he paddled out into the current as quickly as possible, and in a few moments he ran alongside the doctor's landing. He jumped ashore at once, and, entering the little front garden, was met by Dr. Barnes himself, who exclaimed:

"Why, Jake, where did you spring from? You don't mean to tell me you came down the river?"

"Yes, sir," said Jake; "father has cut an artery, and we had to have help at once. I sent Benny Masters by the road in case I could not get through; if you meet him tell him it's all right, but would you please go as quickly as possible? I tied up his arm as you told me it should be done, but I am afraid that if the bleeding starts again mother will be frightened." Jake got out the words with difficulty. The excitement and strain of the last half-hour had been too much for him, and, his message given, he staggered and fell into the arms of the doctor, who carried him in, and, while his horse was being saddled, applied restoratives. Then, asking his housekeeper to get Jake to bed, he galloped off to Mr. Lawson's, arriving just in time to prevent serious results from the bleeding, which had recommenced in spite of Mrs. Lawson's efforts.

When Jake awoke next morning he could not understand what had happened to him. The rushing of the river sounded like music to him. He walked down to the shore half expecting that at the sight of the water the old terror would revive. But no; his burden had fallen from him; it was buried in the bright, cold waters of the Strife.

He was aroused by the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and turned round as Dr. Barnes, who had remained at Lawson's all night, rode up to the gate. He brought word that Jake's father was doing well, and wishing to see him; so, having already breakfasted, Jake started at once for home.

His mother was waiting for him on the door-step, and clasped him in her arms. She had, motherlike, always clung to the one of her children least promising, according to the accepted standards, and triumphed greatly that he had now won his spurs. His father did not say much, but grasped his hand in a way Jake never forgot, and the altered demeanor of his brothers when they returned went far to heal the wounds of the past. In fact, now that the stigma of cowardice was removed, the family began to recognize in Jake a higher type than themselves, and, advised by Dr. Barnes, who pointed as proof of his leaning that way to his coolness and nerve in dealing with his father's wound, they decided to give him an opportunity to become a doctor.

Prizes for Pen Drawings.

The Table offered three prizes of $25 each for the best stories written by Knights and Ladies of the Order. These prizes were awarded, and then a prize of $10 was offered to members who would best illustrate one of the stories. Those who wished to try for this illustration prize applied for and had mailed to them a proof, with hints about size. They were allowed to select their own subject. In order to afford them the largest possible scope proofs of all three stories were sent them. Out of three hundred who applied for proofs sixty return drawings. The best drawing received is the work of Philip E. Goodwin, aged 14, who lives in Providence, R. I. It is an illustration for "A Story of Strife," and it is now reproduced and printed with that prize story.

Although we offered but one prize, we award two others of $5 each, because two other drawings were received that seem to deserve that recognition. One is an illustration for "The Duke of Alva's Humiliation," drawn by Edmund F. Webber, New York, aged 17, and the other an illustration for "How Hector Saved the Train," drawn by Carl A. Bostrom, Washington, D.C., aged 16. Both drawings will be published with the prize stories which they illustrate.

Following are awarded honorable mention: Beverly S. King, Brooklyn; Robert Jerome Hill, Jun., Tex.; Louise C. Walter, Pittsburg; Annis Dunbar-Jenkins, Miss.; George J. Smith, Brooklyn; P. B. Greene, Philadelphia; Elizabeth Wright, Mass.; Francis Barrett Faulkner, N. H.; James Edmonds, Miss.; William O'Neill, Baltimore; and Caroline Bonsall Silves, Pa.

The prize money has been forwarded with the Table's congratulations, and all drawings returned to their owners save the three first-prize ones, which are retained for reproduction.

One may be neat and "bike" it too;
A muddy fall is naught to rue
Since Ivory Soap will soon restore
The fabric, spotless as before.

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

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THE POPULAR WORKS

OF

CAPTAIN CHARLES KING

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A WAR-TIME WOOING

A Story. Illustrated by R. F. Zogbaum. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.

LITTLE KNIGHTS AND LADIES

Verses for Young People

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

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.

[Pg 644]

A MUSICAL PAIR.

"We are a wonderful musical pair,
Our notes go sailing up into the air,
And then like rain
Come down again.
When Mr. Frog, as will be seen,
Will catch 'em all in his tambourine,
And put our notes
Back in our throats
To use once more
On another score.

"So don't be afraid to ask us to sing
A solemn song or some comic thing;
An opera grand, an opera small.
We've notes enough and to spare for all.
We can sing as high as a telegraph pole,
As deep as the hole where they keep the coal.
So step up soon
And name your tune.
Meanwhile we'll sing in our best-known manner
A line from the sweet 'Star-Spangled Banana.'"

Mamma. "Ethel, what is the matter with you? You have been jumping all day long."

Ethel. "I think it must be my spring tonic that makes me feel so."

OVERHEARD AT THE CIRCUS.

I've seen a whale that did fine tricks,
And nothing could be moister;
But what I most do wish to see 's
An educated oyster.

The monkeys race on ponies,
And the elephants all dance;
They've dogs that sing right in the ring,
And even pigs that prance.

They've boars that play at muggins, and
They've storks that know the waltz;
They've horses that stand on their heads,
A kangaroo that vaults.

But none of them, it seems to me,
The equal could be rated
Of one small shell-clad oyster that
Was really educated.

"You didn't shoot the lady through the hoop to-day," said the Hippopotamus to the Cannon.

"No," replied the Cannon. "They discharged me yesterday."

"I didn't think the Clown was very funny to-day," said the Kangaroo.

"No," replied the Hyena. "I was the only creature that laughed, and I only did it to prove that I was a real hyena."

"I had a bully time yesterday," said the Monkey.

"Did you?" replied the Giraffe. "What was it interested you?"

"What interested me? Why, looking at the children, of course! They're too funny for anything."

"Humph!" said the Elephant, "I'm going to resign from this circus."

"What's the matter?" asked the Leopard.

"I only received one pea-nut yesterday," replied the Elephant, "and that got mislaid in my trunk."

"Oh dear!" sighed the Hippopotamus. "I am so tired of this circus life. I wish some nice little boy would buy me for a pet. I'd love to sit in a little boy's lap and have him call me Fido, and let me crawl into his bed and bite his toes every morning like a puppy-dog."

"I don't see why boxes are so popular," said the Elephant, as he gazed about the arena. "I prefer a bag."

"A bag?" laughed the Hyena.

"Yes, a bag," said the Elephant. "A bag of peanuts."

"What we want is a breakfast."

The remark came from one of three very hungry young men who were aimlessly walking the streets of Paris. The other two agreed with the speaker, but wondered where the meal was to come from.

"Let us see," said the first; "a breakfast for us three will cost about ten francs. Now I have an idea, and all you've got to do is to follow me, taking the cue as I proceed."

He entered a music-store, the other two obediently following him. "I wish to sell you a song," said he to the proprietor. "My friend here will write the music, and my other friend will write the words, and I will sing it."

The proprietor looked at him in astonishment, but agreed to listen to the song, and, if it had any merit, to purchase it. Finally it was completed, and the young man sang it.

"Humph! it isn't much of a song, but I'll give you fifteen francs for it," said the proprietor.

"Done!" cried all three young men in a breath.

Alfred de Musset was the author, Hippolyte Maupon the composer, and Gilbert Duprez was the singer. The song was entitled, "Connaissez-vous dans Barcelone," and it had a great success, netting the publisher forty thousand francs.

"Suffer much through the winter, Mr. Froggy?"

"No; always spring-time with me. Ta, ta!"