[Pg 917]

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

TIMID COUSIN VIC.

BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.

To tell the story of Will Hall's trip to the tropics may seem like telling dangerous secrets and getting people into trouble. But there is this to be considered about it: If the Spaniards catch Will's father, they will shoot him, anyhow; so it can do no harm to admit that Henry Hall, who is Will's father, and David Hall, who is Will's uncle, are engaged in the perilous business of carrying patriots across from the Florida Keys to the Cuban coast.

Will has nothing whatever to do with this business, for he is a school-boy in New York, storing his mind with regular and irregular verbs, and a vast amount of information about football and '96 pneumatic tires. So when his father took him down in the schooner to the Florida Keys to visit Uncle David, Will had no idea that ten days after leaving New York he would be crawling through a Cuban thicket, dodging Spanish soldiers.

Matacumbia Key, at the very tip of Florida, where Uncle David lives with his daughter Vic, is a long way from New York, and Will had never seen either of them, and, of course, had never seen their house on the beach, with the whole Florida Strait for a front yard, and nothing between their shady piazza and the Cuban coast but eighty miles of salt water.

"There ought to be some sport down there," he told the boys before he started. "Plenty of boating and fishing, you know, and cocoanut-trees, with monkeys in them, I suppose, and maybe some sharks to kill. Lonesome, though. You see, there ain't many people, and my cousin Vic is only[Pg 918] fourteen. A little country girl of fourteen can't be much company for a New York chap nearly sixteen."

There was sport in plenty, but not exactly the kind that Will expected. The "little country girl" took her cousin in hand in a way that astonished him, and would have made him miserable if the Cuban adventure had not given him a chance to show what he was made of.

At first Vic was shy—painfully shy. She kept her eyes cast down, and only answered "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," when Will spoke to her.

"I think I can bring her out after a while," he said to himself. "Of course she'd be a little timid at the start, 'specially with a fellow from a big place like New York. She's a pretty girl, too."

About that there could be no doubt. Vic was large for her age, and the tan on her round cheeks tried to hide their natural pink, but did not quite succeed. When her work was done (for, being motherless, she was cook and house-keeper), she generally put on her boating-suit of blue flannel, which was as good as a bathing-suit, and it did not interfere when she chose to wade out to her pet sharpie, anchored just off the beach.

The fathers were busy with their schooner, and with the men camped in the bush waiting to be carried over to Cuba, and Will and Vic were left to their own resources.

"Can you shoot?" Vic asked one morning, very timidly, hardly raising her eyes.

"Rather!" Will exclaimed. "I wish I'd brought my gun along."

"I have a rifle," Vic said, and ran into the house and brought the rifle and a box of cartridges.

Will measured off thirty paces, and stood a big cocoanut on top of a stump.

Vic handled the rifle as if she were afraid of it, and took the first shot. The cocoanut did not stir. Then Will fired without hitting. After three or four rounds Will's bullet grazed the side of the nut, and he was duly elated.

"You'll be all right with more practice," he told her. "I've practised a great deal in shooting-galleries."

"I think the mark is too low for me," she answered, with becoming humility. "Pin a bit of paper to that tree beside the stump, about as high as your head."

Will pinned up a scrap of paper half the size of his hand, and they fired several rounds without touching it. Then Vic started toward the house with the rifle.

"Not going to give it up, are you?" he called. But her only answer was "Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five"—she was pacing. When she reached "one hundred," she stopped and turned—one hundred paces from the tiny mark.

"You stand there by the tree," she called, "and see whether I can hit the old thing from here."

Will laughed, and obeyed. Crack! went the rifle.

"Why," he cried, "you've hit it right in the centre! I don't suppose you could do that again in a week!"

"I'll try," Vic answered, and fired again.

"Well, upon my word!" Will shouted. "You've hit it again! What a remarkable accident!"

Vic fired again, and made a third hole in the paper.

That time Will did not say a word. He began to suspect something. Vic fired twice more, and made two more holes. The first hole was right in the centre, and the other four made a neat little circle around it.

"All right, Cousin Vic," Will said, as he handed her the paper; "I owe you one. You're a dead shot with a rifle, and you've been making a beautiful guy of me."

But Vic only laughed, and looked as timid as ever.

Next morning the sky was overcast, and Will suggested a sail in Vic's sixteen-foot sharpie.

"Don't you think it's rather rough?" she asked, looking doubtfully from the sky to the water. "Do you think it would be safe?"

"Safe as a house!" Will answered, decidedly. "You needn't be afraid; I'm an old hand with a boat."

After some hesitation Vic consented, and even determined that she had better sail the boat herself, as she was more used to the rigging.

"All right," Will gallantly said. "If anything happens I can swim enough for both of us."

The water was so much rougher than it looked from shore that Will began to feel uneasy about having a girl at the helm. They were a mile from the house, bobbing up and down on the waves like a cork in a mill-race, when Vic said they had gone far enough, and put the tiller suddenly hard down.

"Look out! Ease her up!" Will shouted; but it was too late. The sharpie went over like a flash, and they were both thrown into the water.

Vic went down instantly, and then came up with her arms waving wildly.

"Help! help!" she cried, and the next instant she disappeared again.

Will was holding on to the slender foremast, but he let go and sprang toward his cousin. When she came up again he seized her.

"Now do as I tell you, or we'll both drown," he said, as calmly as he could. "Don't grab me, but put one hand on my back and let yourself float."

She did as he told her, and he struck out toward the boat, and soon righted it, for Will was an excellent swimmer. Vic seemed limp as a rag, but he put her hands on the gunwale, and told her to hold on there while he baled out the water, and then he climbed in and helped Vic in over the stern.

"Take me home," she muttered, leaning helpless against the side, and Will headed the boat for the beach.

"Oh, Will!" she said, when they were nearly back, "how can I ever thank you for saving my life?"

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed; "that was nothing. You know I told you I am a pretty good swimmer."

"A minute more—" she gasped; then her feelings overcame her, and she buried her face in her hands.

When the boat was anchored, Vic waded ashore, and ran toward the house very spryly for a girl who had been so weak a few minutes before. The two fathers had returned, and were sitting on the piazza, and when Vic ran up the steps, laughing, Will thought it was because she wished to make as light as possible of her danger.

"Now, Mary Victoria Hall," her father said, much to Will's surprise, "you've got to stop that sort of thing. I saw that little caper out in the boat, and I'm not going to have you playing such tricks on your cousin. You must look out for this girl, Will, as she is the worst tease in Florida. There is not a better sailor than she in all the Keys, and nothing could upset her unless she chose. Why, she sails that sharpie fifteen miles to school every day in winter, and she knows every rock and reef. She tipped you over purposely, to give you a ducking."

"Why, Uncle David—" Will interrupted.

"Nothing else," Mr. Hall went on; "and as to drowning, you might as well try to drown a duck. She swam out to the Alligator Light, twenty miles, when she was only twelve years old. She has been making game of you, that's all."

"You see," Vic's father continued, "she is left alone here so much, while I am away sponging and fishing, that I had to teach her to take care of herself. But I don't want her to be playing her pranks on you just because you live in a city and ain't used to girls who are good sailors and good rifle-shots."

Vic looked very meek while her father was talking, but Will saw that she was ready to laugh at any minute. When he went into the house to change his clothes he was almost ready to admit that his trip to the Keys was a dismal failure. That a crack football-player, an expert bicycler, a leader in all the sports in a big school in the greatest city in the country, should be outdone in everything by a little country girl who looked as meek as a lamb, and be the butt of her jokes, was enough to make him feel uncomfortable. Two days after Will's gallant rescue of his cousin from no danger at all, he and Vic were left alone. Their fathers had sailed for Cuba in the schooner, with eighty men and hundreds of cases of ammunition. If all went well, they would be back from Cuba the following night. But if all did not go well? The cousins knew that any slight mishap might bring trouble into both families, and they were unusually quiet.

[Pg 919]

At nine o'clock in the morning Will went out on the piazza, and the white appearance of the water surprised him. So did the wind, coming in a steady sweep from the northward, cooling the air, and churning the Florida Strait into foam. Vic soon joined him, looking anxiously from water to sky and sky to water, and shook her head.

An hour later he found her pacing the piazza, looking very much troubled. The wind had increased, and the water was wild and furious.

"It is a norther," she said, "and a bad one. I don't see why it had to come to-day."

"It is a fair wind to carry them to Cuba," Will suggested.

"It is just the wind to drive them on the rocks and wreck them," Vic retorted. "They will certainly try to land to-night, and they have only one little boat. That would be nothing among all those men."

She took two or three more turns up and down, and then stopped.

"I am going to cross the straits in my sharpie, Will," she said. "If anything happens to them the sharpie may be of great assistance. It is the best little sea-boat I know of."

"To cross to Cuba, you mean?" Will asked, without showing any great surprise.

"Yes," she answered. "It is only eighty miles, and I can make it before dark. I have made longer voyages than that."

"It will be a nice little sail," Will laughed. "If you happen to meet a Spanish cruiser, you might capture her and bring her home."

He was on his guard for another practical joke, and did not intend to be caught. But Vic walked up to him and seized his arm with a very earnest grip.

"Don't think I am trying to play another trick on you, Will," she said, "for I am not. You don't know what danger this storm puts both our fathers in. I may be able to help them, and I am going to try."

Her earnest manner left no doubt that she meant what she said, and Will became serious.

"I don't know whether a small boat can live in that sea," he said, "but if you start for Cuba, I am going with you."

Vic was not prepared for such an answer as this; but she had known Will only for a few days. Any of his schoolmates could have told her that where there was real danger to be faced he would be at the front. She protested against his going, for she knew the peril of such a trip in so small a boat; but Will was firm as a rock, and even while she urged him to stay behind he waded out to the sharpie and began to make it ready.

"If your father is in danger," he said, "so is mine. You know I am going if you go, so what's the use of talking?"

That eighty-mile sail across the Florida Strait in a raging storm is one of the things that Will cannot be induced to talk much about. It is a sort of nightmare to him. There was not only the physical danger, which was serious enough, but there was the chance that their fathers might land safely, and then blame them severely for undertaking such a voyage.

Vic had put a jug of water and a box of biscuits under the stern seat, and she took the tiller as a matter of course. Will was kept busy baling out the water, which came over the sides in a fury of spray. But Vic knew that that spray was all in their favor. The force of the wind was so great that it kept the sea down by sweeping off the crests of waves, though it made an appalling smother of foam.

If a boy can sit with his heart in his throat for nearly nine hours at a stretch, Will Hall did it that day. In a few hours the spray made crusts of salt upon both their faces, and in the furious gale talking was almost impossible. But through it all Vic kept the little sharpie headed due south, for she knew that the schooner would try to land just to the eastward of Cardenas.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, with the mountains of Cuba looming up bold before them, they passed a broken mast floating on the water, weighted with torn and knotted rigging. They could not go near enough to make sure whether it was part of the schooner or not. But it looked serious.

Two hours later they were in behind the reefs, and then the doubt was settled. All around them, in the comparatively smooth water, floated wreckage from some vessel that had gone to pieces, and the fragments of white-painted planks told the melancholy story.

"We must lie alongshore till dark," Will declared, "and then make a search, for they may be in hiding. I still have hopes that they may have escaped from the schooner. Then the next thing will be to escape from the Spaniards, and there we can help them with the sharpie."

Somehow it was Will who was in command now of the relief expedition. On the water Vic was confident of herself; but when the danger was from the Spanish coast-guard, she looked naturally to Will for directions.

About eight o'clock the darkness came rapidly and they started inland to search for tidings, leaving the sharpie hidden among the bushes on the shore of a little inlet. It was a desolate part of the coast, and so far they had not seen a living person. Will picked up a stout piece of driftwood for a club.

"If there is a house anywhere in the neighborhood, we must find it," he said. "The people will know whether any one was saved from the wreck. They will most likely be Cubans, and therefore friends. Keep your eyes and ears open, Vic, for we must dodge the Spaniards."

Hardly anything could have been more hopeless than such a search made by a boy and girl who knew nothing of the country, nothing of the language, but groped their way in pitch darkness through a dense forest. But they were Americans, and both knew that the sharpie might mean escape from death for their fathers, if their fathers were not already drowned. Presently they discovered a path and followed it, tripping over roots and rocks, stumbling, scratching their faces with thorns.

"Oh, Will!" Vic exclaimed, after a collision with a sharp cactus. "I can't go any further. I don't know what to do!" And she began to cry.

"Don't think of yourself at all, Vic," Will urged. "I can take care of you. Maybe your father is hiding in these very woods, and our boat may save him. We can't go back and desert them. We must push on and find somebody, even if it is a Spanish soldier. Hist!"

The prospect of finding a Spanish soldier was nearer than he thought, for the words were hardly out of his mouth before they heard the sound of men tramping through the bushes.

As they stood and listened the sounds grew nearer—sounds of many feet, and words of command in Spanish.

"Come away from the path!" Will whispered, and seizing Vic's arm, he drew her into the underbrush, and on hands and knees they crawled away from the danger.

In a moment more the soldiers passed; thousands of them, they thought, by the sound, but in reality something less than a hundred. When Will and his cousin resumed their feet they could not find the path. To add to their troubles, they were lost in the Cuban forest.

How long they struggled through the sharp bushes they did not know till afterward; but when they stopped it was because a stone wall stood in their way—the stone wall of a small cabin. Will felt his way along the wall till he found the door, but it was shut and locked. He rapped, but there was no response.

"I am afraid it is deserted," he said; "but maybe we can get in to wait for daylight."

Again he rapped at the door, and softly called: "Hello! Let us in! We are Americans and friends."

Suddenly the door opened, and a familiar voice answered. "Will Hall, how do you come to be here?"

"What's that?" said another voice inside; and Will and Vic needed no further telling that their fathers were found.

In another minute they were inside the dark cabin, and the door was barred.

"Where is your boat?" both the men asked, almost in the same breath.

"Down by the shore," Will answered, "hidden in the bushes."

[Pg 920]

"Then you have pulled us out of a tough scrape," said Vic's father. "Twice we have narrowly escaped capture, and we expected to be taken before daylight."

After the wreck of the schooner they and all the men had reached shore safely, and the men had gone on into the mountains. But the small boat was stove, and the two Americans were in a trap. They had found the cabin, and hidden there from the Spanish guard.

Vic leaned heavily upon her father when they started for the boat; and before they reached the shore he and Will were carrying her, for her strength was gone.

"No wonder she is used up," said Will, as the boat beat out to the eastward, tacking tediously toward the American coast; "no wonder, after all she has been through. But how she kept up till we found you! She is the bravest girl in Florida, Uncle David. Our coming after you was all her doing."

Whatever the others said about Will's share in the rescue, it was enough to warrant him in saying, as he does when the boys begin to talk about the Cuban war: "Yes, I've had a little hand in that thing myself. So has my Cousin Vic."

HOW MAGIC IS MADE.

BY HENRY HATTON.

VI.

(Conclusion.)

"How does Professor —— cause a handkerchief to leave a decanter which he holds in his hand, and appear in another at a distance?" writes a correspondent.

Well, that depends on who the "Professor" is. One man, who says he would as lief receive a slap in the face as to be called Professor, does a trick somewhat like it in this way:

Two water-bottles, or carafes, the kind with large round bottoms and wide necks, are used. Concealed in his right hand this man has a red silk handkerchief folded into small compass. One of the carafes he proceeds to wrap in a large handkerchief, holding it mouth downward for this purpose, and it is while so wrapping it that he pops the concealed handkerchief into the mouth of the bottle, which he stands, covered, on the table. So much for getting the handkerchief in.

FIG. 1.

Running up his right sleeve is a fine strong cord; this goes across his back and out of the left arm hole of his vest, and ends in a loop which reaches nearly to his waist. At the end of the cord by the right hand is a piece of fine black sewing-silk, which is fastened into the eye of a strong, short needle, and this needle is bent[1] into the form of a double-jointed hook, as shown in Fig. 1. In this shape it will not catch in the sleeve.

As the man is returning to his stage after showing the second carafe and handkerchief to the audience, he attaches the hook to the latter. Then he pushes it well down into the carafe, using his wand for the purpose. Taking the carafe around the neck with his right hand, so that the mouth is almost at his wrist, he swings it back and forth, and then counting "One—two—three!" slips his left thumb into the loop, and at the word "three," gives a sharp jerk, and the handkerchief flies up his sleeve. As he stands with his right side toward the audience, and all eyes are fixed on the carafe, the movement of the left hand and arm is not noticed. The carafe which is on the table is now uncovered, and most of the audience, seeing the handkerchief, imagine it is the same one that was in the bottle, and that in some way inexplicable to them it has passed invisibly from one place to the other.

Another performer pursues a different method. When he comes on the stage, he too has a handkerchief concealed in his right hand, but it is already fastened to the thread attached to the cord which goes up the sleeve. This cord is connected with what is known as a spring-barrel—that is, a heavy coiled steel spring in a brass box, very much like a spring tape-measure.

He holds the carafe in his left hand, to show that it is empty, and then reaching with his right to the tail pocket of his coat, he pretends to take out the handkerchief, which he shows. This he pushes with a forefinger and his wand into the carafe. The spring-barrel is under his vest at the left side, and when it is time for the handkerchief to leave the carafe, a gentle pressure with the left-hand fingers on the button of the spring-barrel sets the cord in motion, and sends the handkerchief whizzing up his sleeve.

The spring makes a great noise, and to conceal this the man calls out, "One! two! three!—go!" shouting the last word, and accompanying it by a stamp of the foot and a crash at the piano, which is deafening.

The second carafe stands uncovered on a table, and has a small hole drilled in its bottom. The duplicate handkerchief which is to make its appearance in the carafe is arranged as follows: The centre is gathered into a point, and through this is run one end of a long double black thread. Both ends of this thread are led inside the neck of the carafe and out through the hole in the bottom, and again through a corresponding hole in the table, to the hands of an assistant, who is beneath the stage. The handkerchief hangs at the back of the table, where it cannot be seen by the audience. When it is to appear in the carafe, the hidden assistant gives a strong and quick pull on both ends of the thread, and the handkerchief flies so quickly into the carafe that it is impossible for the eye to follow it. When it is once inside the bottle the assistant pulls on one end of the thread, and thus soon pulls it through. The handkerchief is now detached, and may be taken out of the bottle to convince the audience that it is in no wise connected with any string.

Such wonderful tales are told by travellers of the feats of Indian magicians that many believe them to be more than human. I have never been to India, but two very clever conjurers who visited that country, the late Robert Heller and Samri Baldwin, have assured me that they have never seen anything but the most commonplace tricks performed there. I, for one, believe them, for they understood every move that was made, and could not be deceived. Some years ago a theatrical manager introduced a company of Indian jugglers at his theatre, but their tricks were so transparent that they did not succeed in creating any great impression on the public.

More recently a troupe of these wonderful jugglers visited us, and appeared at the Chicago Exposition and in other places through the country. They did the famous trick of putting a man in a basket and apparently making him disappear. It was very bad, and yet Dr. Hodgson, of Boston, who visited India in the interest of the London Psychical Society, says it was done exactly as it is done in India. One really clever trick they did which has as yet not been explained, and that I shall make plain.

THE HINDOO BOAT.

"The Hindoo Boat," a block of wood roughly hewed into the shape of a boat was shown. It was hollowed out[Pg 921] inside. Near the bow was a cross-piece having a hole in the centre, and in this was inserted a hollow mast. The other end of this mast was stuck into a hole made in a cocoanut, which had been cleaned out inside. Below the centre of the cocoanut was another hole smaller than the one which admitted the mast.

The performer filled the body of the boat with water from a pitcher, splashing it about his table, and making a great muss. He also filled the cocoanut. Then at the word of command the water flowed or stopped flowing from the hole at E. As the performer stood at a distance from the boat, he had evidently no connection with it, though every control over it.

The secret lies in the fact that the boat was pierced near the bottom with another hole, F, which allowed the water slowly to trickle out. As soon as enough had escaped to bring the water below the cross-piece, the air would rush up the hollow mast, and the water would be forced out of the hole E. This would soon fill the boat again, and as soon as that happened the flow would cease. The performer had only to watch the water in the boat, and be guided by that in giving his commands. It is nothing more than the old story of the Tantalus cup in a new form.

A stage illusion which will compare favorably with the Hindoo tricks is the one known as "Flyto." In this a human being disappears from a large wooden cage which seemingly can conceal no one, and reappears in another cage which is swinging in the air.

THE FIRST CAGE.

The first cage, or "cabinet," as it is called, is about seven feet high from bottom to top, and stands on slight legs, so that the spectator may look under it. It is hexagon in shape, and is made up, front, back, and sides, of doors. These doors are of slats placed about two inches apart, so that the audience can look in and through the entire cabinet. Inside the doors are red curtains on spring rollers. The background of the stage, or flat, is covered with green cloth, and the same material is on the floor of the stage. Outside on the top of the cabinet are four chains uniting in the centre in a ring.

When the cabinet is first brought out the inner curtains are pulled down. The cabinet is run down toward the foot-lights, and turned completely around so that all sides may be seen. It is then pushed well back on the stage, four of the doors are thrown open, and all the curtains are run up. The audience can now see through every part. The curtains are pulled down and the doors are closed.

A girl dressed in a fantastical costume comes on the stage and enters the cabinet. She is hardly inside when the performer again throws open the doors, and a tall man in military dress is seen inside. The girl has gone. The curtains are run up, but nothing is to be seen of the missing girl, and certainly there is no place to conceal her. The military gentleman pulls down the curtains, steps out of the cabinet, closes the door, and with the help of the performer once more rolls the cabinet towards the foot-lights. A rope is let down from the flies, fastened to the ring on top of the cabinet, and the machine is hoisted into the air.

In the mean time the girl, or some one like her, has come down the centre aisle of the theatre and mounted the stage.

THE SECOND CAGE.

A second cabinet, exactly like the first but a trifle smaller, is rolled on the stage, and this the young lady enters. No sooner are the doors closed than the performer cries out, "Where are you?" "Here," comes the answer; the curtains fly up in the swinging cabinet, and there stands the girl. The doors of the second cabinet are opened, but it is empty.

As my readers may surmise, there are two girls in this trick as well as two cabinets. While it is not always possible to find twin sisters so like that you cannot "tell one from both," these girls in their dress and make up must look as much alike as possible. When the first cabinet is rolled on the stage the "soldier" is inside, but, as you will remember, the curtains are down. As soon as the cabinet is placed in position at the back of the stage Mr. Soldierman steps out of the back door and stands on the ledge.

The two back doors are furnished on the outside with green curtains of the same shade as the background and the stage covering, and herein lies the whole secret of the trick, for the audience do not see through those doors, but merely think they do.

When the girl enters the cabinet she changes places with the soldier. Afterward when the curtains are down and the doors closed she re-enters the cabinet, where she remains till she releases the curtains when she is swinging aloft. With some slight modifications the trick might be arranged for the drawing-room.

Most of the cabinet tricks shown on the stage depend on a back door. One magician has used it for many years, and showed considerable ingenuity in the way in which he managed to introduce the person who was to produce the "manifestations." My reader must not understand by this that he was aided by a second person in all his cabinet manifestations. When he was tied with ropes and placed in the cabinet all the manifestations that took place there were produced by him without assistance from any one. In such cases he simply releases one hand, having secured slack while he was being tied up by the committee, and with this one hand he rings the bells, shakes the tambourines, and "raises ructions" generally. Later on, when he ties himself up and re-enters the cabinet, he is tied in such a way that he can free both hands, and is enabled to take off his own coat and put on some other man's, and do all the other "two-hand acts."

Lately he has taken to building his cabinet in full view of the audience so that there may be no possibility of concealing any one in it. He brings out a platform mounted on legs with heavy casters, puts up the back and sides, which are hinged together, and screws them in place; then adjusts the front in which are the doors. Gradually[Pg 922] in the process of putting this together the cabinet is pushed about until for a moment it backs against the "flat." That moment is not lost, for the one who is to produce the manifestations steps through the scene on to the ledge back of the cabinet, and there clings. No sooner is the front up and secured than he enters by the back door. The cabinet is now turned around, and when it is again in position well "up stage," its occupant once more takes his place on the back ledge. Now the doors are opened and closed. The man re-enters, rings the bells, blows the horns, knocks over the chairs, and while the clatter is at its height, escapes to the back again just as the doors are opened for the last time.

The performer bows. The curtain falls.

Note.—Articles on this subject have appeared in the following numbers of the Round Table: Nos. 844, 852, 862, 866, 869.

CROSSING THE XUACAXÉLLA.

BY CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS, U. S. A.

CHAPTER II.

he following day we were delayed so that we did not begin our journey until three o'clock. When we drove away, as long as we were in sight of the post, Frank and Henry looked back at Vic, who was straining at a cord which held her to a hinge of the great gates, uttering dismal canine lamentations at being left. The pleasure of their excursion seemed to be marred at the outset by the absence of their constant companion and pet.

At the time of which I write there were but two wagon roads out of Prescott—one through Fort Whipple to the northeast, and one to the north. We took the latter, pursuing it along the east side of Granite Range for eight miles, when we passed through a rugged notch in the range to Mint Creek, where the road made an acute angle, and followed a generally southerly direction to La Paz.

We halted for the night at the creek, fifteen miles from the fort. Our ambulance was provided with four seats—one in front for the driver, fixed front and rear seats in the interior, with a movable middle seat, the back of which could be let down so that it fitted the interval between the others, and afforded a comfortable bed. On the rack behind were carried the bedding, provisions, ammunition, and cooking utensils, and beneath the hind axle swung a ten-gallon keg.

While supper was being prepared the boys wandered about the camping-place in search of the mint which gave the creek its name, and in a fruitless hunt for some ducks they had seen settle in the reeds. Clary called them to supper, and they joined me around a blanket where our soldier meal was spread. While we were sugaring and stirring our coffee the cook stood by the fire holding two long rods in his hands, upon the ends of which were slices of bacon broiling before the glowing coals. Suddenly he exclaimed:

"Look there, b'ys!—look there!" raising and pointing with both sticks and the rashers of bacon toward the cane grass behind us.

There in its very edge sat Vic, winking her eyes and twitching her ears deprecatingly, plainly in doubt as to her reception.

"Stop, boys! Keep quiet!" I said, to prevent a movement in her direction. "Vic, you bad girl, how dared you follow me?"

No reply; only a slow closing and opening of the eyes, and an accompanying forward and backward movement of the ears.

"Go home! Go!"

The setter rose, dropped her head, and, turning dejectedly, disappeared with drooping tail in the tall grass. Both boys exclaimed at once:

"Don't drive her off, sir! Poor little Vic."

"Well, go and see if you can coax her back. If she returns with you she may go."

The boys ran eagerly into the grass, and soon I heard them soothing and pitying the dog, telling her it was all right and she could go. But it was evident she doubted their authority to give her permission to join us, for Henry presently came running towards me.

"She won't come, sir. She keeps moving slowly back in the direction of the fort. She looks so sorry and so tired. Only think how badly she feels, and it is a long distance to Whipple. Can't she stay with us until morning?"

"Then she will not come in with you?"

"No. She has always followed me unless you told her not to. She never disobeys you."

"But she followed me here; that looks very much like disobedience."

"Did you tell her not to come?"

"No; I forgot to."

"Did she hear you tell Hoey to tie her to the gate?"

"No. He was in my room at the time, and the dog was with you at the corral."

"Then she's not to blame, sir. She's a military dog, and never disobeys orders."

"But how guilty she looked!"

"I do not think it is guilt that made her look so. If you had given her a positive order not to come she would have staid without being tied. She had expected to go, and she is terribly sorry at being left. She thinks there has been a mistake, and came out to see about it."

"Perhaps you are right, Henry. She's certainly obeying orders now and going back."

"Yes, sir, and in spite of our coaxing her to stay."

"I'll let her go with us. Let us try an experiment. You know some people believe dogs understand what people say."

"Yes, sir; I know Vic does."

"I'll speak to her without altering my tone of voice. Now watch. Here, Vicky, little girl, you may go with us."

Out of the reeds, bounding in an ecstasy of delight, came Vic. She sprang about me, then about the boys, the soldiers, and animals, and then approached the fire and looked for her share of the supper. It was settled in her dog mind that she was going with us.

We resumed our journey the next morning with the first crack of dawn, and rode to Skull Valley. The first section of the road ran through a rough, mountainous, and wooded country. At the end of twenty miles it entered a level valley, which gradually broadened into a wide plain which had been occupied by settlers for farms and cattle ranges. I was well acquainted with the people, and called at the log house of a Mr. Sage to make inquiries about the horse-thieves, and to purchase some eggs for our next camp.

As the ambulance rattled up to the door two young women appeared, whom I recognized as Mrs. Sage and Mrs. Bell. To my inquiry for her husband Mrs. Sage replied that he and Mr. Bell had left for La Paz eight days before, and were expected home that day.

"Sorry he is not here," I said; "I wanted to inquire about two horse-thieves who probably passed through the valley two weeks ago."

"A Mexican and a white man?" asked Mrs. Sage, making a distinction in complexion rather than in race.

"Yes; the first rode a cream-colored pony, and the last a black—the property of these boys."

"They were here to breakfast; arrived before we were up. The Greaser wanted to swap his saddle for a Mexican saddle, but husband wouldn't swap, so he bought it."

"Did he leave the one he brought, Mrs. Sage?" asked Henry.

"Yes; it's hanging on a peg beside the door in the linter."

Both boys ran to the lean-to and presently returned with Henry's neat McClellan saddle. It had been stripped of its pouches and small straps, but was otherwise unharmed.

"What shall I pay you for this?" asked the boy.

"Oh, nothing! It cost us nothing, and I make no charge for storage. If it's any use to you, take it."

"I wonder why Jumping Jack took off all the trimmings, sir?" said Henry to me.

"Oh, I forgot to mention," said Mrs. Sage, "that the saddle[Pg 923] the Greaser bought had nothing on it, so he shifted everything off of this to that."

"Well, I'll shift everything back if we catch him, and when I come back I'll call and report. Thank you for the saddle."

"You are entirely welcome to your property, I'm sure. Shall be glad to see you enjoying your pony when you return."

The saddle was placed in the ambulance, and after buying some eggs and vegetables we started, the boys expressing their satisfaction at the result of our call, and feeling sanguine that we were on the trail of the thieves. We left the valley by a steep ascent into a mountainous range, and had proceeded but a short distance through a narrow and rugged roadway when we were overtaken by the military expressman whom we had left at Fort Whipple. He had come from Prescott to Skull Valley by a short cut.

"I have a letter for you, Lieutenant," said he, approaching the ambulance.

Unfastening the mail-pouch, he turned its contents upon the back seat. A heap of loose letters and three well-worn books strewed themselves over the cushion. Frank picked up the books and examined their titles.

"Xenophon's Memorabilia, Euripides' Alcestis and Medea, a Greek grammar!" exclaimed the astonished youngster. "What are you doing with these college text-books on the La Paz trail?"

"Making up conditions," replied the courier, a blush deepening the brown of his face.

"What are conditions?" asked Henry.

"Oh blissful ignorance! Why was I not spared the task of enlightening it?" answered the courier. "Conditions are stumbling-blocks placed in the way of successful rowing men and footballists by non-appreciative college professors."

"'Joseph Gould Baldwin, University of Yalvard,'" read Frank from the fly-leaf of the Memorabilia. "Is that your name, Mr. Baldwin?"

"I'm so borne on the catalogue."

During this conversation the letter had been handed to me, but I held it unopened in my hand while I listened.

"Please explain, Mr. Baldwin," I said, "how a college-boy happens to be in Arizona running the gauntlet of this mail route and making up conditions in Greek?"

"I was stroke in the celebrated crew that won the championship for Yalvard at New London a year ago, and got behind in these. I was conditioned, and being ashamed to go home, struck out for myself on the Pacific coast. I drifted about from mining-camp to cattle ranch until I was dead broke. This place offered, and I took it because I could find nothing else. I've had lots of opportunities for reflection on the Xuacaxélla. I'm the repentant prodigal going home to his father."

"Oh, you are no prodigal, Mr. Baldwin," observed Henry. "We've heard about you; you are too brave."

"Thank you, Henry. No; I've not wasted my substance in riotous living, nor eaten husks; but I've been prodigal in wasting opportunities."

"Lost a whole college year, haven't you?" I asked.

"I hope not. There is a German university man at La Paz who has been coaching me. He thinks I can go on with my old class. This is my last trip, and after I am paid off I am going to work hard for a few months, and then return to New Havbridge for examination. There's something in that letter which concerns me."

Opening the letter, I learned that Captain Bayard knew Mr. Baldwin's story. He said this was to be the last trip of the courier, but that after his return to La Paz he would come out to meet me at Tyson's Wells, and report whether the horse-thieves were in town. He also suggested that in establishing a transshipment store-house at the steamboat-landing I place Baldwin in charge. The pay would be of use to him while "making up."

I SAW HIM FIRE THREE SHOTS FROM HIS CARBINE IN RAPID SUCCESSION.

Baldwin wished us a pleasant journey, and rode away at a scrambling canter up the pass. He had been gone but a few moments when my advance-guard shouted for me to look out. Doing so, I saw the courier standing on a pinnacle by the way-side, on the highest point of the road. He was looking in the opposite direction, and I saw him fire three shots from his carbine in rapid succession. I dismounted the men, and made the necessary preparation to meet an attack. Slowly we worked up the height, and when we reached the narrow level at the summit found Baldwin and the two soldiers that formed our advance occupying a shelter among the rocks to the left, and gazing down the opposite slope.

"What is it, Baldwin?" I asked.

"A party of Indians attempted to jump me here. I think they would have done it, too, but for the sudden appearance of Clary and Hoey. There they go now—across that opening in the sage-brush!"

A dozen Indians dashed across an open space south of the road, but too far away for effective shooting, and then two more passed over supporting a third between them.

"You must have hit one of them."

"I tried to. I think another felt the sting of a bullet, from the way he flung himself about."

"Are you hurt?"

"A slight scratch on the arm near the shoulder, and my horse is hurt."

An examination of Baldwin's arm proved that the scratch was not serious, but I thought it best to exchange his horse for one belonging to a soldier. We went on, Frank and I walking in advance of the ambulance leaders.

"There's something down there in the road by Ferrin's grave, sir," said Corporal Duffey. "Looks like a dead man."

"Is this where Ferrin was killed?" I asked.

"Yes, sir; I came here with a detail to look him up. He had built a little stone fort on that knoll up yonder and kept the redskins off four days. He kept a diary, you remember, which we found. He killed six of them; but they got him at last. They scattered the mail in shreds along the road for miles."

"Who was Ferrin?" Frank asked.

"He was a discharged California volunteer who rode the express before Mr. Baldwin."

"Do you think Mr. Baldwin knew his predecessor had been killed?"

"Yes; the story is well known. You boys were down at Postal's ranch when it happened."

"I can't see why Mr. Baldwin took the place. If we had not been along he would have been killed to-day."

"No doubt of it."

We were nearing the object in the road. Suddenly the mules caught sight of it, backed, and crushed the ten-gallon keg under the axle against a bowlder; a serious mishap as our after-experience will show. Walking on we came to the mutilated bodies of two men, several yards apart, whom we had no difficulty in recognizing to be the ranchmen Sage and Bell. I sent a man back to Skull Valley to report their death, and with the axe, bayonets, and tin-cups dug a shallow grave beside Ferrin's. We placed them side by side and heaped a pyramid of stones above them.

The courier again bade us good-by, and, our messenger to Skull Valley having returned, we went on. The further ride through the mountain-pass was accomplished without adventure, and evening found us encamped at Willow Springs. These springs were surrounded by immense bowlders of coarse granite which was undergoing slow disintegration; the whole region being covered with a coarse gravel, which had once been a part of the solid granite strata. In fact the springs were not only surrounded but buried beneath the gravel. We scooped it away to find the crystal water which lay beneath. The boys shot a few quail here of the variety known as the California quail, distinguished by an elegant plume of six feathers on the top of the head. Clary broiled them for breakfast.

The road the following day was so rough that for much of the way we were unable to move faster than a walk, the slow walk of draught animals. Small fragments of granite filled the track, making it impossible to trot. When near a place called Soldiers' Holes, on account of some rifle-pits sunk there, the Corporal called my attention to a pool of blood in the road. Instantly the boys and I thought the gallant young courier had met with death. Leaving the[Pg 924] ambulance we examined the locality thoroughly. Moccasin tracks filled a clump of sage-brush on the left, and a few crossed to the pool of blood. Tracks of two horses and a mule, and shoes of white men mingled with the others.

The signs showed that two men had fallen, that one had been wounded, and that a second party had come and taken the wounded man away. The place was well adapted for a surprise. On the left was a long dense growth of low shrubbery extending from the road to the foot of a mountain-range. On the opposite side was an open plain.

We were going on again when Frank remarked,

"There seems to have been a big gathering of Apaches along this road."

"Yes; a war party must be out, bent upon serious mischief. They have struck at two points, and I fear a third—Date Creek—may have been attacked by this time. That is where we are to stay to-night." Then, turning to Corporal Duffey, I continued: "The road from here to the creek is softy and loamy, and we are not likely to make much noise; keep the men quiet. If the Indians are at the ranch, it will be best for us to appear unexpectedly."

"Do Indians never stand up like white men in a fight?" the younger boy asked.

"Frequently; but their system is different from ours—although modern tactics seem to be adopting Indian methods, and the white man fights in open lines, lies down, and creeps in a manner he formerly condemned."

Although this section of our march was but twenty-five miles long, our rate of progress had been so slow that the day was nearly closed before we came in sight of the line of cottonwoods that bordered Date Creek. We turned at last sharply to the left, and began a descent through a narrow ravine towards the creek. We were nearing its widening mouth when a half-dozen sharp reports of fire-arms broke upon our ears. A halt was ordered, and the men directed to prevent the animals from betraying our presence by whinnying or braying. Directing Sergeant Henry to remain behind and keep Vic with him, I went on in advance with Sergeant Frank.

"What do you think is going on?" asked my companion, as several more reports rang out.

"What I feared; the Apaches are attacking the men who went out to bring in the dead or wounded men at Soldiers' Holes."

"And if Mr. Baldwin was not the wounded man there, I suppose he is sure to be in this scrape. Why not rush in with the escort and frighten them away?"

"No doubt we could frighten them if they are not too many," I answered; "but we have good reason to believe that they are out in force, and it will be prudent for us to learn the situation at the ranch before we go nearer. I want to join the white men without the Indians' knowledge, if possible. Our presence seems to be unknown to both parties."

"Then Mr. Baldwin must be the man killed."

"He may be there, and the men may know we are on the road; but it certainly does not look like it."

"Can't Vic be sent with a message?"

"No; she does not know the locality, nor has she any friends at the ranch. She will not take a message to a stranger."

We had now reached a point from which we could see a log cabin, a stable, and an open shed. On the side of the buildings toward us, as if screening themselves from an enemy in the opposite direction, were a few men.

"If you would like me to, I can crawl to the house without being seen," said Frank. "That cart, wagon, and stack will screen me."

"Yes, you can do it easily. Tell Mr. Hopkins we are here, and to make no demonstration when we close up. I will explain a plan to him which, I think, will enable us to teach the Apaches a lesson. If you find Mr. Baldwin there, tell him to show himself at a window or door."

[to be continued.]

[Pg 925]

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER VI.

he two days' journey that followed was very much like that of the first day—an early start, two hours' rest in the middle of the day, and the night spent at a road-side tavern. On the third day they left civilization behind them, and their mid-day rest was spent in the woods. They were then upon a lower spur of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The road for the first two days had been fairly good, but on the third day the four roans had all they could do to haul the heavy coach up and down the rough highway. They stood to their work gallantly, though, and Lord Fairfax remarked that the coach could go twenty miles farther up the mountain, where he had a hunting-lodge—a sort of outpost for Greenway Court, and where the coach was stored. Glorious weather had followed them. The air was keener and colder than in the low country, and Lance produced a huge furred mantle, in which he wrapped Lord Fairfax, who sat and read unconcernedly while the coach rolled and jerked and bumped along. George was glad to make half his day's travel on horseback, and the exercise, as a warmer-up, was so much better than the Earl's fur mantle that he felt sometimes like suggesting a gallop to Lord Fairfax. But he had the wit to keep his suggestions to himself, knowing that older men can do their own thinking much better than it can be done for them by fifteen-year-old boys. George had enjoyed every moment of the trip so far. His attacks of homesickness were few, and he got over them by the philosophical reflection that he would have been cruelly disappointed if his mother had not allowed him to come. He began a letter to his mother, writing a little every day, so that if he had a chance to visit the low country it would be all ready to send at a moment's notice. He was very happy. He had in prospect a new and delightful experience in travel and association. When that was over he had the cheerful hospitality and honest gayety of his Christmas at Mount Vernon to look forward to with his brother and his sister-in-law, whom he dearly loved, and dear little Betty; and after that a return home, where he fitted naturally and easily into the position of his mother's best helper and counsellor.

The singular attraction between the man of the world and the unsophisticated young provincial gentleman grew each day. George had never before met any one who had Lord Fairfax's store of experience, as a soldier, a courtier, a man of affairs, and a member of a great literary circle. Nothing was lost on the boy, and the Earl was charmed and interested to find that a chance word dropped here and there would remain in George's memory, who would recall it at a suitable time to ask some intelligent question about it. Lord Fairfax sometimes smiled at himself when he realized how much of his time and thought and conversation was spent upon this boy, but he also realized that an intelligent and receptive young mind is in itself one of the most interesting things in the world, and when combined with the noble personality and high breeding of Madam Washington's son it was irresistible. For the first day or two he always spoke to George as "Mr. Washington," and neither one could tell the exact occasion when he dropped it for the more familiar "George." But it was done, and it put them upon a footing of affection at once. George continued to say "my lord," as that was the proper mode[Pg 926] of address, but little by little he revealed his heart to his new friend, and Lord Fairfax read him as an open book. This was not at first, however, for George modestly conceived himself to be a person of no consequence whatever, and was much more eager to hear the Earl speak of his adventures than to tell all the ideas and protests and ambitions he cherished himself.

On the evening of the fourth day they came to a log structure at the foot of the mountains, where the coach was to be left. It was in a cleared space on an open plateau, and above them towered the great peaks of the Blue Ridge, which they must cross on horseback.

The night was bright and beautiful, a great vivid moon sailing majestically in the heavens. There was in the clearing one large cabin, with two beds in it and a large press, besides a table and some chairs. In a smaller cabin two or three men lived the year round, while built on to that was a substantial coach-house, where the great chariot was stored, except when the Earl went upon his lowland journeys in state. When the cavalcade stopped in the clearing Lord Fairfax alighted and walked into the large cabin, followed by George. A fire roared upon the broad, rude hearth, and in ten minutes Lance had unlocked the press, had taken from it some bedlinen and blankets, and had made up the beds and laid the table. Supper had been prepared in advance, and, as Lance was an excellent cook, it was not to be despised—in particular, a great saddle of venison, which had been hanging up for a week in anticipation of the Earl's arrival. George could hardly have told what part of the day's journey he always enjoyed most, but those suppers, with the Earl's entertaining conversation, and his own healthy young appetite, and the delicious sense of well-being when he drew up to the fire afterwards to listen and ask questions, were perfectly delightful to him.

When they were seated at the table and about half through supper, Lord Fairfax asked, smiling,

"How do you like the uncivilized wilderness, George?"

"But this is not the uncivilized wilderness yet," answered George, smiling too. "We have a table and chairs, and knives and forks and plates, and beds and blankets, and silver candlesticks."

"Still, it is the wilderness, and from now on we must depend upon ourselves for company. The true meaning of the wilderness is absence from the haunts of men. We shall be entirely alone at Greenway, except for a few negroes and Indians. You will probably not see a white face, except mine and Lance's, until you leave me."

"It will be quite enough, sir," replied George. "I would rather be with a few people that I like than with a great crowd that I don't like."

"I felt the same in my youth. Afterwards there were circumstances in my life which inclined me to solitude. I came to Virginia in search of it, and I found it; and I also found peace. Once a year I go to the low country—to Belvoir, my cousin William Fairfax's; to your brother's at Mount Vernon; sometimes to see Colonel Byrd at Westover; but I always return to my own fastness gladly. I feel more cheerful now than at any time since we started. My old friends—my books—are waiting for me in my library; I can only take a dozen with me when I go away. My doves and pigeons, my dogs and horses, will all be the happier for my return home. My servants will be glad to have me back—poor souls, they have but a dull time of it all the year round; and I myself, having lived this life so long, find that it suits me. I shall have your company for several weeks; then I shall want you again next year."

"Next year, sir, I shall be sixteen, and perhaps I shall not be my own master. I may be in his Majesty's service. But if I can come to you again, you may be sure I will."

When supper was over the Earl drew his chair up to the fire, and, still wrapped in his fur mantle—for the bitter wind blew through the cracks and crannies of the cabin—sat in a reverie with his deep eyes fixed on the blaze. George had meant that night to ask him something about the siege of Bouchain, but he saw that the Earl was deep in thought, and so said nothing. He began to wonder what his mother and Betty were doing at that time. It was after supper at Ferry Farm, too. His mother was knitting by the table in the parlor, with two candles burning, and Betty was practising at the harpsichord. In his mother's bedroom—"the chamber," as it was called in Virginia—a fire was burning, and around the hearth were gathered the household servants picking the seed from the cotton, which, when warmed by the fire, came out easily. This they did while waiting until they were dismissed at nine o'clock. What was Billy doing? and Rattler? While thinking these thoughts George dropped asleep, and slept soundly until Lance waked him raking down the ashes and preparing for the night.

Next morning George wakened early, as he supposed, seeing how dark it was; but the sound of the rain upon the roof proved that it was not so early, after all. He glanced through one of the two small windows of the cabin and saw the water coming down in torrents. A regular mountain storm was upon them. George sighed as he realized this. It meant weather-bound for several days, as the roads across the mountains would be likely to be impassable after such a storm. And so it proved. For four days there was only an occasional let up in the downpour. Luckily, no snow fell. And Lord Fairfax observed his young guest narrowly in these days of being cooped up in a cabin, and found him less impatient than might have been expected. George, seeing the elaborate preparations that Lance always made for the Earl's comfort, imagined that he would ill support the inconveniences of their enforced delay; but it proved exactly the contrary. Lord Fairfax was not only patient but gay under such annoyances as a leak in the roof and their rations being reduced to corn-bread and smoked venison.

"It reminds me of our old days in the Low Countries," he said to Lance the fourth night they spent at the cabin.

"Yes, my lord; but, saving your honor's presence, we would have thought this a palace in those days. I don't think I ever was dry all over, and warm all over, and had as much as I could eat from the time I went to the Low Countries until after we had taken Bouchain, sir."

"Lance has told me about that adventure, sir," said George, slyly, hoping to hear something more from Lord Fairfax about it.

"Pshaw!" cried the Earl, smiling; "Lance is in his dotage, and can talk of nothing but what happened thirty or forty years ago. Our expedition was a mere prank. I found out nothing, and risked not only my life but this poor fellow's without warrant."

"The Duke, sir," said Lance, very respectfully, "was of another mind. And, sir, I have never thought of Madame Geoffroy, and her fits and her fainting and her furbelows, these thirty-five years without laughing."

At which George went off into such convulsions of laughter that Lord Fairfax knew Lance had told him the whole story.

After four days of stormy weather it became clear and cold. They were only twenty miles from Greenway Court, but the Earl sent a man ahead to find out if the streams were fordable, and whether it were yet worth while to start. The man came back the next day about sunset, saying it would be possible for them to get to Greenway Court the next day.

Although George had stood the confinement in the cabin stoically, he was delighted to be on the move again, and both he and the Earl relished their last supper there the more for knowing it would be the last. All the arrangements were made for an early start on horseback next morning, and at nine o'clock Lord Fairfax and George were about turning in when they heard a timid knock at the door.

Lance, with a candle in his hand, opened the door, and at first saw nothing at all; but as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he saw a negro boy and a dog.

"IS MARSE GEORGE WASHINGTON HERE, SUH?"

Lance was so surprised that he did not at first speak, but the boy piped up very promptly, "Is Marse George Washington here, suh?"

George, on hearing his name called in that voice, jumped from his chair as if he had been shot, and the next moment was standing face to face with Billy, while Rattler sprang[Pg 927] at him with wild barks of delight. Billy's greeting was brief and to the point.

"Heah I is, Marse George, wid Rattler."

"Where on earth did you come from?" asked George, breathlessly, dragging the boy into the cabin. As the light of the fire and the candles fell upon him he looked as if he might have come three hundred miles instead of less than a hundred and fifty, he was so thin, so hollow-eyed, and gaunt. His shoes were quite gone except the uppers, and he was in rags and tatters; yet nothing could dim the joy shining in his beady black eyes, while his mouth came open as if it were on hinges. Lord Fairfax, turning in his chair, was struck by the look of rapturous delight on poor Billy's face. The boy, still grinning, answered:

"F'um Fredericksburg. I tooken de horse mos' ter de ferry, and den I tu'n him loose, kase he had sense 'nough fer ter git ter de boat by hisse'f. So arter I seen him mos' up ter de boat, me an' Rattler, we all lights out arter de kerriage fo' Black Sam an' Gumbo have time fer ter hunt fer me, an' we foller de track clean f'um Fredericksburg ter dis heah place." Billy told this as if it were the commonest thing in the world for a boy and a dog to follow a coach more than a hundred miles from home. George was so astonished he could only stare at Billy and gasp out,

"How did you manage to keep the track?"

"Dun'no', suh," replied Billy, calmly. "Rattler, he know de way better 'n me. When de rains come an' I los' de wheel tracks, I say ter dat ar' dog, 'Lookee heah, dog, we is follerin' Marse George'—he know dat jes as well as a human; an' I say, 'You got ter fin' dat trail an' dem tracks,' an' dat dog he know what I was talkin' 'bout, an' he wag he tail, an' den he lay he nose to de groun', an' heah we is."

The Earl had laid down his book and was listening intently to Billy's story. "And what did you live on—what did you have to eat on the way—let me see—nearly eight days?"

"We didn't have nuttin' much," Billy admitted. "De mornin' we lef home I tooken a big hoe-cake an' put it in my shut when warn' nobody lookin'. De fus' day I eat some, an' gin some ter de dog. Arter dat I foun' chinquapins an' ches'nuts an' some tu'nips 'long de road-side, an' I could eat dem, but de dog couldn', so I kep' dat hoe-cake fur Rattler, an' give him de las' piece yistiddy."

"Billy," asked George, with tears in his eyes, "were you very hungry?"

For the first time a distressed look came into the boy's face. He was at his journey's end, he was with Marse George, he had nothing more on earth to wish for; but the recollection of the hunger of those eight days—the cold, the weariness, the agonies of terror that sometimes attacked him overcame him.

"Yes, suh, I was hungry," he said, with a sob, "dat's Gord's truf; an' ef it hadn' been fur dis heah dog you neber would ha' seed Billy no mo'. But dat dog, he go 'long snuffin', an' he were hongry too, I speck, dough he had some hoe-cake twell yistiddy; an' if de dog coul' hol' out, dis nigger could."

"I'll never, never forget it, Billy, as long as I live," said George, half crying.

Then Lord Fairfax spoke. "But how did you escape from being stopped on the road for a runaway?"

"Dun'no', suh," responded Billy, using his favorite formula. "We didn't meet many white folks on de road, an' when we see 'em comin' we hide in de bushes. I 'ain' never spoke ter a human sence we lef Fredericksburg. In the daytime we hide somewh'yar by de road an' sleep, an' we trabbel 'mos' all night. 'Twas de full o' de moon, an' I see dem tracks jes same as 'twas in daytime. Den, arter I los' 'em, dis heah dog, he jes keep de road hisse'f—an' here I is."

"Lance," cried George, suddenly, "please get something for him to eat—anything—everything you have!"

Billy's eyes glistened as, in a moment, Lance whipped out of the press some cold meat and bread, and he attacked it ravenously. Meanwhile George fed the dog, which was evidently the least starved of the two. When Billy had eaten up everything that could be produced for him, he quietly curled himself up near the fire, and in half a minute he was sleeping the sleep of the just.

"What are you going to do with him?" asked Lord Fairfax of George.

"Keep him with me if you will allow me, sir."

"But what will your mother say? He seems to be a strong boy—his journey proves that—and he no doubt has his work at Ferry Farm."

George smiled at the recollection of Billy's "work."

"I don't think, my lord, that Billy is of the slightest use at Ferry Farm unless I am there. My mother, who believes in everybody's being industrious, has done her best to make him work. So have his father and mother, Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey. But except for waiting on me, and taking care of my horse, Billy will absolutely do nothing. He is not surly about it—he is always grinning and laughing and singing—but—I can't explain it exactly—he will work his fingers to the bone for me, but he won't work for anybody else."

"I should think Billy was not a very useful member of society," remarked Lord Fairfax.

George said not a word, but he did not like aspersions of any kind on Billy. Seeing this, Lord Fairfax said, in his usual kind tone:

"If it gives you pleasure, you must, of course, keep him with you—and indeed there is nothing else to be done that I can see; and as you say he is no good to your mother when you are not at home, perhaps he is better off here. He seems a faithful little soul, and I am not surprised that you are touched at his devotion."

George's face assumed an entirely different expression, but he merely said, "Thank you, sir," and in a few minutes, after throwing a bear-robe over Billy, George went to bed himself, with Rattler curled up by him.

Next morning they took the road soon after sunrise. Billy, who had enough of walking for some time to come, was mounted on one of the pack-horses. Two saddle-horses had been brought down from Greenway for the Earl and his young guest; and together they led the procession along the rough mountain road. The scenery was wildly beautiful. Occasionally they wound along mighty precipices, where the horses could scarcely pick their way. Again, they forded mountain streams that could be breasted only by the most tremendous exertions. They made their way through a great cleft in the mountains about mid-day, and began to descend towards the valleys. The distance was but twenty miles, yet so difficult was the road that it was late in the short autumn afternoon before Lord Fairfax, pointing to a collection of roofs that lay directly below them in a sheltered part of the valley, said to George, "There is Greenway Court."

By sunset they were riding up the rough road that led to the house.

It was a large, low building, with stables and offices projecting on each side. The foundation was of stone, rudely but strongly cemented. Half-way up the story and a half which constituted the building the stone ceased, and logs, neatly and even artistically mortised together, were carried to the roof. The effect was not unpleasing, especially as many of the original forest trees had been left, and the building blended well with its surroundings. Broad and shallow stone steps led up to the main entrance, and two great oak doors studded with nails gave entrance to it. George noticed that all of the windows were provided with stout iron-bound shutters, with holes for musketry in them. The door was also pierced for defence, and a very slight examination showed that, if well garrisoned, the building could be converted into a tolerably strong block-house. The Earl, as if reading the thoughts in George's mind, remarked:

"We have to be provided here for attacks from the Indians, incited by the French. The French have determined to extend their encroachments eastward and southward by a chain of forts, and I make no doubt that they contemplate a line that will extend from Canada to Louisiana. They use the Indians as secret though powerful allies, and, by encouraging them to harry and murder the whites in this wild part of the colony of Virginia, they think that it[Pg 928] will be abandoned, and that they can advance their out-posts this far. Greenway Court has withstood one siege, and can withstand another. There is a spring directly under the house, and having some knowledge of mechanics, I have concealed the source, which is at a distance from the house, and we get the spring water by merely going down into the cellar. Then I keep constantly on hand, in this same cellar, stores of provisions and ammunition, so we are well able to defend ourselves, even against burning—for the Indians have found out the use of the torch against white men's dwellings. However, I hope we shall have no bouts with them while you are with us."

George said nothing, but he would have been more or less than a boy if he had not longed in his heart for a bout with the savages, of which he had heard much but seen little.

[to be continued.]

CLEVER FEATS OF CHIMPANZEES.

BY R. L. GARNER.

hings are often done by monkeys which are very humanlike, but to them the acts may have no meaning whatever, being purely the result of imitation.

In all my researches among monkeys my chief aim has been to determine the innate powers of the mind, and therefore I have not regarded the tricks which they are often taught to do as being an index to their mental qualities. I shall relate a few of the most rational acts that I have known chimpanzees to perform. In these cases the animal was not actuated by fear, but was prompted by his own desire to accomplish a certain end to gratify his own wish.

Moses was the name of the young chimpanzee that lived with me in the jungle. One day as we were taking a stroll through the forest we came to a small branch of running water. Moses never liked to get his feet wet, but I thought on this occasion I would let him wade across it. The stream was not more than four feet wide and two or three inches deep. I first allowed my boy to pass over, and then I followed him, leaving Moses to get over by himself. When he reached the edge of the branch he began to beg for help. I seated myself on a log a few yards away from him, and he sat down on the bank of the stream. After a short time he walked along the bank looking for some means of crossing it without wading; two or three times he walked back and forth, and continued to beg for help. At last he discovered a clump of tall, slender bushes growing on the edge of the stream a few yards above the path; he went to these, took hold of one of them, and stood for a moment holding it; then he began to climb up it. He climbed up the side next to the water, and as he did so, the slender stalk began to bend under his weight. He continued to climb, and the plant continued to bend until the top of it almost touched the ground on the opposite side of the stream, and bore Moses safely across to the opposite bank. He released his hold upon the bush, and ran to me with a grin on his face, which was an evidence that he was conscious of having done a very clever thing. Whether other chimpanzees ever applied this means of crossing water or not I cannot say; but as it is not a constant habit with them, it cannot be called instinct. It was a piece of genuine engineering. No philosopher could have found a better solution to the problem.

Aaron was one of the brightest of his kind that I ever saw; he died in England. On the voyage from Africa to that country I had a cage for him and his companion constructed from parts of my own cage. On board the ship was a stowaway, who helped me to look after my pets; the boy was disposed to play tricks on the chimpanzee, and, whenever he had an opportunity, would do something to annoy him. Aaron was very fond of drinking water out of a long-necked bottle; this was very convenient, as the neck could be thrust through the meshes of the cage, and withdrawn after he had finished. When the boy gave them water, he would turn the bottle up and pour the water over them. They did not like this, and for a time refused to drink at all. At last Aaron found means of escaping; he climbed up on the side of the cage at a safe distance from the front, and about on a level with the neck of the bottle; then holding fast with his feet to the side of the cage, reached across the angle of the corner, took hold of the wires with his hand above the mouth of the bottle, and put his lips to it; when the water was spilled it did not touch him, but fell to the floor. After Elishiba witnessed this a few times she did the same thing, showing that she perfectly understood why he did so and what the result was.

I saw a young chimpanzee in Africa that belonged to a French officer. She was kept on board a small steamer that runs on the Ogowe River. This ape was full of mischief, and had to be tied or watched constantly to keep her out of harm. She had learned to untie all kinds of knots, so that it was very difficult to keep her confined.

On one occasion when I was aboard this steamer her master tied her with a long line to one of the rails alongside the boat. As a rule she always untied the knot next to her first, but on this occasion a new kind of knot had been tied. About six feet from her neck a single loop was tied around one of the iron rails along the side of the deck; then the long noose end of the string was taken to a stanchion about four feet away, and securely tied in the angle formed by the stanchion and the rail. The chimpanzee tried in vain to untie the single knot in the line which was near to her; but as one end was fastened to her neck and the other to the post, there was no loose end to draw through. She slacked the knot, however, as far as possible,[Pg 929] but could find no loose end; she drew it tight again, and then examined it. Again she slacked it, and examined each strand separately; she traced one strand of it to the post, then she traced the other to her neck. For a moment she sat as if in deep study; then she slipped the knot along the railing, until it was near the stanchion. She slackened it, and surveyed it with care; she climbed down upon the deck, and pulled first at one strand, then another. Then she climbed around the stanchion and back again; she climbed up over the railing, down on the outside, and back again. She climbed through between the rails and back again two or three times, and again examined the knot; she tightened the loop, and moved it along the rail to the place it was first tied; she climbed up and again examined the knot; she drew first one end and then the other, but found them both fast; she drew the loop out as far as it would come, and, holding it in her hands, she examined each strand of it again; then she cautiously lifted it and put it over her head, crawled through it and the loop was undone. When the loose line dropped on the deck, with one end still fastened to her neck and the other to the post, she realized that she had untied the aggravating loop in the middle. To release the end fast to the post was only the work of a moment; the look of triumph on her face was enough to satisfy any one that she was conscious of her victory. As soon as she was released she gathered the line in a roll in her hands, and set out to explore the boat again.

CONSUL IN STREET ATTIRE.

Away in the interior of the Esyra country I arrived at a town in which there lived a fine strong chimpanzee about five years old; he was playing with the children in the open space between the houses, and appeared to take as much interest in the game as any one of them. When they discovered a white man in the town they all came to take a look, and he showed as much concern as any one else. After a time he came to me and climbed upon my lap; he became a little too familiar, and I had him taken away. Then he and the children resumed their play for a while, and in the mean time I inquired into his history. He was captured in the forest near the town when he was a little babe, and had lived there ever since as one of the family. He ate and played with these children, slept in the same houses with them, and did not seem to realize that he was not a human being.

He belonged to one of the King's sons, who told me that the ape could talk, and that he could understand him. He entertained me with a number of feats that the animal had been taught to do. They were not mere tricks performed for amusement, but they were acts of usefulness. In fact, he was made to occupy somewhat the place of a servant.

One of the things that he required him to do, by way of entertaining me, was to go to the spring and bring a gourd of water. He was reluctant to do this, but he did it. As soon as he delivered the water to his master he ran away and joined the children in their play. I expressed a desire to see him fill the gourd with water, and his master called him again, gave him the vessel, and we went with him. He dipped the gourd in the water with the mouth downward, and having submerged it, turned it on its side, and lifted it up. There was only a little water in the gourd; he repeated this act a number of times until the gourd was almost filled; his master said that as long as the water continued to bubble at the mouth of the gourd the ape would continue to dip it in, showing that he was aware of the cause of the bubbling.

This ape knew all the people of the town by name, and knew his own name; he was required to aid the children in bringing firewood from the forest, and many other chores about the town.

CONSUL RIDING HIS WHEEL.

One of the most intelligent and quite the best educated chimpanzee that I have ever seen is Consul II. He is an inmate of the Bellevue Gardens at Manchester, England. He is the most humanlike in his manners of any of his kind that have ever been known in captivity. The many clever feats done by this ape would fill a small volume; he has not been trained to perform them as tricks, simply to amuse or entertain visitors, but many of them he has taken up of his own accord, having seen others do so. The feat that impressed me most was his skill in riding a tricycle, and his taste for that sport. He often takes his machine without being told, and rides all about the place; if he finds it lying on its side, he sets it upright, adjusts the handle-bar, mounts it, and takes a ride. He propels it with ease and guides it with dexterity. No boy of his own age can handle it with more skill. He rides all about the place, around the walks and drives, all over several acres of ground; he steers it around the posts and corners, around the curves of the paths, makes his way through crowds of people without colliding with them. He amuses himself by the hour at this pastime. When he tires of it he sometimes shoves the vehicle up in some corner and leaves it.

Consul also smokes cigar, cigarette, or pipe. He often finds a cigar stub about the place, picks it up, puts it in his mouth, and goes to his keeper for a light. One amusing habit he has is that of spitting; he is not very skilful in this, but is persistent. However, he has the politeness not to spit on the floor; he spreads a piece of paper on the floor, and uses it as a cuspidor.

Consul uses a handkerchief the same as a person does; he eats with a knife and fork, cuts up his food with ease, and never uses his fingers in eating; he can blow a horn, but does not attempt to carry any tune. He knows the first three letters of the alphabet, which he has painted on a set of blocks; when asked for any one of the three, he will select it and hold it up.

I regard the feats described above, except the last one, as being rational, and the result of the innate faculties of the actors. We are only beginning to understand the mental characteristics of animals, but our researches in that field are bearing abundant fruit, and we are now beginning to realize that all of these humbler creatures are component parts of the great scheme of life. When man becomes more fully impressed with the fact that all creatures think and feel in the same manner as himself, although not to the same degree, it will make the bonds of fellowship closer between him and nature.

[Pg 930]

THE CIRCUS IN THE COUNTRY.

BY JNO. GILMER SPEED.

Nearbye is a very small village, and a country village at that, for it is approached by wagon roads only, and the silence of the streets is never broken by the whistle of a locomotive, as the nearest railway is seven miles off. The shows that come to Nearbye are few and far between, and the people consider them such events that they mark epochs in the history of the town. As in other places an old inhabitant would speak of the year the war began, in Nearbye the people say, "The summer that Uncle Tom's Cabin was played in the Shoemakers' Lot," or "The autumn that the negro minstrels came to town." Now these two shows were ten years apart, but every one remembers the earlier one perfectly, except the children, who have been born since the honest folk of Nearbye wept over the tribulations of Uncle Tom. And even these think they remember the theatrical performance under the tent in the Shoemakers' Lot. This self-deception is due to the fact that they have heard so much about the show that they have persuaded themselves that they saw it. But these two shows have been entirely eclipsed in glory within the past little while, for there was a circus in Nearbye a few weeks ago—a real circus, with a caged lion and tiger, with an elephant, a camel, and a giraffe, as the menagerie part, while there performed in the ring bare-back riders—both men and women—who cavorted around the ring right merrily, and jumped through paper-covered hoops as though they actually enjoyed that kind of thing. Barnum, in my opinion, did much to spoil the circus as we see it in the great cities. Three or four rings in which performances are going on at the same time are extremely bewildering, and few spectators can give such undivided attention to one ring as to keep entire track of all that goes on in it. After an evening at the one-ring circus in the country I am persuaded that I am right in my opinion, and that the old-fashioned circus has much greater power to please than "the greatest show on earth."

I was Miss Kitty's guest when the circus came to Nearbye, and this attention on her part was in recognition of the fact that I had taken her to the Barnum show at Madison Square Garden last spring. I consider that I have been amply repaid. But, really, the best part of the show was not under the circus tent. I doubt very much whether there was a small boy within four miles of Nearbye who slept a wink the night before the circus was to arrive. If any of them slept at all at night, it is very certain that none of them continued that sleep into the daylight, for long before the sun was up the roads leading to the village were dotted here and there with groups of hurrying and impatient youngsters hastening to the Shoemakers' Lot to welcome the arrival of the circus caravan, and to superintend the erection of the tent. Pretty nearly all the small boys in the township were on hand three hours before the first of the circus wagons came. The long wait had tried their patience sadly, and the gay tricks on each other with which they had beguiled the earlier time of waiting had either been exhausted because the country boy's repertoire of pranks is limited, or because their spirits had been stilled by anxiety. It was rather the spirits that had given out than the pranks, I fancy, for I saw evidence now and then of a gulped-down sigh and a half-concealed tear when John or Tom or Billy would reach the sad conclusion that the circus was not coming after all. But the first wagon drove up at half past eight, and by eleven all had arrived. The tent was pitched in short order, the ring was made, the side show was in full working order, and the circus people were as much at home as they ever get to be in their wandering lives.

The small boys were not the only persons attracted to Nearbye in the early hours—not by a jugful, as the average farmer in the Nearbye neighborhood would be apt to say if he were writing this article. People of both sexes and all ages, from the gray-haired great-grandmother to the infant in the arms, came or were brought, as each case required, until there was not a vacant fence post eligible for a hitching-place within half a mile of the circus tent. If half a dozen holidays could have been combined into one, not one-third so many people would have been attracted to Nearbye as were brought by this little circus. Some city people who had gone to Nearbye for their summer vacations put on airs about the show, and laughed at the enthusiastic excitement of the country folk. Miss Kitty observed this in two young men who had been made welcome on the tennis-court at her father's place, and flushed with shame that she should know, even ever so slightly, persons of such affected pretension. She shook her curly little head and whispered to me: "We ought not to know them; they can't be gentlemen." Dear little soul, I dare say she was right. We ought not to have known them, and probably they were not gentlemen; but she will learn, when she gets to be a grown woman, that if she confines her acquaintance only to real ladies and real gentlemen—that is, to men and women who never put on airs and never inconsiderately assume to be better than they are, and who never scoff at simplicity—she will have a very narrow circle, and will know fewer people than almost anybody in the world. But few of the country people cared for the rudeness that Miss Kitty resented. They did not even notice it. They had come to Nearbye to have a good time and to see the sights, all unconscious that they furnished amusement to any one.

As a rule they brought their dinners with them, and at twelve o'clock they attacked baskets and pails for the good things in them. Eating, with hard-working people, whether of the city or country, is not a time of conviviality. They eat because they are hungry, and they get through with the business as quickly and unceremoniously as possible. The dinner hour, therefore, on this day of the circus did not as a rule last more than ten minutes. There was another long wait of nearly two hours. But this wait was relieved somewhat, for every now and then the old lion roared portentously, and filled the souls of the youngsters with delightful apprehension. At one o'clock the slit in the tent, by courtesy called a door, was opened, and the people filed in. By half past one nearly every seat was filled, and the show might have begun then without disappointment to any, for there was no one else to come. All were there save the bedridden; even the two blind people in the township had come to hear, though they could not see.

Of course the show began with what I believe they called in the programme the Grand Entrée. And of course every one who has ever been to a circus will recall how the ladies and gentlemen of the company come into the ring on horseback, and ride round and round with distinguished courtesy towards each other and towards the audience, and then ride out again. This recalls to those who have heard of such a time the days of chivalry, and some others see in the men and women in the sawdust-covered ring the heroes of their story-books. Miss Kitty had just been reading Charles and Mary Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, and one of the ladies suggested to her the fair Rosalind, while the gentleman who cantered by her side seemed very like the bold Orlando.

When this act was over, we were treated to performances by acrobats and gymnasts, and each one seemed more wonderful than any of the rest. Each tumbler, each jumper, each contortionist, each trapeze-swinger, each tight-rope walker was enthusiastically applauded, and the feats of all were regarded by the appreciative audience as entirely wonderful. This must have been very gratifying to the actors. But what pleased best were the acts where horses took part. Country people know about horses, and have opinions of those who ride and drive them. The young lady who rode two bare-back horses at once, now with a foot on each horse and now riding one and driving the other, easily bore off the palm. When she ran by the side of one of her steeds, as he cantered round the ring, and vaulted to his back without touching either mane or rein, and landed squarely upon her little feet, and then stood upright, the audience was so filled with wonder and admiration that there was a pause before the applause began. This evidently excited more wonder and admiration than anything else—more indeed than the bespangled woman who confidingly[Pg 931] put her head in the lion's mouth, more than the other one who permitted the elephant to walk over her and then to pick her up with his trunk. But that which diverted the audience most of all was the trick mule—the mule so resourceful of pranks that he threw all the boldest riders among the ambitious youth of Nearbye. When Mike, the young man who is both hostler and barkeeper at the White Horse Tavern, wrapped his legs round the mule's neck and caught hold with both hands of the little fellow's slippery tail the people in the circus tent nearly went wild with delight. It was a hard tussle between Mike and the mule, but the latter rolled over on Mike, who let go, and scampered out of the ring defeated, and terrified lest the mule should kick him.

The two city young men before mentioned sat near us at the performance. They were mightily tickled at Mike's discomfiture. Miss Kitty had not noticed them since expressing a doubt whether they were proper acquaintances. What was my surprise now to hear her speak to one of them, "You try it, Mr. Simpkins," she said; "I am sure you could ride that poor little mule." Mr. Simpkins declined in a way which implied that Miss Kitty was right, that he could ride the mule if he chose. Miss Kitty was evidently disappointed, and I am very much afraid that instead of being sure that Mr. Simpkins could ride the mule, she was very sure he could not. I have never spoken to her about her effort to entice Mr. Simpkins to make himself ridiculous, because I was not at all sure that she was not wrong thus to try to get revenge on one who had made merry at the expense of the simple and honest people who were her friends and neighbors. But even though the feeling was a very wrong one it was very human, and I shared in it myself.

For a week after the circus, Nearbye was more deserted than I have ever known it before. The next Sunday comparatively few people came to church. The circus had been too much for them. They had to stay at home to recover from the excitement of so unusual an entertainment. If the merry clown should ever care to retire from the sawdust ring, and should choose Nearbye as a home, I am sure the people would make him right welcome; and if he wanted an office, I am certain that he could have the pick, and be either constable or justice of the peace, whichever suited him the better. The storekeepers of Nearbye for a fortnight after the circus had gone could not make change for a bill, as the circus treasurer had taken away with him pretty nearly all the silver coins in the township. This circus will doubtless be talked of in Nearbye when many of the barelegged boys who came at daylight to see it have grandsons eager in their turn for the passing shows, and when Miss Kitty has taken to spectacles and caps, and prefers a cozy corner within-doors to the breezy piazza or the hammock beneath the apple-trees.

Many stories are told of actors and musicians who give tickets to their washwomen, their boot-makers, or to others who cannot afford to pay to hear the great ones with whom their trades may have brought them into contact. Seldom, however, do we hear an anecdote with a twist to it like this one concerning Paganini, and so it is possibly worth telling. One of his biographers is responsible for it, but he prefaces the story with the explanation that the great violinist was a most eccentric man, and although as a rule very generous, he was also at times guilty of petty meannesses. This was one of those times. He was to perform in a concert, for which the price of seats was very high. His washwoman had been bemoaning the fate which made her unable to afford to be present. Finally Paganini wrote out an order for a seat in the top gallery, and handed it to her. She thanked him effusively, and boasted to her friends of the present she had got. Great was her surprise, therefore, when she presented her bill for his laundry at the end of the week to have Paganini request her to deduct from the amount of his indebtedness the price of the ticket he had given her to the concert.

ALL SEASONS.

I love to play in winter-time,
When all the earth is white with snow,
When down the gleaming shining hill
My long red sled can go.

I love to play in summer-time,
When in the pond beneath the trees
My pretty ship, with sails puffed out,
Goes skimming in the breeze.

Marie L. Van Vorst.

A RUN FROM AN "INDIAN DEVIL."

BY TAPPAN ADNEY.

wo generations have passed away from Tobique since the first settlers came, yet so little has man encroached upon the wild domain that the gaunt moose often stops and lingers with the friendly cattle, the shaggy bear as the spring comes round levies tribute on the defenceless flocks, while the balsam smells as sweet, and the crinkle of the crisp snow beneath the moccasined foot is still as pleasant music as of old. The woods seem changed but little; boys have turned men, the men have turned gray, and just a little more moss lies on the fallen tree-trunks. Yet the same change has passed over Tobique as has passed over all the backwoods of Maine and Canada. The dreaded panther, or "Indian devil," as it is known, seldom troubles one now, or startles the forest with its awful cry—so human, so bloodcurdling, that its very mention sends a thrill through one's body.

The dangers of the woods are exaggerated. No living thing is match for a man, and every creature among predatory beasts shuns the society of man. There are exceptions, as there are seasons when our black bear should not be provoked. So in the experience of every woodsman there have been times when the rule has been broken, and it is the man that has been hunted.

Raish Turner, now a man of some fifty years of age, still lives at the Red Rapids, on Tobique. I have stopped at his hospitable dwelling—back a ways from the river, on the slope of the hill, near the timber. There was still the old, low cow-shed alongside the barn, and I have been with him along the old wood road directly back of his place that was the scene of an exciting adventure of his.

Raish, still called "Raish," as when he was a boy of sixteen and hauled wood with oxen, has not forgotten the story, nor yet the long white scar above his temple that he will carry to his grave.

The story is known to every one on Tobique, but it needs to be heard from Raish himself, the sturdy, kindly old back-woodsman, with homespuns in boot-tops, knife sheathed at his belt, and generally an axe over his shoulder.

In the fall of one year, thirty-four years ago, about first fall, two hunters came out of the woods from Pokiok stream, which lay some five miles back of Red Rapids. They came with rather more speed than is customary with those who travel solely for pleasure. Their story, of which they sought to conceal nothing, and which was listened to the more gravely because of their reputation as brave men, was that in the night something had come around the camp, which was an open shelter with a fire in front. The growling of their dog awakened them.

They listened, peering into the darkness, and as they listened they heard a cry. It was not an owl, nor any wild-cat. It seemed at first afar off, not loud, like a child in awful distress, and it affected them strangely. Their dog began to tremble, and show fear that he had never shown before, even before a bear. The hunters jumped to their feet, kindled the fire, which threw a ruddy glare all around.

The thing, which they knew perfectly well, came nearer,[Pg 932] uttering now and then that awful cry. They sat with their guns on their knees, speaking in whispers; but it did not attack them, and when daylight came it withdrew. When the sun rose they broke camp and made for the settlement.

Small wonder, then, that there was a stir in the settlement, for the men were known to be bold, fearless hunters, and, moreover, this was the first panther that had come near enough to bother them, for whatever the men in the timber-camps might have to tell, such things did not greatly trouble the settlers along the river.

Not long after that a woman living only two farms below went to the door at noonday, and saw, or thought she saw, across the field, a creature which she said was bigger and longer than any dog, trot away across the lot and enter the woods, looking back once or twice as it ran.

December came, and nothing more was heard of the panther. There was snow enough to make good hauling. Raish and his brother Howard, who was two years younger, had twenty cords of wood to get in from back. One dark cloudy day the young fellows were hurrying to get in another load before darkness shut down. The oxen were swung around, head homeward, alongside a pile of wood. A quarter of the load was on when the oxen began to act queerly. They commenced to sniff, putting their noses into the air, and looking all around. Raish had never seen them so behave, but he went on loading. Presently one of the steers put his head down and gave a long, low moan, at the same time pawing the snow.

Raish spoke to them, yet a curious feeling began to take possession of him, when, without a warning more than that, a cry rose upon the still air of the woods, and that same instant the oxen threw themselves against the yoke. There followed a crash of falling cord-wood as the sled started, and hardly slower, the boys sprang aboard, seizing hold of a sled-stake; and as Raish rolled over again he heard that cry, and something leaped into the middle of the road behind them.

IT WAS A WILD RUN.

But that was all. The oxen plunged madly forward, and at every lurch their bellows mingled with the clangor of chains and the pounding of the sled. What power guided them along that road? Bounding over the cradle knolls, crashing now into this side, now into that, strewing the road behind them with the cord-wood sticks. It was a wild run.

A quarter of a mile was passed. There was no looking back, and no looking forward for the pelting of ice from flying hoofs. The clearing is reached. Wild with fright, on the steers go. The house, the wood-pile, as in a swim, flash by, and then there is a crash.

When Raish's memory gathered up the thread of swiftly passing events, he was lying on the floor of the cow-stable on the straw, and his brother, pale from fright, was bending over him, and there were some other frightened people crowded around, and a pair of steers were at the far end of the cow-stable. Raish was aware of some blood from an ugly cut. He lay stunned, they say, for some moments. Howard escaped without a hurt. The oxen, guided by instinct, made straight for the stable, and seeing the open door, made straight for refuge. The sled had struck the corner of the log barn, the tongue had snapped off, and the boys had been thrown forward; Raish's forehead struck, it was believed, either a sled-stake or one of the oxen's hoofs. The wonder was that both were not killed from the force with which they must have struck.

But all this time where was the panther? It came, so some persons at the house said, to the edge of the timber and a little beyond, where it stood some while, hesitating, and then turned back to the woods, where, instead of taking the road, it gave a mighty spring to the limb of a tree, and disappeared from view, no one venturing to follow.

Before the winter was over, however, some men with a small dog drove it to tree and shot it, after it had killed a fine heifer, no great ways from there. Out of curiosity the height of the panther's leap was measured, and it was said to be nearly eighteen feet.

[Pg 933]

The annual boat-races of the Halcyon and Shattuck crews of St. Paul's School, Concord, were held this year on June 18th, on Lake Penacook, as usual. The honors of the day went to the Halcyons, whose first and second crews won their events, the first crew breaking the school record for the distance by four seconds.

RACE BETWEEN THE FIRST CREWS, ST. PAUL'S SCHOOL, THE HALCYON EIGHT LEADING.

The most important of the three contests was the last race, between the two Senior eights. The start was made shortly before eleven o'clock in the morning, both crews getting away about together, rowing in good form and with very little splashing. The Shattucks started with a stroke of 42, the Halcyons pulling a 40 stroke. This pace was kept up for about a quarter of a mile, when both crews dropped their stroke a couple of points, and for the rest of the race neither eight went above 38.

THE HALCYON FIRST CREW, ST. PAUL'S SCHOOL.

Holders of the record: Distance, 1½ miles; Time, 8 min. 21 sec.

At the mile the boats were about even, but there the Halcyons began to draw slowly away, and although the Shattucks tried to keep up, they were unable to push their boat through the water as rapidly as their rivals. At the mile-and-a-half flag the Halcyon eight was two boat-lengths ahead of the Shattucks, and still gaining rapidly. The Shattuck stroke tried to hit it up, but his crew was unable to respond. The men in the Halcyon boat were rowing in beautiful form, with a long and regular body swing, and kept increasing their lead. They rushed their shell across the line nineteen seconds ahead of their rivals, their time over the course being 8 min. 21 sec., the best former record for the distance being 8 min. 25 sec., made by the Shattucks in 1891.

THE ST. PAUL'S CREWS GOING OUT TO PRACTICE.

The Halcyon men showed no signs of fatigue, but the Shattuck oarsmen seemed slightly done up, although they finished in excellent form. There is little doubt that this Halcyon crew of 1896 is the best that ever rowed on Lake Penacook, most of the men being veterans, the four stern oars especially being the best four that the school has ever turned out, so far as working together in the boat is concerned. The Shattuck crew, on the other hand, has had a good deal of hard luck this year, and the men were all younger and less experienced than their rivals. The crews rowed as follows:

Shattuck.

Halcyon.

In the race between the second crews, the Shattuck six got a better start than the Halcyons, and rowed 36 to the minute all through the race. The Halcyons overtook them at the first quarter, rowing 38. It had been supposed that these two crews were of about equal strength, and a close race was expected, but after the first quarter of a mile[Pg 934] the Shattuck men seemed to go to pieces and splashed badly, and in spite of the continued exhortation of the cox-swain, the men were unable to hit up the stroke. The Halcyon oarsmen, however, rowed in good form, and broke the record for their event, covering the distance in 9 min. 23 sec. The Shattuck's time was 9 min. 45 sec. The men sat in the boats as follows:

Shattuck.

Halcyon.

In the race between the third crews the Shattucks again got a better start than their opponents, and secured a lead which they kept increasing as they neared the finish. Within half a mile of the line the Halcyons raised their stroke for a moment and tried to spurt, but they were unable to keep this up, and soon fell back to 35. This four did not row in as good form as the other Halcyon crews did, and showed considerable want of coaching. Their pluck, however, was good, and they never gave up work until they had crossed the line. The third Shattuck crew rowed a very steady race, showing good form for the entire distance. The men sat in the boats as follows:

Shattuck.

Halcyon.

The breaking of the record by the first Halcyon is a feat to be proud of when it is considered that in the crew which held this record previously were Fennessy of Harvard, and Brown and Simpson of this year's Yale Henley crew. There are undoubtedly several rising oarsmen in both the Halcyon and Shattuck boats this year. Harvard will get Byrd, Stillman, Glidden, Nickerson, and McKay, whereas Yale will have Francis, Nugent, and Vredenburg.

RECORD OF CONTESTS BETWEEN THE HALCYON AND SHATTUCK CREWS, ST. PAUL'S SCHOOL, CONCORD, NEW HAMPSHIRE.

For the sake of the record I append the times of the several crews, as officially announced:

First Crews.—Halcyons, first; time, 8 minutes 21 seconds. Shattucks, second; time, 8 minutes 40 seconds.

Second Crews.—Halcyons, first; time, 9 minutes 23 seconds. Shattucks, second; time, 9 minutes 45 seconds.

Third Crews.—Shattucks, first; time, 10 minutes 4 seconds, Halcyons, second; time, 10 minutes 30 seconds.

After the races were finished, the crowd returned from Lake Penacook to the school grounds, cheering the victorious crews all the way; and when the students reached the flag-pole on the lawn, they followed the usual custom of hoisting the club colors and the stroke oar of the winning crew. And after this had been done the young men of St. Paul's did a very nice thing. They presented to the coach of the crews a ticket to Henley and back—a present that was probably more grateful to that instructor than any other his pupils could have thought of.

By the number of letters I have received from readers of this Department in Connecticut, I judge that the discussion of Hartford High-School's claim to the title of "Champion School" has aroused considerable interest in that section of the country. I am glad that this is so, for I believe that a wide discussion of such questions always tends toward good.

But either I did not express myself clearly in the few paragraphs that the Department devoted at the time to the discussion of the question, or else some of my readers have failed to comprehend the drift of my argument. One valued correspondent writes as follows: "I was very much interested in the argument which recently appeared in Harper's Round Table about H.P.H.-S. claiming the National championship. You say that they would have to defeat in dual contests the principal schools of the country in order to claim it. According to that, Hartford did not win the championship of the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. this spring, because she did not defeat each one of the schools in single contests. According to that, there is no honor to be gained in winning the greatest number of points in an Association field-day. Then why not do away with these Associations! Your suggestion about holding sets of dual games is not only impracticable but also impossible for ascertaining which school is National champion."

What I said in this Department on July 7 was that the National Games were a contest among "teams from leagues," and not among "teams from schools," and that therefore the question of school supremacy did not enter into the discussion. Further, I added that the only way the title of "Champion School" could be secured by Hartford would be for her to have dual meets with all other schools of her class. I should have added that another way for Hartford to earn the title of "Champion School" would be to hold a large interscholastic field-day, at which[Pg 935] teams representing individual schools—not teams representing leagues or associations—should compete.

At any track-athletic meeting where teams of athletes represent certain units, the team winning the greatest number of points becomes the victorious unit, and the athletes who aided in piling up these points, as representatives of that unit, are of no importance whatever so far as they can claim any relation to the other athletes who strove as representatives for the rival or defeated units. The Connecticut High-School A.A. is made up of a number of units—schools. Each unit sent a team to New Haven on June 6 to the annual field-meeting of the association. The athletes who came from the Hartford High-School piled up the greatest score: therefore the Hartford High-School is the champion of that association. It seems to me that this must be perfectly clear, and I do not understand how any one can logically deduce anything else.

But, supposing a majority of this point-winners for the Hartford High-School on that day were members of the class of '96—as they probably were—have they any claim to the title of "Champion Class" of the State or of the association? Certainly not. The games at New Haven were not "class" games; they were "school" games, and nobody knew or cared to what class the winning athletes belonged. In the same way it was of no importance whatever, so far as the championship was concerned, to what school the point-winners in the National Games belonged. These games were held among associations, and the association that scored the greatest number of points became the champion association for the year.

In the case of the Connecticut Association it happened that the greatest number of point-winners were members of the Hartford High-School. This may justly be a source of pride for Hartford, and for all the members of the High-School, but it is not a matter to interest the National Association, nor is it a matter for the National Association to take any cognizance of.

The same correspondent whom I have quoted above goes on to say: "Therefore I think that Hartford has just as much claim to the national championship as she has to the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. championship, and as Yale has to the Intercollegiate championship." I feel perfectly confident that as soon as he, and others, who are of his opinion at present, make clear to themselves the difference between a contest among schools and a contest among associations, they will not think that Hartford has any claim whatever. I am very glad, too, that my correspondent cited Yale in his comparison, for it helps me to make my argument even clearer.

Yale is a university made up of Yale College, the Sheffield Scientific School, the Yale Law School, the Yale Medical School, the Yale Art School, the Yale Divinity School, etc. On every Yale team that goes to the Intercollegiate games there are College men, Sheff men, and frequently men who are in the Medical School or other departments of the University.

It is not necessary to look over the records to find out if a case such as the one I am about to cite as an example ever actually happened, for the illustration is just as strong whether it ever occurred in fact or not. But suppose that the majority of the point-winners of the Yale team of 1896 were Sheff men. Would the Sheffield Scientific School, for that reason, have any grounds to claim any kind of a championship? Of course not. The Sheff men went down to Manhattan Field as members of Yale University, just as the H.P.H.-S. athletes went to the Columbia Oval as members of the Connecticut H.-S.A.A., and neither body has any right to set up any kind of a claim for individual prowess. If I have not yet succeeded in making myself clear to all my Connecticut readers, I hope they will let me hear from them further, and I will try it again.

Another point over which there has been considerable misunderstanding is the difference between an "Interscholastic" record and a "National Interscholastic" record. The Constitution of the N.I.S.A.A., in its Laws of Athletics, section 18, says that a national interscholastic record is any record made at the annual meeting of the N.I.S.A.A. A.A. An interscholastic record, on the other hand, is a record made by a student in any annual field-meeting of any league, club, or association. [The National Association's Constitution puts it, "any leagues, clubs, or associations of this association," but we cannot accept this as correct, because there are several interscholastic records held by associations not members of the national body.]

To be brief, however, a national interscholastic record is one made at the national games; an interscholastic record is one made at any interscholastic meeting. As soon as space enough avails, this Department will print the tables of national and interscholastic records—for the comparison will be an interesting one.

Speaking of errors, it is well to refer to one which crept into almost all of the reports of the performances of the National games. In the high jump this Department credited Sturtevant of Connecticut with first place, and Flournoy of Iowa with second place. The facts of the case were these: Flournoy and Sturtevant, the only contestants in the event, tied for first place at 5 ft. 8 in. Therefore they divided the points, each man taking four.

Then they chose to jump over again for the medals, instead of tossing a coin, as is usual—although this athletic method of deciding the question is by far the more sportsmanlike. On the jump-off Flournoy was unable to repeat his performance of 5 ft. 8 in., and could only clear 5 ft. 7 in., whereas Sturtevant again got over the bar at the higher point. This gave Sturtevant the first-place medal and Flournoy the second prize. But this jumping-off business had no effect whatever on the two associations' scores, and consequently Connecticut's figures should be 24 instead of 25, and Iowa's should be 7 instead of 6.

While speaking of records, let me say a word in connection with the mile-walk figures of Eells, of the Hotchkiss School, at the Connecticut games last June. The performance as recorded was 7 min. 11 sec., and I believe these figures to be correct. When the time was announced on the field at New Haven some one raised a cry that it should be 8 min. 11 sec., and a report that the official time-keepers had made an error was assiduously circulated.

A number of letters have come to this Department since that time asking if 7 min. 11 sec. were the correct figures for Eells's performance, and I have consequently been at some pains to make a careful investigation into the matter. Mr. E. G. Coy and Mr. C. E. Hammett, Principal and Physical Director, respectively, of the Hotchkiss School, assure me that Eells is capable of walking a mile in 7 min. 11 sec. They must have every means of knowing this, Mr. Hammett especially, having seen the young athlete train for months before he went to the Connecticut Interscholastics.

They assure me that the time, 7 min. 11 sec., as announced on the field that day, is correct, and they regret that any contrary report should have been circulated by some irresponsible enthusiast among the spectators. Considering these facts, Mr. Eells, in the opinion of this Department, is entitled to be considered the holder of the interscholastic record, and will be put down as such in the table soon to be printed.

The Graduate.

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[Pg 936]

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

Owing to the accumulation of queries, the Department this week will be devoted to replies.

J. L. E. asks how to fix the proper handicaps in a bicycle-race which he is getting up—what plan he is to go on, what the system is, and where he can find a book on the subject. Handicapping in bicycling is the same in principle as all other handicaps, and there are the same reasons, and only the same reasons, for giving handicaps that there are in other contests. As a rule, handicapping is best left alone. It should only be resorted to when the differences in speed of competitors are so great that no one could get up a race and induce men to enter unless a handicap were resorted to. In long distances, in road races of 25 miles or more, time handicaps are usually given. The time of each contestant—that is, his best time for a mile, or for 35 miles—is ascertained, and a table made of all these. Each man, then, shows a certain rate per mile for 25 miles, or whatever the distance may be. According to this record, one man does 10, 20, or 25 miles at the rate of a minute a mile faster than another. In a 25-mile race, therefore, he should give the other about 25 minutes' start. This is, of course, a large handicap, but it illustrates the point. If A does 20 miles in 60 minutes and B's record is 15 miles in 60 minutes, then, to make the race even, B should start on his run at 2 p.m., for example, while A has to wait at the scratch 15 minutes. When he finally starts at 2.15 p.m., B is 3¾ miles ahead of him. Supposing the road race was on a stretch of road five miles long and the course was to make it down and back four times—that is, twice each way. The distance handicap could be made by starting both A and B at the same time, with B at a position 1¼ miles from the first turn and A at the scratch; but such long-distance handicaps are difficult things to take care of, since it is practically impossible to start both men at the same moment. It is for this reason that time handicaps have been taken up. On short distances of a mile or two the difficulty is, of course, avoided, and distances can be arranged with simultaneous starts. A bicycle-race under 25 miles is, however, a dangerous and not particularly exerting affair, though there are many still. Ascertain, therefore, each man's record for the same distance, and then arrange the time handicaps, so as to give all, according to their records, the chance of coming in at the same moment.

"Wheelman" asks what are the laws regarding riding on sidewalks, coasting, and so on, and whether these laws are the kind that are enforced, or if they are, like many other city and town ordinances, only for use in emergency, and not otherwise observed. In the first place, the laws, ordinances, or regulations regarding riding on sidewalks, scorching, coasting, and so on, are different in every city or township—that is, each township has its regulations concerning these matters, and they have been adopted to protect other people. There is a movement on foot to make bicycles come under the head of carriages, and subject to the same laws; but in the mean time several things ought to be borne in mind by wheelmen. Most ordinances agree in stating that in city or town no bicyclist shall ride on sidewalks; that too great speed is dangerous; that coasting, where cross-streets are common, is dangerous; and that anything likely to endanger foot-passengers or be dangerous to the wheelman must be avoided. The regulations are made to cover these matters. It therefore behooves the wheelman to guard against any of these matters; for if we all thought of the possible danger and inconvenience to other citizens, there would be no occasion for stricter regulations than there have been for carriages. Hence, if you coast in a city or town, you are helping the movement which will cause aldermen and selectmen to pass more severe laws. If you ride on sidewalks, you are in just so far stimulating the popular prejudice against wheels, raising the fines, and causing a general feeling that bicyclists must be legislated against. When you are on country roads, where not one person an hour passes, choose the side path, since it may be the only good bit of road; but when you come to civilization, remember that no matter how bad the road, and no matter how many other wheelmen may be riding on sidewalks, and coasting and scorching, the law asks you to keep to your proper place, and you are helping the cause of bicycling, to say the least, if you do so.

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 Syracuse in No. 857; Syracuse to Lyons in No. 858; Lyons to Rochester in No. 859; Rochester to Batavia in No. 860; Batavia to Buffalo in No. 861; Poughkeepsie to Newtown in No. 864; Newtown to Hartford in No. 865; New Haven to Hartford in No. 866; Hartford to Springfield in No. 867; Hartford to Canaan in No. 868; Canaan to Pittsfield in No. 869; Hudson to Pittsfield in No. 870.

"IT."

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

Many of the games with which we are familiar in the United States are well known throughout Great Britain and on the Continent. But among the most amusing and most popular of English games is one of which we know little or nothing. It is dignified by the two-lettered name, "It."

This is altogether suitable for the parlor, and may be played by everybody if we will except the very young people. It creates roars of laughter, on account of the funny mistakes made by the questioners. "It" is a great mystery, and the longer it is played the greater mystery often it becomes. Only those understanding this game may remain in the room. All others must leave; there is no alternative. One of the party, unfamiliar with the game, is then selected to return, and must, by questioning those in the parlor, learn what "it" is. When he knows "it," he too must remain behind, and some one else is selected to fill his place. In this way the game is carried on, until each one in turn comes in and finds out the secret.

"It" is really the person who sits at your left, but, before this is discovered, usually much amusement is made. The game is played in the following way:

All in the parlor must sit in a circle, and must not change their positions. When the player is called in, he is told to ask a question of whomever he may please, and the person must correctly answer. For example—"Is 'it' white?" As everybody present is white, the answer is necessarily "Yes."

The questioner then asks another person, "Is 'it' thin?" and if the person to the left of the person thus questioned is thin, the answer is again "Yes." Perhaps this question may be repeated, and some one else is asked, "Do you also think 'it' is thin?" and if this person has some one for a left-hand neighbor who is very stout, of course he answers "No."

And thus the questioner is mystified, and must continue question after question. For a long time he may think "it" is a thing. Therefore a good question to put would be, "Is 'it' alive?" And then he might ask, "Is 'it' in this room?" Then he might try complexion, and again would be mystified, for if he asked, "Is 'it' a brunette?" and the reply being "Yes," his next question, "Has 'it' dark eyes?" would perhaps have for answer, "No"; and, "Has 'it' light hair?" "Yes." And so the secret seems harder than ever.

A good way is to ask the same questions over and over, and try to locate "it" in that way. But the questioner should not easily be discouraged. A few points may be given to him, such as some of the above. The players would better announce "It" as a trick game.

[Pg 937]

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.

In the summer of 1895 a complete unperforated sheet of the current 5c. U.S. unwatermarked was found in the post-office of New Orleans. A well-known collector bought the sheet for $1000. Some months later another collector who was looking up Plate Nos. discovered unperforated sheets of the current 3c. and 4c. stamps on unwatermarked paper (Plate Nos. 47 and 50 respectively). These unperforated stamps have been put on the market at $24 for a pair, or $12 each in larger blocks. No single stamps to be sold. The demand has been very lively, and most of the stamps have been sold at that price.

Of the 1890 issue the following are known to exist unperforated: the 2c., 4c., 5c., and 15c. Very few copies have come on the market, and those have been eagerly snapped up by the big collectors. Hitherto these unperforated stamps have probably been mere accidents, but there is danger in their becoming hereafter "accidental on purpose."

Plate Nos. are still booming. The early pink 2c. and ultramarine 1c. are comparatively easy to get. But the early Plate Nos. on watermarked paper are quite scarce. There must be quantities of these in the smaller post-offices. Fifteen dollars are offered for Plate 89 in any color.

As soon as a great rarity is discovered hundred of collectors look over everything they can find, and, wonderful to say, the stamp supposed to be unique rarely remains in that condition. The 10c. Baltimore, first catalogued about a year ago, was hardly announced when a collector in Louisville found another copy on the original envelope. And now another copy has turned up in Washington. The other day a lady who had relatives living in Florence in 1852 was induced to look over her old letters, and among them was one envelope bearing a beautiful strip of three 2 soldi Tuscany worth $50 each. The strip of three is probably worth $200 at least. Several other rare stamps were in the same lot.

The Argentine Republic has just issued a complete set of post-cards, embossed envelopes, and wrappers in commemoration of the eighty-sixth anniversary of the republic's independence. It is said that this issue is not to serve for a limited time, but will continue indefinitely. Argentine has not been very conservative in the making of new issues during the last decade. Complete series were issued in 1888, 1889, 1890, 1892, with some additional values in 1891, Columbian 2c. and 5c. in 1892, and official stamps in red and in black surcharges, with the inevitable inverted surcharges, some perforated, others rouletted, etc.

From present appearances it looks like a good set to let alone. As to their appearance, they are ugly in comparison with the Greek Olympian stamps, which have been put on the black list. The following is a complete set of this commemoration series:

L. Warren.—The only way to detect counterfeit stamps is to know what the originals are. Paper, water-mark, perforation, roulette, color of ink, size, and peculiarities of the engraving, and many other factors enter into the problem. Dealers usually keep an album of all the different varieties of counterfeits of every stamp for the purpose of comparison. Duplicate counterfeits are at once destroyed. In addition, dealers, like the advanced collectors, study the peculiarities of all genuine originals which come into their hands, and are always ready to take time and trouble to see fine collections, and talk over the different stamps. It is only by this method that a man becomes an expert in these days of dangerous counterfeits. Gradually an intuitive knowledge of forgeries is developed, so that frequently an expert will condemn a stamp which seems to be in all essentials a genuine one. If not an expert there is only one way to buy valuable stamps, namely from collectors or dealers, known to be experts, and known to be responsible.

W. K. Dart.—The current 2c. have three forms of triangle (see Round Table for May 12, 1896). They have no particular value, either used or unused. I would advise you to get a catalogue for 25c., as it is impossible for one to quote prices on a long list of ordinary stamps for every one of the many readers of the Round Table. Study your stamps by the aid of the catalogue.

S. E. Seorah.—The A.P.A. will hold their annual meeting at Lake Minnetonka, a beautiful summer resort in the lake country of Minnesota.

Philatus.

A GOOD CHILD

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Music

Franklin Square Song Collection.

GOOD MUSIC arouses a spirit of good-will, creates a harmonious atmosphere, and where harmony and good-will prevail, the disobedient, turbulent, unruly spirit finds no resting-place. Herbert Spencer puts his final test of any plan of culture in the form of a question, "Does it create a pleasurable excitement in the pupils?" Judged by this criterion, Music deserves the first rank, for no work done in the school room is so surely creative of pleasure as singing. Do we not all agree, then, that Vocal Music has power to benefit every side of the child nature? And in these days, when we seek to make our schools the arenas where children may grow into symmetrical, substantial, noble characters, can we afford to neglect so powerful an aid as Music? Let us as rather encourage it in every way possible.

Nowhere can you find for Home or School a better Selection of Songs and Hymns than in the Franklin Square Song Collection.

Sold Everywhere. Price, 50 cents; Cloth, $1.00. Full contents of the Several Numbers, with Specimen Pages of favorite Songs and Hymns, sent by Harper & Brothers, New York, to any address.

[Pg 938]

Older, and Knew More.

A Brooklyn gentleman tells a new story of Henry Ward Beecher. Mr. Beecher was a great preacher and a great teacher, but he was also not above admitting that he was a student as well, and had things to learn and to unlearn. Dining with the gentleman who relates the incident, the probability of a civil war was discussed. It was the year 1859.

"Oh no," said Mr. Beecher, positively, "the South will never make war on the question of slavery alone. And it has no other ground. Slavery will be abolished, first in the border States of Kentucky and Tennessee, and gradually southward to the Gulf. The controversy is spirited, but war will not come."

Late in 1861, when the war was raging and the Northern cause was darkest, the great divine lunched with a parishioner, and the gentleman first named was also a guest. Reminded of his prediction, the question was put,

"What do you think now?"

"I am three years older, and know more," was Mr. Beecher's reply.

Kinks.

No. 8.—More Poetical Pictures.—Birds.

Fill in the blanks with the names of the birds answering the description, and find out the authors' names. Answers will be published soon.

"The gentle ****, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high and wakes the morning." (1)

"The **** hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay." (2)

"The noisy ***,
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; (3)
The ********, balanced on some topmost spray,
Flooding with melody the neighborhood." (4)

"The ****, round-breasted as a rustic maiden,
Paddles and plunges, busy still." (5)

"O what a winning way thou hast of wooing,
Gentlest of all thy race—sweet ******-****!" (6)

"The ******, then, on every tree, (7)
Mocks married men, for thus sings he, ***-***!" (8)

"The call of the ********
Is frequent and pleasant
When all other calls are hushing." (9)

"The **** high floating, like a sloop unladen,
Lets the loose water waft him as it will." (10)

"Alone, and warming his five wits,
The ***** *** in the belfry sits." (11)

"The tawny ***** seats his callow brood
High on the cliff, and feasts his young with blood." (12)

"The *********** begins his song
Most musical, most melancholy bird." (13)

"'Tis the merry ***********
That crowds and hurries and precipitates
With fast, thick warble his delicious notes." (14)

Answers to Kinks.

No. 7.

1, Stork—Longfellow. 2, Sparrow—George Parsons Lathrop. 3, Robin; 4. Bluebird; 5, Sparrows; 6, Crows—Longfellow. 7, Swallows—James Barron Hope. 8, Partridge; 9, Woodpecker; 10, Oriole—J. T. Trowbridge. 11, Jay—William Howitt. 12, Thrush—John Clare. 13, Peacock—James Barron Hope.

Questions and Answers.

H. G. Benton, Akron, O. The justices of the United States Supreme Court are nominated by the President of the United States, and must be confirmed by the Senate. The Chief Justice is named for that place, and does not, as in Pennsylvania and some other States, reach that place by seniority. "A Writer" is assured that it is not influence or a hearing that sells manuscripts to periodicals. The conditions of such sale are merit, adaptability, and demand. John M. Wadsworth asks us to print pictures of rare American coins and stamps. He should know that such an act is against the law.

"S. B." asks: "How can I obtain a position out-of-doors, and go from place to place, seeing something of the world? I wish to combine business with pleasure, and I think out-of-door life would do me good. A position in an engineer's surveying-party is just the thing, but how can I obtain this?" Young men ought not to expect to combine pleasure with their business. Thousands of old men, who have served years in harness and earned a partial rest, if there be such reward, do not aim so high. If you seek employment with an engineer party, apply directly to an engineer. There is no employment bureau or agency through which you can deal, or, if there be, it is better to attend to the matter yourself. You will find addresses in the railway journals and in colleges where surveying and engineering are taught. When you get the place, banish at once any thought of pleasure as one of the objects of your occupation. Not to do so is wrong to your employer, and ten times more wrong to yourself and your future.

Henry P. Budisch, who hoped to go to West Point, but changed his mind under necessity and went to Cornell instead, asks how many men actually went into the civil war from Northern States. The total was 2,772,408. This included drafted men as well as volunteers, and all arms of service. The highest number of men in arms at one time was 1,000,516, on May 1, 1865—just at the war's close. These were practically all volunteers, because the regular army during the war never exceeded 25,463, which number it reached in January, 1863.

Fred Breittner asks what is the Ancient and Honourable Artillery Company of Boston which recently received such marked attention in England? It is the oldest military organization in the United States, dating from 1638. The term "ancient" was first used in 1700, and the "honourable" was borrowed from a similar company in London. It is not now a part of the militia of Massachusetts, and is, in truth, more of a social than a military company. It has its headquarters in Faneuil Hall. Its rare uniforms are an heirloom from British Colonial times.

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

DIRECTIONS FOR TONING BROMIDE PRINTS IN DIFFERENT COLORS.

Bromide-paper coated with silver bromide and gelatine in emulsion may be used for contact printing as well as for enlargements. By treating the developed print with a lead intensifier different tones may be obtained, some of which are quite pleasing. Print according to directions, and develop with any developing solution, but eikonogen gives the best results. Do not develop the picture fully; development should be stopped as soon as detail begins to appear in the shadows. Fix the picture and wash it well. While it is still wet immerse it in an intensifier made as follows:

This bath must be filtered before using. Leave the print in this bath till the image turns yellow, then wash in running water. Washing will turn the image white, when it may be immersed in any of the following baths, according to the tones desired:

REDDISH-BROWN.

After washing and before drying place the print in this bath, and tone till the desired shade. Wash in two or three changes of water, and dry between clean blotters.

Several prints of a beautiful green tone were sent in during the last photographic contest. One of our members sends the following formula for making the green tones on bromide-paper: Make up a solution of cobalt subchloride 1 part, and distilled water 10 parts. Let it stand for an hour, then filter. Print and develop according to the method given above, and after immersing in the lead bath, wash thoroughly, and place face up in the solution of cobalt. Keep the prints moving gently till the picture gradually assumes a fine green tone. Wash and dry with blotter. The same corespondent also sends the following formula for a reddish-brown or chestnut-color (in the prints sent in there were no clear whites, the high lights having a reddish tint, the paper seeming to have absorbed the solution): Cupric chloride, 1 part; distilled water, 10 parts. Immerse in the lead bath, and place the print, without washing, in the cupric-chloride bath.

The formula given for reddish-brown with uranium is one recommended by Dr. Vogel. It is more reliable than the cupric chloride.

Sepia-brown tones may be obtained on enamelled bromide-paper by using the following toning solution:

Dissolve the hypo first, then add the alum and sugar. This bath keeps well, and can be made up in larger quantity if desired. To use, take two toning-trays, in one of which have a cold bath, and in the other a hot bath. Immerse the prints in the cold bath for a minute or two, and then, without rinsing, transfer them to the hot bath. After toning rinse in an alum bath made in the proportion of one ounce of alum to thirty-five of water. Wash thoroughly, and dry on a ferrotype plate.

Sir Knight J. K. Hunter asks if the "C" Daylight Kodak, with glass plate attachment, is a good camera for beginners, and what outfit is needed for developing and printing. The Daylight camera is a very good camera, and easily managed. The outfit needed for developing and printing consists of a dark-room lantern, a 4 by 5 celluloid or rubber developing-tray, an amber-colored glass tray for the hypo or fixing bath, a 4 by 5 printing-frame, and a toning-tray. Directions for making a dark-room lantern were given in No. 781. You can refer to this if you wish to make your lantern instead of buying it.

Lady Charlotte B. Taylor, 1727 Q Street, Washington, D.C., has a pocket Kodak which she wishes to sell. Any Knight or Lady wishing to purchase is requested to write to Lady Charlotte.

Samuel H. Gottschalk, 1810 Columbus Avenue, Philadelphia, Charles H. Woods, Carlinville, Ill., Ralph H. Weand, 718 DeKalb Street, Norristown, Pa., and James D. Waite, 101 West Eighty-fifth Street, New York city, wish to be enrolled as members of the Camera Club. We are receiving many new members for the club, and hope that we shall see some very fine work in the coming contest, rules for which will appear later.

[Pg 939]

Sir Knight P. Conn wishes to know the best tray for the dark-room, the best for a toning-tray, and the best kind of plates to use. A celluloid or gutta-percha tray is a good one for developing solution, and an amber-glass tray for the hypo. If one uses a glass tray for hypo he never mistakes the hypo for the developing-tray. A white porcelain tray is a good one for a toning-tray. There are so many kinds of plates, or rather brands of plates, made that there is little choice between those made by reliable manufacturers. No one plate can be used for all kinds of work. Some subjects require a slow plate, some a very quick plate. A medium rapid plate is the better plate for general use in all-round work. A very rapid plate is needed for instantaneous. If our correspondent has trouble with his plates, please write to the editor.

G. I. J. asks how the tint first obtained on the paper in printing can be preserved, if the toning-bath that tones the florograph-paper can be used for other papers, and if a picture can be easily over-developed. The reddish tone of the picture may be preserved by simply fixing the print in a solution of hypo without previous toning, or it may be slightly toned and then fixed. The toning-bath mentioned can be used for other papers. If the developer is very strong and works quickly, it is very easy to over-develop a plate. To find out when the development has been carried far enough, take the plate out of the solution and look through it toward the red light. If the picture is clearly defined, and detail well out in the shadows, the plate is developed enough.

Sir Knight Ralph Weand encloses two prints and asks what is the matter with them. The reason why the pictures are so indistinct is that the plate was not exposed long enough, causing the shadows to appear as black patches instead of showing detail. A little longer exposure would correct this defect. A formula for plain paper is desired. This formula will be found in Nos. 706 and 803. It was also reprinted in the circular issued last fall.

Sir Knight Fred Taylor asks the reason of the spots on the finished prints. Spots are caused by black spots in the negative, from imperfections in the paper, and from imperfect toning-bath. Stains on the print are caused from careless handling in the toning-bath. The face of the print should never be touched, but the prints lifted by the edges. Hypo will cause spots, if any comes in contact with the face of the print. Care should be taken that the hands are perfectly clean when toning and fixing pictures. Sir Knight Fred sends the following directions for making a vignetting mask, which he hopes will be of benefit to the members of the club. Take a box cover that fits the printing-frame and cut a hole in it as large as the plate. Over it paste a piece of opaque paper, and make an opening any shape desired for the vignette—either pear-shaped, oval, round, etc. Cut little slits all round the edge of this, and over it paste a sheet of tissue-paper. Place the cover over the printing-frame and print. If the cover is attached to the frame the progress of the print can be examined without changing the shape of the vignette. Sir Fred asks for some hints on retouching. Directions for retouching will be printed in an early number of the Round Table.

QUICK WORK AGAIN.

So much interest was taken by readers of the Round Table in the stories printed not very long ago about the rapid manufacture of a coat and a suit of clothes, that this little anecdote from Sweden, which is of a similar nature, may prove of interest. Some men, who worked in a wood-pulp factory at Elfvethal, got into a discussion about how fast wood could be made into pulp and then into paper. The result of the discussion was an experiment, or trial of speed, in which these men performed the feat of cutting down three trees, chopping them up, making them into pulp, then into paper, on which the evening newspapers of the place were printed—and it took them just two hours and a half from the time the first tree was hewn until the first copy of the evening paper was sold.

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

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

Approximately

the cut below represents the DeLONG Hooks and Eyes. For a complete understanding sew them on your dresses. They cannot unhook except at the will of the wearer.

See that

hump?

Richardson & DeLong Bros., Philadelphia.

Also makers of the

CUPID Hairpin.

The New York Sun on April 11, 1896, said of

HARPER'S

PERIODICALS

They are handsome and delightful all, and are as friends that one is glad to see. They please the eye; the artistic sense is gratified by them; they overflow with varied material for the reader. They educate and entertain. They are the well-known and well-liked literary and artistic chronicles of the time. They are a credit to their publishers and to the discernment of the public that approves them. May they continue to be as admirable as they have been and as they are. Better could hardly be wished for them.

FOR SALE EVERYWHERE.

EARN A BICYCLE!

We wish to introduce our Teas, Spices, and Baking Powder. Sell 75 lbs. to earn a Bicycle; 50 lbs. for a Waltham Gold Watch and Chain; 25 lbs. for a Solid Silver Watch and Chain; 10 lbs. for a beautiful Gold Ring; 50 lbs. for a Decorated Dinner Set. Express prepaid if cash is sent with order. Send your full address on postal for Catalogue and Order Blank to Dept. I

W. G. BAKER, Springfield, Mass.

FOR KING OR COUNTRY

By JAMES BARNES

A Story of the American Revolution. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50.

A spirited story of the days that tried men's souls, full of incident and movement that keep up the reader's interest to the turning of the last page. It is full of dramatic situations and graphic descriptions which irresistibly lead the reader on, regretful at the close that there is not still more of it.—Christian Work, N. Y.

A boy's story, full of movement, and full of surprises.... The picture of the old "Sugar House" prison in New York and of the secret societies of patriots are drawn with entertaining pen, and the book will instruct as well as interest the average boy who reads it.—Boston Journal.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.

[Pg 940]

SHOOTING THE RAPIDS.

to shoot the rapids simple sammy heard 'twas very brave,
so down behind the house he went and shot into the wave.

FROM THE SEASHORE.

NEW USE FOR A SAND HOLE.

Bobbie (who has been digging in the sand for an hour). "Mollie, come here and look at the beautiful hole I've dug!"

Mollie. "My! ain't it lovely! If you'll give it to me I'll take it home with me, and use it for a scrap-basket."

LOST.

"Hi, mamma! come here!" cried Willie; "see this funny insect."

"That's what they call a sand-fiddler," said his mother.

"Poor little bug," said Willie, looking all around him. "I guess he's lost his fiddle."

HARD TO TAKE.

"Well, Tommie, I saw you go into the tin-type-man's place this morning."

"Yes; but I'd oughter known better. It didn't take. I don't ever get took. When I was waxinated it didn't take either."

A LITTLE GIRL'S VIEW.

"Hoh!" cried little Janie, as the photographer came down to take a picture of the ocean. "He'll never get a picture of the ocean. It don't never stand still long enough."

A TERRIBLE CHANGE.

After Polly had been at the seashore for a week she ran in to her mother weeping.

"Oh, mamma! mamma!" she cried, holding up her brown little hand. "I'm a-turnin' into a 'ittle darky goyl!"

A FISH STORY.

There is an old darky who can be found any day perched on such freight as may rest on the platform of the little station at S—— up in Maine. He has a cheerful word for every one that will greet him, and was never known to lose his good-humor except on one occasion. One morning he was as usual perched on a bale of straw, but instead of whittling at a piece of stick, a habit of his, he sat with his face in his hands, gazing mournfully out over the little lake that stretched away among the hills. It was then I noticed that his nose had assumed enormous proportions, almost shutting out his eyes.

"Why, Ike, what's the matter with your nose?"

He shook his head sadly, and inquired if I had a little "baccy." I handed him some, and waited for an explanation about his nose.

"I's neber gwan ter fish no mo', sah—no, sah! neber no mo'; 'cause dat's whar I's got dat nose, youse see."

"How did it happen, Ike? Tell us; perhaps we can fix you up."

"See dat little neck er-runnin' out past de big mountain ober dar? Well, round dat neck dere's a cove, and dere's as fine er trout stream runs in dere as dey has 'bout dis place. Ise was er-fishin' dere de oder day, when Ise seed er big one flittin' by a rock dat's dere. Ise thrashed dat spot by de hour, and dat trout he done come an' look at de fly, an' den—yes, sah, den dat trout laugh at me an' swim 'way. I's tried eberyt'ing to ketch him, but 'twa'n't any use. Den Ise grew er-thinkin'. What he do 'round dat stone all de time? So Ise rested very quiet and watched dat stone. Pretty soon Ise see er bee hummin' 'round close to de water and near de stone, and Ise see de trout make er leap fer him.

"Dat settled it; Ise knew what ter ketch 'im wid. Ise just caught er bee an' put de hook in between de wings, where it wouldn't hurt him. Den Ise casted. Yah, yah!—he! he! Dat trout he made one leap an' he had de bee; but de fight was awful. He done paid no 'tention ter me, but he an' de bee wuz er-havin' it out—and how dey did fight! Ise got him on de bank at last, and dere's whar my trouble came in. Ise opened his mouth ter get de hook out, when out flew dat bee, and he wuz mad. Yes, sah, he just been er-waitin' fer me, Ise know, an' he landed plumb on my nose. Youse see de result. But dat's only part ob it. De trout he swelled up de same way. He wuz five pounds when Ise first ketched him, but when he was done swellin' he was too heavy ter carry home."

We silently left Ike to continue his mournful contemplation of the lake.

JACK'S PROBLEM.

Jack (mystified). "Papa, there's one thing I don't understand kerzactly."

Papa. "Well, what is that?"

Jack. "I dig a hole here on the beach, and a wave comes along and washes over it, and goes back again. Then I find the hole all filled up with sand. I thought the ocean was made of water, but it seems to me it's nothin' but sand."

NO STOPPING-PLACE.

Strange Little Girl (at Long Branch). "Where are you stoppin'?"

Little Boy. "We ain't. We're all the time a-movin'."