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Title: Harper's Round Table, September 1, 1896

Author: Various

Release date: March 26, 2019 [eBook #59128]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, SEPTEMBER 1, 1896 ***




Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 879. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration]

IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER I.


There are but few dwelling-houses left which are occupied as such in that
part of Philadelphia which was once so fashionable, the neighborhood of
Independence Square. The rooms within the stately old mansions are now
used by lawyers and other professional men for their offices, and
business signs adorn the brick fronts without. There are one or two
exceptions to this rule, however, and there was one house where the
descendants of a long line of ancestors still lived in the home of their
fathers.

The two Misses Herrick prided themselves upon having been born and
brought up in the old house in Fourth Street, the same house in which
General Washington had so often supped with their great-grandfather,
when the table was adorned with the blue India oyster-dish and the
egg-shell teacups, which were now kept behind the locked glass doors of
the corner cabinet in the dining-room.

In one of the windows of this old house, in a room which fronted on the
street, sat Elizabeth, looking out on the autumn rain, which dripped
dismally through the leafless trees and flooded the brick pavement.
Elizabeth was a niece of the Misses Herrick, and she had lived with them
all her life.

It seemed a very long time, as she looked back upon it, although it was
really only eleven years; but that is a great space of time when one is
waiting; and Elizabeth had been waiting, ever since she had been old
enough to know that she had a father, for his return.

He went away from America, she had been told, when her mother died, and
that was when Elizabeth was a baby. Valentine, her brother, was almost
three years older, and he had been sent to their mother's family in
Virginia. The brother and sister had met but once or twice; for the
aunts in Fourth Street did not like boys, and therefore did not
encourage his coming there, and as Elizabeth had never been allowed to
visit her Southern relatives, they were practically strangers to one
another.

The Misses Herrick always spoke of the children's father as "poor
Edward" when they mentioned him at all. This was when an infrequent
letter arrived bearing a foreign post-mark. Elizabeth did not know why
he should be poor, for his sisters were certainly very wealthy, and she
had an indistinct idea, suggested to her by her old nurse, who was now
dead, that some day she herself would have a great deal of money.

But that made no particular impression on her mind beyond the fact that
if she did own money, she would like to give it all to her father if he
were poor. Perhaps that was the reason he did not come home, because he
could not pay for his passage.

Elizabeth thought it all out as she sat at the window this rainy
afternoon, and she determined to question her aunts on the subject at
the earliest opportunity. Julius Cæsar sat opposite to her, also looking
at the rain. When a gust of wind rattled the window and swirled the dead
leaves on the pavement he gazed out more intently still; for although he
was no longer young, and was extremely dignified, he was not above
playing occasionally with anything so fascinating as a moving leaf.

The little girl would have led a lonely existence had it not been for
Julius Cæsar, the cat.

The trouble was that Aunt Caroline was so occupied with her social
duties, and Aunt Rebecca with the many lectures, concerts, and German or
French classes which she attended, that there was little chance to speak
with them.

Elizabeth did not see them very often, either--only at luncheon, or when
she went out with Miss Herrick to be fitted for her fall or spring
outfit, or after an altercation with Miss Rice, the governess.

On these latter occasions, which, it must be confessed, were very
frequent, Miss Herrick was called in to act as mediator or judge, and
Elizabeth found that she invariably took the part of Miss Rice in the
discussion.

It was while she was thinking thus that her aunt Rebecca entered the
room. Miss Rebecca Herrick was still a young-looking woman, tall and
slender, and always beautifully dressed, and she was rarely seen without
a book of some sort, for her tastes were distinctly literary.

When she came into the room this afternoon her face wore a preoccupied
expression, and she was in evident haste. She did not see her niece
sitting in the deep recess formed by the heavy curtain at the window
until Elizabeth spoke,

"Aunt Rebecca, is it true that my father is poor?"

"Mercy, child, I did not see you there! How you startled me. What did
you say?"

"Is my father a poor man?"

"Elizabeth, how absurd! Poor? Why should he be?"

"Because Aunt Caroline always says, when a letter comes from him, 'Here
is a letter from poor Edward.'"

"Nonsense, Elizabeth! What ridiculous fancies you have! But don't stop
me now with your questions. I am looking for the French book I am
reading with Madame La Pierre. Have you seen it?"

"No," replied Elizabeth, not offering to look for it. "I am going to
write to my father, Aunt Rebecca."

But her aunt, having found the book, had left the room.

"I am going to write to him, Julius," she repeated, stroking the cat's
glistening white breast. "I do wish you were a fairy cat and could
speak. It would be so nice to have some one to talk things over with.
Never mind. When my father comes home, as he surely will when he gets my
letter, I can talk everything over with him. Won't it be lovely,
Julius?"

Then she left the window where she had been sitting so long and went to
the writing-desk--her aunt Caroline's desk, so carefully arranged, with
its silver implements and monogrammed paper. She would write to her
father, as she had said, though she did not know how to address it. But
fortunately her father's last letter, which had come that very morning,
was lying open on the desk, with the date and the name of the place at
which he was stopping written across the top.

She took an envelope and carefully copied the name, addressing it to Mr.
Edward Herrick, and then she wrote the following letter--wrote it
hastily, and without stopping to think what she should say:

     "MY DEAR FATHER,--I hope you are well, and that you are coming home
     soon. I do not know why you stay away from us so long, unless it is
     because you have not enough money to come home with. Aunt Caroline
     always calls you poor Edward, so I think that must be the reason. I
     want to tell you that we are not poor here at all. Aunt Caroline
     and Aunt Rebecca both have lots and lots of money, and I have an
     allowance of seventy-five cents a week to spend as I like, only I
     have to buy my hair-ribbons out of it, because Aunt Caroline thinks
     I lose so many, and it is going to make me take better care of them
     if I have to pay for them myself; but it does not make a bit of
     difference, for they will get lost.

     "I do not suppose that seventy-five cents a week will help you much
     to get home, but I am going to tell you something else. My old
     nurse Mary Ann, that died, told me once that when I was grown up I
     would have lots of money; she said I was an airess. I do not think
     that is the way to spell that word, but I will look it out in the
     dickshunary before I send the letter. I do not want you to think
     that I do not know how to spell, father dear. I read a book about
     an airess the other day, and it said she had a great deal of money,
     but she could not use it until she was very, very old--twenty-one,
     I think.

     "Now, father dear, I have a sujjestshun to make. Could not you
     borrow some money of somebody to come home with, and tell them you
     will pay it back in ten years? I have counted it up, and it will be
     ten years before I am twenty-one. It is a very long time, I know,
     but perhaps there is somebody who knows you well and will trust
     you. You can tell them that you _know_ your daughter will pay it
     back.

     "It seems strange that my aunts do not give it to you, for they
     have a great deal, I think; but I do not like to ask them to. They
     are very queer sometimes, father dear, though I do not like to say
     anything against your sisters. But won't you come home to me soon?
     I want you _so_ much. We could live together, and my brother
     Valentine could come home too, and we should be so happy. I have
     thought it over ever so many times, and I think it would be too
     perfect. I really need you, father, and I will try to be just as
     much like my mother as I can possibly be. They say I look like her,
     for I have dark eyes and light hair; but I am not pretty, and she
     was. Aunt Caroline says I have an unfortunate temper. The words pop
     right out so fast when I get mad that I can't stop them, and so
     many things make me mad.

     "But do come home, father dear. I need you so much; and please do
     as I say about the money. Come soon to your very loving and lonely
     little daughter,

  "ELIZABETH HERRICK.

     "P.S.--The nicest thing in this house is Julius Cæsar. He is a cat,
     very large and black, with a white breast, four white paws, and one
     white spot in the middle of his back.

  "E. H."

This was a very long letter, and the unformed childish hand in which it
was written covered several sheets of Miss Herrick's best note-paper.
When it was finished Elizabeth folded it and placed it in the
envelope, forgetting to correct the misspelled words. She found a
five-cent stamp in her aunt's well-filled box--she had seen Miss Herrick
put that kind of a stamp on her letters to "poor Edward"--and then going
into the hall, she took an umbrella from the rack and sallied forth into
the rain to mail the precious missive.

Elizabeth was mistaken when she told her father that she was not pretty.
Her large dark eyes and the hair which hung over her shoulders like a
mass of spun gold formed a striking contrast, but her cheeks were thin
and somewhat pale, and her expression was too old for that of a child of
twelve. Her lonely life was reflected in her face.

Her aunts did not intend to neglect her, but they were busy women whose
own special interests came first in importance, and they did not
understand the child. They thought that to feed and clothe her and to
give her a beautiful home to live in was all that was necessary, in
addition to the education, of which Miss Rice had charge.

They wearied of Elizabeth's questions, the result of long trains of
thought carried on by the alert inquiring mind, and either refused to
answer them or referred her to Miss Rice. The governess was one who
considered it more important to know exactly how far it was in miles
from the meridian of Greenwich to that of Washington, and what was the
date of the eleventh battle of the Thirty Years' War, than to plunge
into the subjects which interested Elizabeth.

Soon after the little girl's return from her expedition to the lamp-post
Miss Herrick came in. She was in out-door dress, and she carried a
card-case in her hand. Although she was rather below medium height, Miss
Herrick's manner of holding her well-shaped head was so stately that she
gave one the impression of being taller. Her features were regular, and
there was not a trace of silver in the smooth dark hair which was never
out of place. The Herricks were all noted for their beauty, and although
Miss Caroline was well over fifty, was still a handsome woman.

"Are you there, Elizabeth?" she asked, in her evenly modulated voice;
"it is a frightful day to go out, but I promised faithfully to go to
Mrs. Ford's tea. Tell me when the carriage comes to the door. My
umbrella seems to be wet. It is very strange. And who has been at my
desk? The pen is still filled with ink, and carelessly flung down on the
clean fresh blotter! Do you know anything about it, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, Aunt Caroline. I have been writing a letter there," said a small
but courageous voice from the window-seat.

"Writing a letter at my desk? May I ask why and to whom? Does not the
desk in your room afford opportunities for your correspondence?"

"It was easier to write it here. My room is so far off, and I wanted to
get it done quickly."

"What nonsense! And to whom did you write?"

"My father."

"Your father! Elizabeth, how dared you, without my permission? Poor
Edward! What will he say?"

"There you go again, Aunt Caroline," said Elizabeth, coming down the
long room and standing at her aunt's side. "Won't you please tell me why
you always call my father poor? Is he really and truly poor? Hasn't he
any money? Do you suppose he is ever--really--hungry, like the Brady
family in the back street?"

She asked these questions slowly and fearfully, and a solemn look came
into the large brown eyes fixed so intently on her aunt's face.

"What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth! Tell me at once what you wrote to
him about."

"Not unless you tell me why you call him poor," returned the little
girl, firmly. "I ought to know something about my own father, I think,
and you ought to tell me."

"You are extremely disrespectful. Leave the room at once."

"Very well; I will, Aunt Caroline. Only I think you might tell me, and I
mean to find out somehow about my father. And I was the one who used
your umbrella. I went out to mail my letter. And I used your stamp,
which I will pay you back. And I got my feet soaking wet, and I don't
mean to change my shoes. So there!"

"What a child she is!" thought Miss Herrick, as her niece disappeared
behind the portière. "I wonder what she has written to poor Edward? What
will he say? I trust he may never receive it. And she said her feet were
wet. That will not do, for she will surely have a sore throat." And she
touched the bell.

"James," she said to the man who appeared, "tell Marie to find Miss
Elizabeth and change her shoes. Her feet are wet."

But it was some time before James told Marie, and still longer before
Marie went in search of Elizabeth, and when she did the child was not to
be found.

The house in Fourth Street was very large, with huge rooms and lofty
ceilings, for it had been built in the generous fashion dear to our
grandfathers. The drawing-rooms occupied the first floor, the
sleeping-rooms of the two Misses Herrick the second, while Elizabeth had
for her own one in the third story.

Then there were the "back buildings," on the first floor of which were
the kitchens, above these the dining-room and library, and still farther
above a number of rooms which were used for various purposes, such as
the storing of furniture, camphor-chests, and the like.

There was one room in this part of the house which, to Elizabeth's
knowledge, had never been opened, and, strange to say, it was fastened
by a padlock. Elizabeth often wandered over the house when she had
nothing else that was particularly interesting to do, and this padlocked
door always possessed a strong fascination for her.

Why was it locked at all, and why was there a padlock on it? Was not an
ordinary lock enough? There must be something very precious in there.
What _could_ it be? The mystery piqued Elizabeth's curiosity immensely.
If she could only see behind that closed door!

On this rainy afternoon when she had been dismissed so summarily from
the drawing-room she mounted the long double flight of stairs toward her
own room. When she reached the third-story landing, however, her glance
fell upon the locked door, which directly faced her.

"What is in that room?" she said to herself. "I must find out. Aunt
Caroline won't tell me about my father, so I am going to discover things
for myself. There is the front door shutting, so she is off, and Aunt
Rebecca is taking her French lesson in the library. No one will hear
me."

She turned and hurried down the thickly carpeted stairs, her flying feet
making not a sound, and ran along the hall to her aunt Caroline's room.
The lofty four-post bedstead, which had been made especially large for
great-grandfather Herrick's famous height, seemed but of ordinary size
in the great chamber, and the massive wardrobe and old-fashioned chests
of drawers consumed but little of the space.

Elizabeth paused in the middle of the room and looked about her. If she
could only see the key-bag which she knew Miss Herrick kept in her room.
She would not like to open any drawers to find it. It did not seem quite
the right thing to go to people's bureau drawers. Fortunately it was not
necessary. The key-bag hung on a rack near the dressing-table.

Elizabeth took it carefully down and ran up stairs again. Slowly and
laboriously she tried each key to the little padlock. Not one of them
would fit. There were thirty keys at least, and yet not one would open
the door. What should she do? Disappointment only made her more anxious
than ever to succeed.

Very dejectedly she returned to Miss Herrick's room and hung the bag
where she had found it. She was turning away when she chanced to see a
small Chinese cabinet of drawers on the dressing-table. It was curiously
inlaid, and the corners were bound with silver, and it consisted of but
two little drawers, the whole standing not more than four inches high.
Elizabeth had noticed it before on the table when she had been in her
aunt's room, and she had always admired it.

She took it up and looked at it. One of the little drawers slipped out
as she held it, and within lay two keys, one large and the other small,
and they were tied together with a ribbon. With a half-suppressed "Oh!"
of delight she seized them and ran up stairs.

One key fitted the lock of the door, the other the padlock. With perfect
ease she turned them and entered the room.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




THE SAILING AND RACING OF THE SMALL BOAT.

BY DUDLEY D. F. PARKER.


A great deal of real solid pleasure may be had from the handling and
racing of the smaller classes of sailing-craft.

[Illustration: THE "TUCK-UP."]

The boat possessing all the peculiarities of the small boat to the
greatest extent is the "tuck-up," a type seemingly a cross between the
ordinary cat and a "Whitehall" row-boat, and having an extremely easy
under-water body. These little boats range from sixteen to nineteen
feet, and have a very moderate beam as compared to the cat-boat, and are
rather deeper. The entrance is sharp, and the stern lines are much cut
away, making a hull that can be driven through the water at a high
speed, though lacking in stability. It is frequently the case that the
spars and sails of these boats are so large that they are top-heavy from
this alone, and often the boat has to be run alongside a dock and a man
hold it right side up whilst the crew clamber aboard. Ropes are
frequently fastened at intervals to the centreboard trunk to assist the
men in hanging on when the boat is away over. In the sketch the crew is
represented as laying flat on the deck for windward work.

They are essentially a "racing-machine," their speed being developed by
a large sail, big centreboard, and all the men and bags available to
keep the whole right side up. The rig is the regular cat, and everything
is very strong. On account of the small displacement of hull and the
large sail and ballast, the motions of the boat are much intensified. A
squall striking the large sail area will throw her down in an instant,
and as soon as it is over she rights as quickly. It will be readily seen
from the foregoing that the crew should watch the boat intently, and be
prepared to hang out over the side or scramble inboard, as the occasion
may require. The problems presented for racing these boats are about the
same as those of the cat-boat (see article in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No.
827), but there are several things that should always be kept in mind.
These boats are quick in stays, obedient to the helm, and change course
rapidly when gybed. On account of comparative lack of beam, the deck at
the sides is narrow and the coaming is low, so as to permit the men to
lay over the side, and in consequence the danger of taking water aboard
is greatly increased. In fact, it is a frequent sight in a race to see a
man busily engaged in bailing out the water that has dashed in over the
bow or come in over the lee gunwale. The quick manner of heeling of
these boats greatly increases the chances of getting the sail in the
water, and you should keep a sharp lookout for this, as it is liable to
result in an upset. At the same time you do not want to let the wind out
of the sail, or the weight of the men on the upper side will dump the
boat to windward. The principal duty of the crew will be to act as
shifting ballast, and the greater the rapidity with which the motions of
this important duty are performed, the more the boat's speed will be
helped. When the boat starts to heel, it should be met quickly, so as to
prevent her getting away over and wallowing through the seas, the men
lying out or sliding in quickly, as the wind's force varies. The duties
for each man are about the same as in the cat-boat, having a man at the
tiller (captain), sheet-tender, centreboard and halyard man, and if the
day is at all windy a light man had better be assigned to bail the boat
when necessary.

[Illustration: THE ST. LAWRENCE BOAT.]

St. Lawrence skiff-racing is not general, though in some parts of the
country it is indulged in. It will be sufficient, perhaps, to pass over
it with a few words. The boat is in many respects a large canoe, and
hence depends entirely on the crew to hold it up. The rigs employed are
enlarged canoe rigs, _i.e._, two fore-and-aft sails of some
character--"bats' wings," "Mohicans," etc., etc.

The sternmost sail, or "jigger" (sometimes called "dandy"), has a
tendency to throw the boat's head up into the wind, and as there is no
counteracting influence of a jib, these rigs sail very close to the
wind.

In going about, the jigger is a great aid, and should be hauled in flat
when rounding up, and trimmed properly again when on the other tack. In
gybing, the jigger is more of a hinderance than an aid, as in making a
gybe it is necessary for the boat's head to fall off the wind. To make a
neat job, the wind pressure in the jigger should be reduced as much as
possible as the mainsail is coming inboard. In running before the wind
the sails should be placed "wing-an'-wing," that is, on opposite sides
of the boat, so as to get full benefit of the wind and ease the
steering. When running this way you should watch the boat carefully,
lest some small change in wind or course would cause one of the sails to
gybe over.

[Illustration: RACING BATEAU.]

The racing small boat pre-eminent of this section of the coast is the
"bateau"--a half-round-bottom type possessing some of the qualities of
the flat-bottomed row-boat and the sea-skiff. They are usually in the
neighborhood of eighteen feet, and rather narrow, with a sharp bow and
long tapering stern-lines. The bottom board, or "keel," is about
eighteen inches wide in the centre, tapering to a point at each end.
From it the sides are built up out of two or three wide planks riveted
together. The stern is really an overhang, but has a skag built on
underneath, and terminates in a perpendicular stern-board. The rig
generally employed on these boats is the "skiff rig," though
occasionally the mainsail with gaff and halyards is used. The use of a
jib presents many new problems in sailing, and will necessitate some
thought and study on the part of a boy whose experience has been
confined to the handling of a cat-boat. In the jib-and-mainsail rig
there are two opposite forces at work. The mainsail, as in the cat-boat,
throws the boat's head in the wind, only this is more pronounced, as the
mast is stepped further aft. This can readily be seen.

Let us suppose our boat to be a lever pivoted on a fixed point, and free
to swing on this point. The point in the boat that takes the place of
the pivot of the lever is the centre of lateral resistance (resistance
to sliding sideways). This centre will be somewhere amidships, and it is
clear that whichever side of it the greatest wind pressure is exerted on
the sails, that part of the boat will have a tendency to drift with the
wind, so swinging the other end around. In the mainsail the greatest
power is aft of this centre, hence the stern falls off and the bow goes
up into the wind. In the jib the reverse is true. The power here is
applied forward of the centre, and hence the bow falls off. These two
neutralizing forces should be borne in mind when handling a jib and
mainsail, and made judicious use of.

[Illustration: SEA-SKIFF.]

Moderate observation and some thought of this principle will enable a
boy to analyze the behavior of his boat, and to trim his sails so as to
correct errors and get their full benefit. The jib may be trimmed so
that the boat will almost steer itself, though the sail should not be in
so flat that the mainsail cannot cause the boat to luff up when you let
go the tiller. When beating to windward or close-hauled the pressure on
the head-sail must be lessened, and so the jib should be given
considerably more sheet than the mainsail. When you wish to go about,
the rudder and mainsail are handled in the same manner as in a cat-boat.
(See HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 827.) After letting go of the tiller and
starting to haul in the main-sheet, and when you notice the boat is
rounding up, let slack the jib-sheets, and when the boat is on the other
tack, trim it in tightly, so as to carry the boat's head over quickly,
and then trim properly after the mainsail fills. In gybing the jib is of
much assistance. The main-sheet and tiller are handled about the same
manner as in the cat, but perhaps another caution should be given about
not forgetting to haul the centreboard up. Never fail to see that the
board is up before throwing the boat off with the rudder. When about to
put the rudder over, after pulling the board up, trim the jib in flat,
and it will aid greatly in swinging the bow off; at the same time, if
kept trimmed in until the boat's course is settled, will check to a
great extent the tendency of the boat to run up into the wind after the
sail goes over. When running off the wind the jib should be in nearly as
flat as the mainsail, but you should always remember not to have the jib
in so tightly as to destroy the luffing power of the boat. If a sudden
squall strikes the boat, let go the jib-sheet, and it will luff up
quickly. When running before the wind the jib may be used as a spinnaker
(see sketch of skiff) by placing the sails "wing-an'-wing," and if there
is not enough wind to hold the jib out, a light pole or an oar may be
used for that purpose. If the racing rules permit, a pole may be set
over the side abreast of the mast, and the jib rigged as a regular
spinnaker.

The crew should be disposed, when possible, so that the boat will set
deeper in the stern than in the bow; that is, the bottom board at the
bow should be about two or three inches under water, so that the
cut-water will part the waves. If the bow is lifted out so as to bring
the flat bottom board in contact with the waves the boat will "smash"
its way through, and each wave will stop the headway. If the bow is too
deeply in, a larger sea than usual is liable to come aboard, and in
addition the rudder will be lifted out to a certain extent, and the boat
will steer badly, on account of lack of rudder area and the increased
lateral resistance of the bow.

[Illustration: RACING SNEAK-BOAT.]

Sneak-boat racing is also popular in some sections. The sneak-boat is
very much like the cat-boat, and is about as uncapsizable as a boat can
be. Its lines are all full, mostly arcs of circles, the sides being
"flaring." The long spoon-shaped bow and broad full stern overhang give
great stability and displacement when heeled over. A fore-and-aft sail
of some character is used, and the boats are handled much like a
cat-boat. Under favorable conditions they develop good speed. They are
unsurpassed as a boat for the beginner in sailing or racing.

Sea-skiff racing is indulged in by the fishermen, and these speedy boats
afford some good sport.

But to leave these special types, and coming to small-boat racing in
general: What qualities are essential to the successful racing skipper?
I should link two together as outweighing all others--good judgment and
spirit. They seem to stand together; one without the other is liable to
lead to unsuccess. Judgment without the spirit to make best use of it
will lead to over-caution. Spirit without judgment verges on rashness,
and cannot but lead to disaster.

The racing-man must think quickly, and act immediately and decisively.
He must train himself to take in situations at a glance and determine
the policy he will pursue immediately.

The boat should be sailed with dash. Your main idea should be to get
speed, and everything else should be subordinated. Injury to boat should
not be considered, unless it is liable to cripple her permanently, and
this risk is very often pardonable. No thought should be given to the
crew's comfort; they should be regarded as machines, for the time being.

In short, the tuck-up, skiff, bateau, or small boat of any character
should be sailed like a large toy boat. If a gust throws her down, get
the crew out over the side if necessary, so that there is only enough
inboard to keep them from falling off. Don't be afraid of taking water
aboard; when there is enough in to be troublesome, bail it out.

A racing-man must be observant. He should notice where the tides are the
strongest, and also which way the flow is at the time of the race. If
possible, he should make himself familiar with all this before the race,
and it should have some effect on the course of his boat. For instance,
suppose one of the legs of the course takes you up a channel, as the
outlet of a river or bay. If the tide is against you, you should hug the
shore and avoid the deep water, as the tide always runs strongest in the
centre. Now suppose you have rounded the mark, then the tide is in your
favor, and it is clearly to your interest to get in the middle of the
channel, so as to have its full benefit. It will easily be seen what
might be lost by a skipper not knowing or observing which way the tide
was flowing. I witnessed a very good example of this last year, in the
Labor Day Races, in the Horseshoe, Lower Bay. The course was a thrash to
windward out to the Sou'-west Spit and return, from a starting-line near
the mouth of the Navesink River. There was a strong flood-tide and a
light wind, causing the fleet to split into two sections, one tacking in
under the Hook, and the other taking the straighter course for the mark.
The latter got the full handicap of the incoming tide, and was left far
behind the boats which had gone inshore to escape it.

At all times you must be on the lookout to take any little advantage an
opportunity offers, and to interfere with an opponent's wind. If
possible, when passing a boat, always go to windward, but do not enter
into one of those senseless luffing matches, which will practically take
the two boats engaged out of the race.

The price of success in racing is vigilance, observation, decision, and
no set rule can be laid down for the racing captain. A great deal will
depend on opportunities and the manner he makes use of them. There is
some luck in boat-racing, but much that is ascribed to luck is due to
the forethought of the captain. Very often you hear that such and such a
boat, with her usual good luck, received the first advantage of the
changing breeze. How is it that in these cases it is usually the same
boat; can we entirely and justly ascribe it to luck?




OLD HAMMER-THE-ROCKS.

BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.


Down in Brooks County, in southern Georgia, people are still laughing
over the great joke on Dick Weston. Dick is rather a favorite, too,
though he is a Northerner; but people always laugh at a fellow who tries
to play a sharp game and is tripped up.

"Now don't you be like Dick Weston," they tell their boys, "and waste
your time waiting for dead-men's shoes. I want to see you like his
cousin Larry--able to show that you amount to something."

There would not have been any joke on Dick Weston, and perhaps Larry
Weston would not have made his great strike, if it had not been for the
civil war. Major Weston, of Massachusetts, went down to Georgia in the
Union army, and after the war he bought a big plantation in Brooks
County, and made a heap of money. Then years afterward his brother
Henry, a merchant in Boston, went down and bought half the plantation;
and there the two lived, and still live, with every comfort in the
world, except the comfort of good wives; for they are both old
bachelors.

Of course it was common talk in Dick's family, and in Larry's family,
too, that the two bachelor uncles were very rich, and that the two
nephews would most likely be their heirs. Larry never paid any attention
to this talk, for his head was full of other things. But it was very
different with Dick.

"Your nose is out of joint, young man," Larry's father said one day,
giving him a poke in the ribs; "I have a letter from your uncle George,
and he says Dick is going to make his home with them."

"Why shouldn't he, if they want him?" Larry answered. "I'm sure I don't
envy him. For my part, I'd rather make my own way than depend upon
somebody else."

That was two years before Larry's visit to Georgia, and Dick put in two
years of faithful work trying to make himself agreeable to his rich
uncles. Ho was so sweet around the house that his old school-mates would
hardly have known him. His uncles' slippers were always warmed before
the fire on cold mornings; and whatever they liked, Dick liked. If they
had said that cotton grew on chestnut-trees, Dick would have said so
too.

Uncle George and Uncle Henry laughed in their sleeves at Dick's
wonderful affection, for they had been in the world a good while and
knew a thing or two. But they liked him, nevertheless, for he had
pleasant ways and was a handsome fellow; and the neighbors liked him,
though they said, "he's playing for big stakes, and he'll likely win."

All this time Larry was attending strictly to his own business, and
learning a heap about the rocks that lie in the ground. That was his
hobby. Other things he learned because he knew they were necessary; but
mineralogy he studied because he loved it. His ambition was to go out
into the Southwest when he was old enough, and find gold or silver or
some other valuable stuff where nobody suspected its existence. His room
was full of cases of broken rock, and he rarely went out without his
little hammer. It was a standing joke in the house that the police were
looking for him for breaking corners off the curb-stones.

The two uncles evidently kept an eye upon Larry, for as soon as he was
done with school they invited him to spend a month on the plantation.
That was when he was just past eighteen.

"No, _sir_!" he said to his father. "I wouldn't go for a farm. There's
no meaner business in the world than trying to curry favor with rich
relations."

"But think what a chance you'd have to geologize, or metallurgize, or
whatever you call it!" his father suggested. "There must be rocks in
that country, and you could break them by the ton."

That put a new face on the matter. Larry had nicked specimens from the
rocks of Harlem and Manhattanville and the Palisades, but the Georgia
rocks would give him a new field; and for strictly professional reasons
he decided to go.

As Larry had never seen a plantation before, he found everything very
different, of course, from what he expected. It was much larger, to
begin with--more than 4000 acres--and he could roam about all day
without going off his uncles' land. One big cotton-field contained more
than 2000 acres, and one morning he counted eighty-five men, women, and
children at work on it hoeing cotton. At the same time twenty men, with
mules, were cultivating corn on the other side of the place; and the
rows of cabins for the workmen looked like a village. Still he was
rather disappointed. He expected to see beautiful green lawns shaded by
fine old oaks, and beds of brilliant flowers, and everything as smooth
and clean as a rich man's place in the North. There were plenty of oaks
and flowers, to be sure, but there was no skilful gardener to keep them
trimmed smooth. The house was old, and as there was no mistress, the
negro women had their own way, and everything was in disorder.

But the plantation was no more of a disappointment to Larry than Larry
was to the plantation--at first. He was so quiet and thoughtful, not at
all such a "hail-fellow-well-met" with everybody as Cousin Dick. There
were horses to ride and birds to shoot and fish to catch, but he took
no interest in such things. When he could have a bit of rare rock to
examine, and some acids to test it with, he liked that better than the
plantation sports.

"Come, Larry," Uncle Henry said one morning, "and take a gallop with us.
We are just half-way between Quitman and Thomasville here, and we'll go
whichever way you like."

"I don't know much about horses, Uncle Henry," Larry answered, "and
don't want to break my neck. Besides, I have some queer specimens here
that I want to test; so I guess I'll keep house while the rest of you
go."

Dick was suspicious of his cousin, and always ready to make him the butt
of his jokes. Before Larry had been on the plantation a week he had
nicknamed him Post-Pliocene, Alluvium, Kill-Sport, and a dozen other
things; but Old Hammer-the-Rocks was the favorite title, and it was so
appropriate that it always made Larry smile. And Dick's love for his
cousin did not increase at all when he found, after a few days, that the
uncles had discovered that Larry was full of information about many
things, and liked to talk with him on subjects that Dick knew nothing
whatever about.

On the morning of the day when Dick unwittingly played the great joke on
himself, Larry was sitting in the library just after breakfast, looking
over the State Geologist's Report. Dick soon joined him, and burst out
with:

"Come on, Old Hammer-the-Rocks! We're going after birds. Shake yourself
up once and come along."

"I never killed a bird in my life, Dick," Larry answered, "and I'm not
going to begin to-day."

"Ah, indeed!" Dick sneered. "Don't approve of such sport, I suppose."

"No, I can't say that I do," Larry replied, very good-naturedly. "It may
be sport for you, but what must the birds think about it?"

Uncle George, the Major, bustled into the library after his
cartridge-belt just in time to hear this conversation.

"Who's that don't approve of killing birds?" he asked, pretending to be
very angry.

"I don't, Uncle George," Larry replied, "It's a heap more pleasure to
hear them sing in the trees than it can be to kill and eat them."

As he spoke he could hardly keep from laughing outright at the
expression on Dick's face. Dick seemed perfectly horror-stricken to hear
one of his rich uncles reproved in such a fashion.

"Well, there _are_ more important things in the world, that's a fact,"
the Major laughed. "You go ahead with your uncle Henry, Dick, and I'll
join you later. I want to have a little talk with Larry."

"This is a nice state of affairs!" Dick said to himself, as he went out.
"I never contradicted Uncle George in my life, but he never keeps _me_
in the library for a private talk!" and he began to wonder whether a
little independence, after all, could be better than his own way.

"You mustn't let us bore you with our country sports, Larry," the Major
said, when they were alone. "We have nothing else to amuse ourselves
with, but you have. I am glad to see you so much interested in geology
and mineralogy; the knowledge may be useful to you some day. That is all
I wanted to say; I want you to enjoy yourself while you are here, and
enjoy yourself in your own way, whether it's shooting birds or hammering
rocks. Now I'll go and murder a few birds, as I know nothing about rocks
myself."

Left to himself for the whole morning, Larry determined to follow the
little creek that ran southward, and see what its banks had to offer.
Besides, he knew that by following it for three or four miles he would
come to the Florida line, and he wanted to be able to say that he had
been in Florida. So, with his hammer and his little black bag, he set
out.

The Weston place, like most of the big plantations, has its own
gin-house, where the cotton is passed through a machine that separates
the fibre from the seed; and the gin-house is always built over a
running stream, so that the water will turn the big wheel.

He did not imagine, as he followed the gin-house stream, how fate was
arranging everything for him that morning. He had not gone a mile before
the sky began to grow black.

"No matter," he said to himself; "if it should rain hard, there is the
gin-house a mile further on. I can find shelter there."

The rain came in due course, a real Southern downpour, and he hurried
along to the gin-house and went in.

It is a ghostly old place, that Weston gin-house, built of solid timbers
many years ago. The floor is on a level with the ground, and a big
double door lets in light for the machine. But beneath the floor is a
deep gully washed out by the stream, dark and damp. From a trap in the
floor, steps lead down into that black hole, where the big wheel turns,
and a maze of great timbers support the wheel and the building.

Just as Larry stepped into the gin-house and closed the door, Dick
emerged from the woods beyond, hurrying home out of the rain.

"There's Old Hammer-the-Rocks gone into the gin-house," he said to
himself, "and I believe I'll get a little wetter for the sake of giving
him a scare. Instead of going in myself, I'll put the prop against the
door and fasten him in."

The rain made so much noise that there was little danger of his being
heard, and he went boldly up and fastened the doors.

"Now he'll have a time of it," Dick said to himself. "The only way he
can get out is to go down past the wheel, then climb down the timbers to
the bank of the stream, and crawl under the siding and climb up the
rocks. Those timbers are slippery, too; but if he breaks his neck that's
his lookout, not mine."

Up to a certain point everything worked precisely as Dick had foreseen;
but who in the world could have imagined what was to happen afterward?

When the rain let up a little Larry tried to open the doors, but they
would not open. He pushed and pulled, but the heavy doors would not
budge. Then he began to investigate. It was very dark inside, but
through the trap he saw that down below the wheel there was more light.
Though the house was weather-boarded all the way down, there was an open
space at the bottom for the water to run through. That was the only way
to get out.

He felt his way cautiously down the dark stairs to the platform by the
wheel, expecting every minute to put his hand on a lizard or a centipede
or some other unpleasant creature. The wilderness of thick timbers down
there reminded him of some church belfries he had been in, but the
belfry timbers were not so soft and slimy to the touch. From the side of
the wheel he started to walk across a short timber to the wall, so that
he could climb down to the bottom of the gully. But the timber was worse
than he thought--half rotten, slippery with moss and slime. His foot
slipped, and he fell, not into the shallow water, but upon the rocks by
the side of the little stream.

That was just as Dick had more than half wished. Larry lay stunned upon
the rocks beneath the old gin-house.

But then the great joke on Dick Weston that all of Brooks County is
still laughing about began to develop.

[Illustration: LARRY'S DISCOVERY UNDER THE MILL.]

Instead of lying there mangled and bleeding, Larry got up and found that
he had no hurts beyond a few bruises. He was in a spooky place, but he
forgot all about the fall and the mystery of the closed door when he saw
that there were more rocks all around him than he had found before on
the whole plantation. The stream had cut its way between walls of rock,
and the ledge was littered with loose bowlders, large and small.

He picked up some small specimens to put into his black bag, and
something in the feel of them startled him. It was a curious combination
of roughness and smoothness that his fingers touched. He knew he had
felt that species of rock before, but where? Certainly not often. It
must be something uncommon. He picked up as many specimens as the little
satchel would hold, and crawled out into the daylight.

He was twenty feet below the surface, between two walls of rock that
extended as far up the gully as he could see. He touched one of the
rocky walls, and felt again that curious sensation of roughness and
smoothness.

He chipped off a small piece with his hammer, and sat down on a big
bowlder to examine it.

"Now I have it!" he exclaimed. "It was in the Museum of Natural History
that I saw and felt this stuff. But it can't be that this is a great
deposit of--"

He was almost afraid to speak the word, for perhaps he was mistaken,
after all. He took the hammer again and pounded part of his specimen
into powder, felt it, studied of it, and tasted it with his tongue.

Ten minutes later he was hurrying across the wet fields towards the
house, his pockets bulging with specimens broken from a dozen different
places. When he reached home he went straight to his room, and soon
filled the air with the unpleasant odor of acids poured upon pounded
rock.

The Major and Uncle Henry and Dick were in the library when he went down
stairs, talking over their morning's sport.

"Oh, you missed it, Hammer-the-Rocks!" Dick exclaimed. "We had a royal
time."

"I had a pretty good time too," Larry answered. "I explored the cellar
of the old gin-house, and found some very interesting specimens." And he
unloaded his pockets and the satchel upon the library table.

"Specimens!" the Major exclaimed, picking up one of the pieces. "Why,
this is just our common rock. I'm afraid you have fooled yourself this
time, Larry. The whole place is underlaid with this stuff--more's the
pity!"

"Is it?" Larry asked, very coolly; "that's good. What name do you give
it?"

"Oh, we don't give it any particular name," the Major replied, tossing
the specimen back to the table; "just ordinary rock."

"Then you won't mind my giving it a name, Uncle George," Larry went on.
"I call it wavellite; it is worth about eight dollars a ton, just as it
lies."

"What?" both the uncles exclaimed together, springing to their feet.
"Eight dollars a ton!" And Cousin Dick began to look uncomfortable.

"Fully that; perhaps more," Larry continued. "I consider it a better
find than a vein of gold, for it is safer. It is the most valuable
phosphoric rock known to commerce, and has never been found anywhere but
on one little island in the West Indies. Wavellite, or Redondo mineral,
is the commercial name of it. But you must not depend solely on my
opinion. Have the specimens examined by an expert."

The bird pie received little attention that day. Uncle Henry took an
afternoon train to Savannah with half a pack of specimens, and returned
two days later with the expert's verdict: "Wavellite beyond doubt." Soon
acres of growing cotton were turned into big holes in the ground where
the mining was done. The beauty of the plantation was spoiled by the
heaps of rock thrown up, but its value was increased many times over.

It was only last week that the Major wrote to Larry's father:

"Of course you will not think of calling Larry home. He has charge of
all our mining operations, with a ten-per-cent. interest in the output
that will make him a rich man in two or three years. Dick, I am glad to
say, is making himself useful too; he is Larry's clerk. I suppose we
should never have known of the wealth under our feet if it had not been
for Larry."

It was Dick's own fault that the story of the gin-house leaked out. He
told one of his intimate friends about his "bad luck," and it was soon
all over Brooks County. As the planters ride past and see him keeping
tally in his little book, they often call to him:

"Hello, Dick! What will you take to fasten somebody in _my_ gin-house?"




A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XII.


As soon as George had spoken he disengaged himself gently from his
mother's arms. She was still weeping, but blessing him.

"God will reward you, my son, for this yielding to your mother!" she
cried.

"I don't know, mother, whether I deserve a reward, or not," he answered,
in the same strange voice in which he had first spoken. "I am not sure
whether I am doing right or not, but I know I could not do otherwise. I
did not yield to your command, but to your entreaty. But let me go,
mother." And before she could stop him he was out of the room, and she
heard his quick step up the stairs and his door locked after him.

He tore off his uniform as if every shred of it burned him, put on his
ordinary clothes, and then sitting down on the bed, gazed blankly before
him.

And blank looked the life before him. He had suffered himself to dwell
upon the thought of a naval or military career until it had become a
part of his life. He foresaw that the same strange weakness on his
mother's part which kept him from joining the navy might keep him out of
the army. True, if there should be war between the French and English in
the Northwest it would be his duty to defend his country, and no
pleadings could keep him back then; but that was only a contingency.
And, in any event, he could not again ask the help, in getting a
commission, of the only persons who could serve him--his brother
Laurence, and Lord Fairfax--after this unfortunate ending of his first
attempt. And, worst of all, he was not sure that he was right, and he
was very sure his mother was wrong. That of itself was a staggering
blow. He had always fancied his mother perfect, and her weakness, her
blind partiality for him over the rest of her children, at once
shattered his ideal. She was a true and devoted mother, but in a great
emergency she showed a tender unwisdom that seemed foreign to her
character. George did not love her any the less for this, but he
realized that after this he must think and act for himself. She had not
thought of how far he was committed in the matter, or that his brother
Laurence might be justly offended at his course--she only thought of the
anguish of giving him up. It was all hard and inscrutable to the boy,
sitting with rigid face and dry eyes, gazing before him and seeing
nothing. He did not know how long he sat there. He heard Betty's light
step, and lighter tap upon the door, and she called him softly through
the key-hole.

"Go away, dear Betty," answered George; "I can't see anybody just now."

It seemed to him days, not hours, before he heard the bell for dinner.
He gathered himself together and went down stairs. Betty almost cried
out when she saw him, he was so haggard. His mother saw it too, and it
made her heart ache; but in her heart she felt that it was better to
have him as he was than to say good-by to him forever, which she was
firmly persuaded would be the case had he gone in the navy. Madam
Washington, being naturally a woman of great integrity, was not at ease
in her mind. She had not forgotten the light in which she would appear
before Laurence Washington and Lord Fairfax. She read again and again
that letter from Joseph Ball, which George had appalled her by calling
both ignorant and foolish. She had been taught to think brother Joseph a
monument of wisdom, but she was not so sure of it after having acted on
his advice in this great event.

At dinner both George and his mother were perfectly composed and
polite. Neither the children nor the servants knew that anything was the
matter, until Betty betrayed it. But little Betty's heart was so full
for George's disappointment that she could not eat her dinner, and tears
dropped upon her plate. Towards the last of the dinner one of the little
boys suddenly exclaimed,

"Brother, I saw you in your uniform this morning; are you going to wear
it every day?"

At this Betty burst into a loud sob, and getting up from the table,
rushed to George and threw her arms about him. George rose and led the
weeping girl out of the room. Usually such an infraction of discipline
and table manners as George and Betty leaving the table without
permission would have been strictly prohibited. But their mother saw
that these two young souls were wrought up to the keenest distress, and
as she had gained her victory she could afford to be magnanimous.

"Betty," said George, hurriedly, when they got out of the room, "put on
your hood, and let us go into the woods. It makes one feel better, when
one is sad, to go into the woods."

The day was dull and overcast as the boy and girl, hand in hand, tramped
across the fields to where the fringe of cedars formed the advance-guard
of the woodlands. George held Betty's hand very tightly in his. _She_
understood him, at least.

They said but little until they were well in the heart of the woods, and
had sat down upon a fallen tree. Then George, laying his head on Betty's
shoulder, burst into tears, and cried as if his heart would break.

No creature was ever better formed to feel for others than sweet little
Betty. She had never seen George weep like that; but she was not
frightened or disconcerted. She only laid her wet cheek against
George's, and sighed so deeply that he knew that his burden lay as heavy
on her heart as on his. Presently, when he had become more composed,
Betty spoke:

"Brother, hard as it is, I am glad of one thing--nobody can say anything
to you about it, after you have said that you gave way to our mother,
for no boy, or man either, can let anybody in the world find fault with
his mother."

"Yes, Betty," answered George, sadly. "I will not be such a poltroon as
to let any one say my mother has not acted right."

[Illustration: "SHE MEANT TO ACT RIGHT," SAID BETTY.]

"She meant to act right," said Betty; "but--" Betty paused, and the
brother and sister looked into each other's eyes and said no more, but
each understood the other.

"Of course," sighed Betty, "it would have been the hardest thing in the
world to have you go away; but if you wanted to go, dear George, and it
was best for you, _I_ would have given you up; and I would have tried
not to cry when you went away, and I would have thought of you every
single day while you were away, and if you had not come home for ten
years or twenty years, I would have loved you just as much as ever."

George had always loved Betty dearly, but he felt now, at the hour of
his cruelest disappointment, what it was to have that tender sister, to
whom he could reveal his whole heart. Much as he loved his brother
Laurence, deeply as he revered Lord Fairfax, and with all his love and
reverence for his mother, he felt obliged to keep up before them a manly
fortitude; but Betty was young and inexperienced, like himself, and,
because of that, in some ways she was nearer to him than anybody else.

The two sat there until late in the afternoon, and so quiet were they
that a squirrel came boldly out of his hole and hopped past them, and a
robin, with a weak little pretence of a song, in spite of the wintry
weather, swung within reach of them. It was nearly sunset before they
took their way homeward. George, like all boys, was not glib of tongue
in expressing his emotions; but when they got to the edge of the woods
he kissed her, and said:

"Betty, I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for you
this miserable day."

The little sister's loyal heart grew almost happy at this.

A hard task remained for George. He had to write to his brother Laurence
and to Lord Fairfax, announcing what he had done. They were not easy
letters to write, but he carefully refrained from any hint of blame upon
his mother.

Madam Washington, having gained her heart's desire, could not now do too
much for George. He was already far advanced beyond Mr. Hobby's school,
and his mother determined to have a tutor for him. Nothing was too good
for him now; his tutor must be a university man, with every
qualification in family and manners as well as learning. But there was
no such person within reach, and communication in those days being slow
and uncertain, there seemed no immediate chance of finding one. George
went his way calmly, but with his disappointment eating into his heart.
He studied surveying, in which he was already proficient, with Mr.
Hobby, but he did nothing else. Even his beloved hunting and shooting
palled upon him. He would spend the day at work, having Mr. Hobby's help
in the afternoon, and at night he would work out at home what he had
done during the day. Mother and son never failed in courtesy and even
affection for each other; indeed, Madam Washington lavished affection
upon him in a manner hitherto unknown to him; but there was a little
shadow between them.

Heretofore George had not escaped being lectured for his youthful
shortcomings, but no fault was ever found with him now. Even Billy's
laziness was excused, and he might be as idle as he pleased; like his
young master, he enjoyed a complete immunity from fault-finding. This
was not a natural or a healthy way for the mother and son to live; and
one day, when George walked in and laid a letter from Lord Fairfax in
his mother's hand, saying, simply, "I think I should like that, mother,"
Madam Washington, with one sharp pang, felt that they must part--at
least for a while.

The letter was brief, and had no mention of the warrant in the navy, by
which George subtly understood that Lord Fairfax knew it was a delicate
subject, and would say nothing about it. The Earl wrote, however, that
he had determined to have his lands across the mountains surveyed during
the coming summer, and offered George for it a sum of money so large
that to the boy's unsophisticated mind it seemed a fortune. But Lord
Fairfax stipulated that George should have a license from the State of
Virginia, as his surveys would no doubt often be called in question, and
there must be a recorded proof of his efficiency.

Madam Washington sighed deeply, yet there was no doubt that he must go.
He would be sixteen within a few days, and he was already as developed
in mind and body as a young man of nineteen. Her plans for his further
education seemed impossible to realize, and it was plain there was but
one thing to do--to let him go. She told him so that night, and the
first gleam of sunshine came into his face that she had seen since the
day after his return home. Betty's comment was like her.

"If you want to go, George, I want you to go; but it will be doleful at
Ferry Farm without you."

George immediately made preparations for his examination in surveying,
and having passed it successfully and got his certificate, he was ready
to start on his journey as soon as the spring should open. He wrote to
his brother Laurence, stating his plan, and saying he would spend a
night at Mount Vernon on his way. Laurence had shown the same
consideration for George's feelings that Lord Fairfax had, and, in reply
to the letter returning the midshipman's warrant, had merely said that
he regretted he had not known of Madam Washington's determination
sooner. One sentence at the end touched George: "Your little niece is
well, but she is but a frail child, and I have a presentiment that Mount
Vernon will never come to any child of mine. For that reason, as you
will some day be master of this place, I would like to have you here as
often and as long as your mother can spare you. My own constitution is
delicate, and nothing is more probable than that you will have Mount
Vernon for your own before you are of age."

Madam Washington made the preparations for George's departure with a
steady cheerfulness that belied her sad heart. She herself proposed that
he should take Billy along. She offered him such a considerable sum of
money that George knew she must be depriving herself of many things,
and refused to take it all. In every way there was a strong though
silent purpose to make up to him for her one moment of weakness. George
felt this, and when, on the morning of his departure, his mother bade
him good-by, with a smile on her pale lips, he felt a softening of the
heart towards her that lasted not only during this separation, but
through all the coming years, with their tremendous events.

Little Betty wept torrents of tears, protesting all the time. "Dear
George, I am glad for you to go--I don't want you to stay--I can't help
crying a little, though."

George held her in his arms with a full heart, and wished that he had
words to tell her how much she was to him; but Betty understood well
enough. When the last farewells were said, and George was out of sight
of his mother's brave smile and Betty's tears, a sudden revulsion of
feeling came to him, as it does to all healthy young natures. He had got
to the very extremity of his despair, and there was a strong reaction.
He was essentially a boy of action, and action was now before him.
Indeed, he was no longer a boy, but a man, with responsibilities upon
him that seldom fall to young people of his years. He had his surveyor's
license in his pocket, and upon the use he made of it might depend not
only issues of property, but of peace and war; because he knew that the
unsettled state of the frontier was the real reason why Lord Fairfax
meant to have the wild lands in his grant surveyed. The day was bright,
it was in the spring-time, and he was well mounted on a good horse.
Billy, riding a stout cart-horse and carrying the saddle-bags, was
behind him, and Rattler was trotting by his side. Things might be worse,
thought George, as he struck into a canter, and wondered that his heart
was so blithe. He would see his brother and sister that night, and
little Mildred, and in a few days more he would be again at Greenway
with the Earl and Lance; and he would have all the books he wanted to
read, and fencing whenever he liked. He wondered how much he had
forgotten of it; he had not fenced since leaving Mount Vernon at
Christmas. But neither had he read or done anything else, it seemed to
George, so blank was the time from the day he came home until then.
Billy hankered after the flesh-pots of Mount Vernon, where things were
conducted on a much grander scale than at the simple Ferry Farm
homestead. George heard him chuckling to himself, and turning in the
saddle, asked,

"What pleases you so, Billy?"

"Tuckey, suh," answered Billy, promptly, "wid sassages roun' dee
necks--an' oshters an' sp'yar-ribs an' chines an' goose, an' all dem
t'ings dee black folks gits in de kitchen at Mount Vernon."

It was a good forty-five miles to Mount Vernon, but George made it by
eight o'clock that night.

His brother and sister were delighted to see him, and little Mildred had
not forgotten him. After a traveller's supper, George told them all his
plans. He passed quickly over the giving up of his midshipman's warrant,
merely saying, "My mother begged me not to leave her for the sea, and I
consented. But," he added, after a pause, "it nearly broke my heart."

He was distressed to see his brother looking so pale and thin, and still
more so at the despondent tone Laurence took about himself. He would
have had George go into the study, and there with him discuss the
present state of the place and its future management, as if he were
certain that one day it would be George's; but this the boy refused.

"No, brother," he said, "I can only inherit Mount Vernon through
misfortune to you and yours; and do you suppose I like to think about
that? Indeed I do not; and I neither think nor care about what you do on
the place, except that it shall be for your own satisfaction."

The next morning George was off, much to the regret of his brother and
sister, and also of Billy, who had promised himself a regular carnival
in the Mount Vernon kitchen.

The road was the same that George had taken nearly five months before,
on his first expedition to Greenway Court. Then it had been at the fall
of the leaf, and now it was at the bursting of the spring. Already the
live-oaks and poplars were showing a faint and silvery green, and in
sheltered sunny spots grass was sprouting. The water-courses were high
from the melting of the snow, and fording them was not always without
difficulty, or even danger. At every mile that George travelled his mind
and heart gained a better balance by quick degrees. He was sorry to be
parted from his mother and Betty, but he was at a time of life when he
must try his own strength, and he was the better for it. He stopped at
the same taverns that he had halted at when with Lord Fairfax. Billy
proved himself to be an excellent hostler as well as valet, and George
did not mean to forget mentioning to his mother, when he should have an
opportunity of sending a letter, how extremely useful Billy was. On the
fourth day, being well up in the mountains, they came to Lord Fairfax's
coach-house, as it was called; but instead of stopping, George pushed on
to Greenway Court, much to Billy's disgust, who had no taste for long
journeys on traveller's fare. On a March night, that, although cool, had
a touch of spring in the air, and under a glorious moon, George rode up
to the door at Greenway Court, and joyfully dismounted. Lord Fairfax did
not know the exact day to expect him, but knew he would arrive about
that time. When George's loud rat-tat resounded upon the great oak
doors, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to have them opened
by old Lance, who said, as if he had seen George half an hour before:

"Good-evening, Mr. Washington; my lord is expecting you. Billy, take the
horses around to the stable."

George walked in, and almost ran into the Earl's arms. Lord Fairfax was
overjoyed to see him, and although he did not say much, his pleasure
shone in his eyes. George's room was ready for him; there was a fine
young half-thoroughbred in the stables that was waiting for George's
saddle and bridle to be put on him; Lance had some bears' paws for his
supper whenever he should arrive; there were some books on surveying
imported from England for him. Had he been Lord Fairfax's son and heir
he could not have been received with greater consideration. The Earl
could not do enough for him. It was:

"Lance, is Mr. Washington's room prepared for him?"

"Yes, sir. It has been ready for a week."

"And, Lance, Mr. Washington will probably want you in the morning in the
armory."

As soon as supper was over, George displayed proudly his license as
surveyor, and would have plunged into the affair of the surveys at once,
but Lord Fairfax gave the first intimation then that he did not consider
George a full-fledged man.

"Never mind for to-night, George. Very young gentlemen like you are apt
to go at things like a hunter at a five-barred gate, but you can wait
awhile. Besides, you must go to bed early after your journey, so as to
get sleep--a thing that growing boys cannot do without."

George felt several years younger at this speech, and blushed a little
for his mannish airs, but the Earl's advice about going to bed was
sound, and in five minutes after finding himself in the great high-post
bed he was sleeping the sleep of healthy and active boyhood.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




THE JUJUBE MAN.

BY ALBERT LEE.


  At the foot of Spice Lane, in Carameltown,
    Lives a funny little jujube fellow;
  His body is red and his legs are brown,
    And his hands and his feet are yellow.

  This jujube man has a nice little farm,
    With a rooster, a hen, and a hog,
  All well watched over and kept from harm
    By a little red jujube dog.

  But the jujube man does not like the heat,
    For it almost makes him melt,--
  And his head bends over 'most down to his feet,
    And his toes bend up to his belt.




[Illustration: Map]

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

IV.


We were a good deal disappointed in not getting over into Nebraska,
because we had seen enough of Dakota, but there was no help for it. A
log had got caught in the paddle-wheel of the ferry-boat and wrecked it,
and there was no other way of crossing.

"Old Blacky could swim across," said Jack, "but Browny would go to sleep
and drown."

[Illustration: TOP HEAVY WITH HATS.]

It is rather doubtful, however, about even Blacky's ability to have swum
the river, since it was a half-mile wide, and with a rather swift
current. In the afternoon we walked back to Yankton and bought the
biggest felt hats we could find, with wide and heavy leather bands. We
knew that we would now soon be out in the stock-growing country, and
that, as Jack said, "the cowboys wouldn't have any respect for us unless
we were top heavy with hat."

We were camped on the high bank of the river, opposite a farm-house. It
was getting dusk when we got back to the wagon, with our heads aching
from our new hats, which seemed to weigh several pounds apiece. Jack, as
cook, announced that there was no milk on hand, and sent Ollie over to
the neighboring house to see if he could get some. Ollie returned, and
reported that the man was away from home, but that the woman said we
could have some if we were willing to go out to the barn-yard and milk
one of the cows. The others decided that it was my duty to milk, but I
asked so many foolish questions about the operation, that Jack became
convinced that I didn't know how, and said he would do it himself. We
all went over to the house, borrowed a tin pail from the woman, and went
out to the yard.

We found about a dozen cows inside, of various sizes, but all
long-legged and long-horned.

"Must be this man belongs to the National Trotting-Cow Association,"
said Jack, as he crawled under the barbed-wire fence into the yard.
"That red beast over there in the corner ought to be able to trot a mile
in less than three minutes."

He cautiously went up to a spotted cow which seemed to be rather tamer
than the rest, holding out one hand, and saying, "So, bossy," in oily
tones, as if he thought she was the finest cow he had ever seen. When he
was almost to her she looked at him quickly, kicked her nearest hind
foot at him savagely, and walked off, switching her tail, and shaking
her head so that Ollie was afraid it would come off and be lost.

"Can't fool _that_ cow, can I?" said Jack, as he turned to another. But
he had no better luck this time, and after trying three or four more he
paused and said:

"These must be the same kind of cows Horace Greeley found down in Texas
before the war. When he came back he said the way they milked down there
was to throw a cow on her back, have a nigger hold each leg, and extract
the milk with a clothes-pin."

But at last he found a brindled animal in the corner which allowed him
to sit down and begin. He was getting on well when, without the least
warning, the cow kicked, and sent the pail spinning across the yard,
while Jack went over backwards, and his new hat fell off. There was one
calf in the yard which had been complaining ever since we came, because
it had not yet had its supper. The pail stopped rolling right side up,
and this calf ran over and put his head in it, thinking that his food
had come at last. Jack picked himself up and ran to rescue the pail. The
calf raised his head suddenly, the pail caught on one of his little
horns, and he started off around the yard, unable to see, and jumping
wildly over imaginary objects. Jack followed. A cow, which was perhaps
the mother of the calf, started after Jack. The family dog, hearing the
commotion, came running down from the house and began to pursue the cow.
This wild procession went around the yard several times, till at last
the pail came off the calf's head, and Jack secured it. Then he picked
up his hat, the brim of which another calf had been chewing, rinsed out
the pail at the pump, and tried another cow.

This time he selected the worst-looking one of the lot, but to the
surprise of all of us she stood perfectly still, only switching him a
few times with her tall. As soon as he got a couple of quarts of milk he
stopped and came out of the yard. Ollie and I had, of course, been
laughing at him a good deal, but Jack paid no attention to it. As we
walked toward the house he said:

"Well, there's one consolation; after all of that work and trouble the
woman can't put on the face to charge us for the milk." A moment later
he said to her, "I've got about two quarts; how much is it?"

"Ten cents," answered the woman. "Didn't them cows seem to take kindly
to you?"

"Well, they didn't exactly crowd around me and moo with delight,"
replied Jack, as he handed over a dime with rather bad grace.

That evening a neighbor called on us as we sat about our camp fire, and
we told him the experience with the cows.

[Illustration: THE COW THAT WORE A SLEIGH-ROBE, AND KICKED WITH ALL FOUR
FEET.]

"Puts me in mind of the time a fellow had over at the Santee Agency a
year or so ago," said our visitor. "There's a man there named Hawkins
that's got a tame buffalo cow. Of course you might as well try to milk
an earthquake as a buffalo. Well, one day a man came along looking for
work, and Hawkins hired him. Milking-time came, and Hawkins sent the man
out to milk, but forgot to tell him about the buffalo. The man was a
little green, and it was sort of dark in the barn, and the first thing
he tried to milk was the buffalo cow. She kicked the pail through the
window, smashed the stall, and half broke the man's leg the first three
kicks. He hobbled to the house, and says to Hawkins, 'Old man, that
there high-shouldered heifer of yourn out there has busted the barn and
half killed me, and I reckon I'll quit and go back East, where the cows
don't wear sleigh-robes and kick with four feet at once.'"

Bright and early the next morning we got off again. Nothing of
importance happened that day. We were travelling through a comparatively
old-settled part of the country, and the houses were numerous. A young
Indian rode with us a few miles, but he was a very civilized sort of red
man. He had been at work on a farm down near Yankton, and was on his way
to the Ponca Reservation to visit his mother. As an Indian he rather
disgusted Ollie.

"If I was a big six-foot Indian," he said, after our passenger had gone,
"I think I'd carry a tomahawk, and wear a feather or two at least. I
don't see what's the advantage of being an Indian if you're going to act
just like a white man."

We camped that night in a beautiful nook in a bluff near a little
stream. The next day we reached Running Water. The ferry-boat was a
little thing, with a small paddle-wheel on each side operated by two
horses on tread-mills. A man stood at the stern with a long oar to steer
it. The river was not so wide here as at Yankton, but the current was
swifter, which no doubt gave the place its name. It looked very doubtful
if we would ever get across in the queer craft, but after a long time we
succeeded in doing so. It gave us a good opportunity to study the water
of the river, which looked more like milk than water, owing to the fine
clay dissolved in it. The ferryman thought very highly of the water, and
told us proudly that a glass of it would never settle and become clear.

"It's the finest drinking-water in the world," he said. "I never drink
anything else. Take a bucket of it up home every evening to drink
overnight. You don't get any of this clear well-water down me."

We tasted of it, but couldn't see that it was much different from other
water.

"Boil it down a little, and give it a lower crust, and I should think it
would make a very good custard pie," said Jack.

We found Niobrara to be a little place of a few hundred houses. We went
into camp on the edge of the town, where we staid the next day, as it
was Sunday. Early Monday morning we were out on the road which led along
the banks of the Niobrara River. We were somewhat surprised at the
smallness of this stream. It was of considerable width but very shallow,
and in many places bubbled along over the rocks like a wide brook. We
spoke of its size to a man whom we met. Said he:

"Yes, it ain't no great shakes down here around its mouth, but you just
wait till you get up in the neighborhood of its head-waters. It's a
right smart bit of a river up there."

"But I thought a river was usually bigger at its mouth than at its
source," I said.

"Depends on the country it runs through," answered the man. "Some rivers
in these parts peter out entirely, and don't have no mouth a' tall--just
go into the ground and leave a wet spot. This here Niobrara comes
through a dry country, and what the sun don't dry up and the wind blow
away the sand swallers mostly, though some water does sneak through,
after all; and in the spring it's about ten times as big as it is now.
The Niobrara goes through the sand hills. Anything that goes through
the sand hills comes out small. You fellers are going through the sand
hills--you'll come out smaller than you be now."

This was the first time we had heard of the sand hills, but after this
everybody was talking about them and warning us against them.

"Why," said one man, "you know that there Sarah Desert over in Africa
somewhere? Well, sir, that there Sarah is a reg'lar flower-garden, with
fountains a-squirting and the band playing 'Hail Columbia,' 'longside o'
the Newbraska sand hills. You'll go through 'em for a hundred miles, and
you'll wish you'd never been born!"

This was not encouraging, but as they were still several days' travel
ahead, we resolved not to worry about them.

About the middle of the afternoon we came upon a great level prairie
stretching away to the west as far as we could see. There seemed to be
but few houses, and the scattering fields of corn were stunted and dried
up. It had apparently been an extremely dry season, though the prospects
for rain that night were good, and grew better. It was hot, and a strong
south wind was blowing. Night soon began to come on, but we could find
no good camping-place. We had not passed a house for four or five miles,
nor a place where we could get water for the horses. As it grew dark,
however, it began to rain. It kept up, and increased to such an extent
that in half an hour there were pools of water standing along the road
in many places, and we decided to stop. It was wet work taking care of
the horses, but the most discouraging thing was the report from the cook
that there was no milk with which to make griddle-cakes for supper, and
as he did not know how to make anything else, the prospect was rather
gloomy. But through the rain we finally discovered a light a quarter of
a mile away, and Ollie and I started out to find it. Jack refused to go,
on the plea that he was still lame from his Yankton trip after milk.

We blundered away through the rain and darkness, and after stumbling in
a dozen holes, running into a fence, and getting tangled up in an
abandoned picket-rope, at last came up to the house. It was a little
one-room board house such as the settlers call a "shack." The door was
open, and inside we could see a man and woman and half a dozen children
and a full dozen dogs. We walked up, and when the man saw us he called
"Come in!" tossed two children on the bed in the corner, picked up their
chairs, which were home-made, and brought them to us.

[Illustration: "WET, AIN'T IT?"]

"Wet, ain't it?" he exclaimed. "Rainy as the day Noah yanked the
gang-plank into the Ark. I was a-telling Martha there was a right smart
chance of a shower this afternoon. What might you-uns' names be, and
where might you be from, and where might you be going?"

We told him all about ourselves, and he went on:

"Rainy night. Too late to help the co'n, though. Co'n's poor this year;
reckon we'll have to live on taters and hope. Tater crop ain't no great
shakes, though. Nothing much left but hope, and dry for that. Reckon
I'll go back to old Missouri in the spring, and work in a saw-mill. No
saw-mills here,'cause there ain't nothing to saw. Hay don't need sawing.
Martha," he added, turning to his wife, "was it you said our roof didn't
need mending?"

"I said it did need it a powerful sight," answered the woman, as she put
another stick of hay in the stove, and a stream of rain-water sputtered
in the fire.

"Mebby you're right," said the man. "There's enough dry spots for the
dogs and children, but when we have vis'tors somebody has got to get
wet. Reckon I oughter put on two shingles for vis'tors to set under. You
fellers will stay to supper, of course. We 'ain't got much but bacon and
taters, but you're powerful welcome."

"No," I said, "we really mustn't stop. What we wanted was to see if we
couldn't get a little milk from you."

"Well, I'll be snaked!" exclaimed the man. "That makes me think I 'ain't
milked the old cow yet."

"I milked her more'n two hours ago, while you was cleaning your rifle,"
said his wife.

"That so?" replied the man. "Where's the milk?"

The woman looked around a little. "Reckon the dogs or the young 'uns
must 'a' swallered it. 'Tain't in sight, nohow."

"Oh, we can milk 'er again," exclaimed the man. "Old Spot sometimes
comes down heavier on the second or third milking than she does on the
first."

He took a gourd from a shelf, and told us to "come on," and started out.
He wore a big felt hat, but no coat, and he was barefooted. Just outside
the door stood a bedstead and two or three chairs. "We move 'em out in
the day-time to make more room," explained the man. The rain was still
pouring down. The man took our lantern and began looking for the cow. He
soon found her, and while I held the lantern, and Ollie our jug, he went
down on his knees beside the cow and began to milk with one hand,
holding the gourd in the other. The cow stood perfectly still, as if it
was no new thing to be milked the second time. We had on rubber coats,
but the man was without protection, and as he sat very near the cow a
considerable stream ran off of her hip bone and down the back of his
neck. When the gourd was full he poured it in our jug, and at my
offering to pay for it he was almost insulted. "Not a cent, not a cent,"
he exclaimed. "Al'ays glad to 'commodate a neighbor. Good-night; coming
down in the morning to swap hosses with you."

He went back to the house, and we started for the wagon.

"He wouldn't have got quite so wet if he hadn't kept so close to the
cow," said Ollie, as we walked along.

"What he needs," said I, "are eave-troughs on his cow."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




HOW CAPTAIN JACK GOT HIS TITLE.


"Captain Jack," said Tommie, as he and Bobbie drew near to the Old
Sailor at the sea-shore, shortly after their arrival, "you've told us a
great many stories, but you never told us how you came to be a Captain.
Was it for bravery in battle?"'

"No, my lad," replied the old Captain. "I've been brave enough in battle
to be an Admiral, but I never got no promotion for it. It was indoorance
won my title for me."

"Endurance?" said Bobbie. "That's as good as bravery, isn't it?"

"Better," said Captain Jack. "A great deal better. A great many brave
people give out when they oughtn't to, but indoorin' people never gives
out."

"Nor in, neither," said Tommie, "I guess."

"I guess likewise," said Captain Jack. "It wuz this way: In eighteen
seventy-one--no, I guess it was eighteen seventy-three--no--waal I
never--when was it?"

"Make it 1874," said Bobbie. "Three and one make four."

"That's when it was," said Captain Jack. "In eighteen seventy-four I
shipped as a able-bodied seaman before the mast with Captain William
Bilkes, of East Gloucester, Massachusetts, of the brig _Peter J._, of
Nantucket. The _Peter J._ was a pretty good boat. They called her a
brig, but she wasn't nothin' in particular, as far as I could see. She
was a composite boat--like them fortygrafts. The owners of her bought
her stern in New York, an' fastened it onto the bow of a wrack they'd
purchased in a junk-shop at Plymouth. The rudder wuz a relict of a
defunct Spanish man-o'-war, an' the masts wuz bought at a bargain sale
o' ship stuffs at Phillydelphy. Whar the cabin come from I dun'no', but
it was amatoor from way back.

"When I fust seed the ship I says, No, I don't want none o' her in mine.
I'm fond o' swimmin', but I wants it as a diwersion an' not fer bizness.
But Cap'n Bilkes he says to me, says he: 'Jack you're the best sailor
afloat, an' I needs yer. Come with me, an' I'll give yer two thousand
dollars a month!'

"'Cap'n,' says I, 'that ain't what I gen'rally gets, but to oblige ye
I'll come at them figgers;' an' I went, not askin' at all where we was
a-goin' to go to.

"Waal, we sets out, me before the mast with the others, an' the Cap'n
an' two mates, four midshipmen, three soupycargoes, an' others behind
the mast.

"First day out, down comes the Cap'n with the mumps. Dies. Chucked
overboard.

"Second day out, down comes the two mates with measles. Dies. Buried at
sea.

"Third day out, down comes the soupycargoes with whoopin'-cough. Dies.
All's over.

"Fourth day out, down comes the hull crew, except me, with shycumotis,
due to havin' eat too much tomatoes. Dies. Nothin' left aboard but me
with the _Mary Jones_--"

"_Peter J._," said Bobbie.

"The _Peter J._," observed Captain Jack. "Git 'em mixed sometimes;
they's so many boats, I 'ain't more trouble to-- There was me all alone
by myself aboard the _Henry Q._ to bring her into port, loaded as she
was with olives an' fried potaters.

"It was a tarrable responsibility, but I took it on. So, my boys, there
bein' no soupycargoes, nor no mates, nor no cap'ns, nor no nothin' save
me an' the decks onto the ship, I 'p'inted myself commander-in-chief,
an' thar ye be."

"It's very interesting," said Tommie.

"You bet it is!" said Captain Jack; "but it ain't half so interesting to
me as a box o' imported cigars would be."

And the boys walked off, and later on Captain Jack received a box of
imported cigars--"just," as Tommie said, "to interest him."




A SMALL ELECTRIC-LIGHT OUTFIT.

HOW TO MAKE THE BATTERY AND HOW TO SET IT UP.

BY THOMAS R. TALTAVALL.


All young readers of HARPER'S ROUND TABLE are probably familiar with the
appearance of the electric light--that wonderful little glass bulb that
we see in stores, hotels, theatres, etc.--and no doubt many have
wondered what causes the hairlike loop inside the bulb to become so
brilliantly luminous. Electricity does it; but no one knows what
electricity is, not even the most advanced scientific thinker of the
day. We know how to produce it and how to handle it, but further than
that we are still in ignorance.

The electricity necessary to light an incandescent lamp, such as we see
in stores, etc., is generated in a machine called a _dynamo_. The dynamo
is driven by a steam-engine, and produces electric current in large
quantities for electric-lighting on a large scale. Electricity can also
be produced by a battery, but in very small quantity as compared with
that produced by a dynamo; and in order to light a house by electricity
from a battery, so many cells would be required that it would be
decidedly inconvenient and troublesome to keep them in order.

It may interest the boys among the readers of HARPER'S ROUND TABLE to
know that with a little ingenuity a battery can be constructed by
themselves which will give sufficient current to light a small electric
lamp. Such an outfit is full of interest and instructive to young
people, and its use creates a desire for a wider knowledge of this most
fascinating subject.

Electric lamps are made of all sizes, from the size of a pea to that of
the lamp we see every day and are most familiar with, and they are used
for a great variety of purposes. The lamps referred to here are those
having a pear-shaped glass bulb, and which are known as incandescent
lamps. The kind we see in the streets, giving a very powerful light, are
called arc-lights. With this class of lights, however, we will have
nothing to do here. The object of this article is to give plain
directions for the construction of a battery to light a small electric
lamp. Some boys may think that because electricity is something
mysterious it must be very difficult to produce; but that is not the
case. A battery is easily made, and by following the directions here
given we can produce just the same kind of light we see in stores and
other public places, only on a smaller scale.

We must provide three things, namely, the battery, the lamp, and the
wire to conduct the current from the battery to the lamp.

First, the battery. A cell of battery, such as we shall need, is made up
of four constituent parts--the glass jar, a rod of zinc, a couple of
carbon rods, and the solution in which the carbons and zincs are to be
immersed. Two such cells will be needed to give a brilliant light.

For our purpose ordinary glass tumblers will answer very well for the
jars. Tumblers are suggested, because almost every boy can obtain his
mother's consent to use a couple for this purpose.

The next things to provide are the zincs and carbons. The zinc may be of
any shape, flat, square, or round, but we have selected the round form
for our battery because it is easily obtained, and more easily handled
and prepared by the amateur for an experimental battery. All
electrical-supply houses keep Leclanche zincs, which are rods of that
metal about 3/8 of an inch in diameter and 9 inches long. One such zinc
cut in two will give us two pieces each 4-1/2 inches long, which will be
ample for our battery.

Carbons, like zincs, are made in many forms, but for our purpose we have
also selected the round shape because they are likewise more easily
obtained. Such carbons as are used in electric-arc street lights will
answer very well indeed. These carbons are usually plated with a thin
coating of copper, which must be removed before we can use them for our
battery. This can often be done by scraping the copper off. Should that
fail to completely remove it, nitric acid will; but I would not advise
using acid if the copper can be removed the other way. Nitric acid is
dangerous stuff to have around on account of the fumes it gives off, and
its corrosive propensities when it comes in contact with fabrics and
almost every other substance.

Having procured your carbons, cut them off the same length as the zincs,
which can be easily done with a scroll or any other small saw. Be
careful, though, because carbon is rather brittle, and will break rather
than bend. The zincs and carbons should be of the same length, and
should be at least an inch higher than the top of the tumbler. Two
carbons and one zinc will be required for each cell.

The next step in our work is to provide means for suspending the zincs
and carbons in the tumblers. This will require a little carpenter-work.
Get two pieces of well-seasoned and very dry wood (any kind will do),
each about 1-1/2 inches wide, 4 inches long, and 3/8 or 1/2 an inch
thick, and bore three holes in each in the manner shown in Fig. 3. The
holes should be, as nearly as possible, of the same diameter as the
zincs and carbons, and the middle one should be midway between the ends
of the wooden "hanger." The zincs and carbons are to be placed in these
holes, and suspended in the tumblers as shown in Fig. 4, the zinc rod
being placed in the centre, with one carbon rod on each side.

We are now ready to attach the wires to the zincs and carbons for the
purpose of conveying the current from the battery to the lamp. Use No.
18 braided wire, which can be obtained of any dealer in electrical
supplies. Any one caring to go to the extra expense, however, can get a
silk-covered cord which is very neat and convenient, because two wires
are twisted together, forming one cord. Each conductor of this cord is
made up of several fine copper wires, instead of one solid wire, which
makes it very flexible. But whether the cord or separate single wires
are used, the connections with the zincs and carbons are the same. It is
understood, of course, that it is necessary to have two wires to connect
the battery and lamp. One end of each of the wires is connected with the
lamp, and the other ends with the battery--one with the zincs and the
other with the carbons.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

Fig. 1 shows how these battery connections must be made. One of the lamp
wires is connected with the two carbons of cell No. 1 and the zinc of
cell No. 2, and the other wire is connected with the zinc of cell No. 1
and the two carbons of cell No. 2.

To make these connections, have a sufficient length at one end of each
of the wires to wrap four or five times around the carbons and zinc,
allowing a little slack between them. Wrap as firmly as possible so as
to insure a tight joint, as nothing is more wasteful of current than a
loose connection. We need all the current for our lamp. Before wrapping
the wire it should be well scraped and cleaned, in order to secure a
good connection with the zinc and carbons. A dirty connection is as bad
as a loose one.

Having connected the two wires with the carbons and zincs in the manner
shown, in Fig. 1, we are now ready to connect the lamp. Remove the
braid, or covering, of the free ends of the two wires for about two or
three inches, and after scraping and cleaning the ends of the wire,
twist them tightly with the two wires projecting from the lamp; then all
the connections are made. If you now place the zincs and carbons in the
solution (which I will presently refer to more particularly), your
battery will produce a current which will make the little lamp give a
light as sparkling as a diamond. The lamp is the most important part of
the outfit, and cannot be made by amateurs. It must be bought of a
dealer.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

Fig. 2 is an illustration of a lamp that will give a light of 1/2
candle-power or more with the battery described above. This illustration
is the actual size of a 1/2 candle-power lamp. The lamp is a small glass
bulb, inside of which is a short length of carbon in the shape of a
small arch. This carbon is connected with the wires running through and
outside of the glass bulb, and when the current flows through the wires
the carbon becomes "incandescent"--that is, white-hot. This carbon is in
a vacuum, the air having been exhausted from the bulb in the process of
manufacture. The vacuum is essential. Should there be none, and the
space be filled with air, the carbon would be destroyed by the oxygen in
the air the moment the current rendered it incandescent.

In handling the lamp while making connections with the battery wires,
care must be taken that the lamp wires are not broken off close to the
glass by too much twisting. Should this happen, the lamp would be
rendered useless, because then we could not get a connection with the
carbon filament.

All the connections having been made, everything is ready to charge the
battery. Charging means to fill the cells with the proper chemical
solutions which, in their action upon the zinc and carbons, produce the
electric current. The chemicals necessary to make the solution for the
battery can be bought at any drug-store, but those of our young friends
who live in cities can buy the battery fluid all ready prepared at any
electrical-supply house, if they do not care to bother with making it
themselves. I would advise making it fresh, however, because it gives
young experimenters some experience and something to think about. The
fluid is called in the trade "electropoin fluid," and is sold by the
pint, quart, gallon, or any other quantity, by the regular dealers. All
batteries using this fluid are generally called "Electropoin" batteries.

To make this fluid the following ingredients are necessary: bichromate
of potash, sulphuric acid, and water. Bichromate of potash comes in
lumps, and is of a dark red or wine color; it can be bought at any
drug-store. Sulphuric acid can also be bought at any drug-store; it must
be handled very carefully, as it has a disagreeable habit of burning,
and otherwise destroying almost everything it comes in contact with.
Glass is one of the few substances it does not attack, therefore it is
safe in a glass bottle.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.]

The following is a receipt for preparing electropoin fluid: take 1-1/2
lbs. of bichromate of potash, and after crushing the lumps as fine as
possible, dissolve it in 2 quarts of boiling water. After this solution
has become cold, add to it a solution composed of 1 quart of sulphuric
acid and 3 quarts of water, and thoroughly mix the two. After the
mixture is cool it is ready for use. This will be enough for several
charges of the battery. A smaller quantity may be made by proportionate
reduction in quantity of the several ingredients.

It is a very strange fact that pouring sulphuric acid into water
produces no different effect than if the acid were so much water, but if
the water is poured upon the acid a greatly different effect takes
place. Heat is very rapidly developed, causing the liquids to boil
violently, and sputtering and scattering in every direction. Care must
be taken, therefore, to _pour the acid into the water_.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.]

When the electropoin fluid is cool we can go ahead and set up our
battery. Place the zincs and carbons in position in their wooden
supports, Fig. 3, and suspend them in the tumblers, as shown in Fig. 4;
pour the bichromate solution into the tumblers until it reaches within
3/4 inch or 1 inch of the top. The wire connections should be made with
the zinc and carbons before the battery is set up, because to attempt to
make them after the solution is in the tumblers you cannot help spilling
the fluid. And I might caution my young friends right here to be careful
not to spill any of the solution on their clothes or on the carpet, as
it eats holes in fabrics.

Now for the final touches. If we now connect the lamp to the battery
wires it will give a brilliant light the moment we make the last
connection, and continue to burn until the current is broken, which may
be done by lifting the elements (as the zincs and carbons are called)
out of the fluid. After a while, if the current is kept on for some
time, the light will begin to diminish in brilliancy. This is due to
exhaustion of the liquid in the tumblers, and when the light gets dim
the solution should be renewed.

In connecting your lamp with the battery wires simply twist the lamp and
battery wires together firmly but gently. All of the connections are
shown very clearly in Fig. 2.

When the light is not desired it is best to remove the elements from the
tumblers, so as to save the zinc. The acid in the solution dissolves the
zinc.

An outfit of this sort costs about as follows: one Leclanche zinc (sawed
in two), 8 cents; two plain electric-light carbons, 20 cents; one pound
sulphuric acid (about one-half pint), 15 cents; one pound bichromate
potash, 25 cents; twenty-five feet No. 18 wire, 15 cents; one-half
candle-power lamp, $1; total cost, $1.83.

I have not included in this estimate the cost of the two tumblers or the
wooden holders, because tumblers can always be had around the house, and
no boy needs to be told where he can find wood. But to be on the safe
side we will assume that tumblers and all have to be bought; then $2
will cover the cost easily.

Such an outfit as this is very interesting and instructive to every
boy--and girl, too, for that matter--and what can be more fascinating
than to be able to produce a beautiful electric light so easily?




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


[Illustration: REGINALD FINCKE.

Interscholastic Tennis champion 1896.]

The sixth National Interscholastic Tennis Tournament was played last
week at Newport, and resulted in a victory for Reginald Fincke, of the
Hotchkiss School, winner of the Yale Interscholastic Tournament. His
victory was more or less of a foregone conclusion on the form he had
displayed in his early spring work; and the opponents he had to meet
were none of them very formidable, the strongest, Beggs of
Lawrenceville, not being present. This gave Walton of Colombia, the
weakest man of the lot, a chance to get into the semi-finals, where he
succumbed to the Harvard interscholastic representative in three
straight and uninteresting sets.

INTERSCHOLASTIC TENNIS CHAMPIONSHIP SERIES.

  Year.   Played at.   Winner.        School.
  1891.   Cambridge.   R. D. Wrenn.   Cambridge Latin.
  1892.   Cambridge.   M. G. Chace.   Univ. Grammar, Prov.
  1893.   Newport.     C. R. Budlong. High, Providence.
  1894.   Newport.     W. G. Parker.  Tutor, New York,
  1895.   Newport.     L. E. Ware.    Roxbury Latin.
  1896.   Newport.     R. Fincke.     Hotchkiss.

Fincke drew Turner of Chicago in the preliminaries, and defeated him,
6-4, 6-2, 6-8, 6-3. He then defeated Willing, the U. of P.
interscholastic champion, 6-2, 6-1, 5-7, 6-4. His hardest match was with
Edwards of English High-School. Edwards made a good brace in the third
set, taking it 6-2, but he was unable to maintain this form, and
although he did good work in the last set, he was unable to end better
than 4-6. This gave the championship for 1896 to Fincke, 6-2, 6-4, 2-6,
6-4. A full summary of the play will be found on the next page; and the
championship list now stands as shown in the table given above.

SIXTH ANNUAL NATIONAL INTERSCHOLASTIC TENNIS TOURNAMENT, NEWPORT, AUGUST
20, 21, 22, 1896.

  Preliminary Round.                   Semi-Final Round.

                                       J. K. Willing (U. of Pa.),
  R. Fincke (Yale),                    } Fincke, 6-4, 6-2, 6-8, 6-3.
  L. H. Turner (Univ. of Chicago).     }
  C. W. Beggs (Princeton),             }
  J. McL. Walton (Columbia).           } Walton, by default.
                                       Y. M. Edwards (Harvard).

Final Round.                    Interscholastic Champion.

Fincke, 6-2, 6-1, 5-7, 6-4.   } Fincke, 6-2, 6-4, 2-6, 6-4.
Edwards, 6-1, 6-0, 6-3.       }

It is sincerely to be hoped that the unfortunate differences between
those stanch old rivals and worthy opponents, Exeter and Andover, will
be brought to a friendly close this year. Since 1893 these two schools,
who used to meet annually in football, baseball, and tennis, have not
had any athletic intercourse whatever with one another, and all because,
in their great rivalry and desire to beat one another, one of them
certainly (and possibly both) overstepped the bounds of athletic ethics,
and was guilty of practices which, by a little consideration and
forethought, might have been avoided.

It is improbable that any good can be accomplished by going over the
causes which brought about this rupture between the two schools, for
stirring up mud and opening old wounds are of small benefit. Those who
know what the causes were can do nothing better than to forget, and
those who do not know what the trouble was will certainly find that here
is a case where ignorance is bliss.

For the past year or more I have been in correspondence more or less
actively with Exeter and Andover men, graduates and students and members
of the two Faculties, and the general opinion among all seems to be that
it would be a good thing to have the games renewed; and while both sides
seem willing to meet again, neither side seems anxious to make the first
advances. Both schools have, or think they have, grievances; and each
thinks the other should lay aside its pride or stubbornness and make the
friendly advances.

This situation might remain for an indefinite period if some
strong-minded individual or individuals did not step in and say, "Let
bygones be bygones, and let us start in on a new basis, wiping out all
old scores, and henceforth sticking to the true spirit of amateur
sport!" The difficult problem is to find the individual or individuals
who may have enough influence in both camps to bring about this greatly
to be desired termination. This might possibly be accomplished through
the alumni associations of the two schools at Harvard and at Yale.

Andover and Exeter men, after they get to college, usually become great
friends, because they feel, as graduates of these large schools, a sort
of superiority over their less-fortunate classmates who did not get
their schooling in such great and well-known institutions. This gives
them a common ground to meet upon, and they soon forget the petty
differences they may have had before they became college-men, and their
reminiscences become bonds of friendship rather than sources of
disturbance. But if the alumni in the colleges are to do anything, they
must first find out definitely from the men in the two schools that the
body scholastic is willing to wipe away old scores and go into a new era
of interscholastic contest, otherwise the same unfortunate comedy will
be played that was enacted a year or so ago, when some graduates
arranged for a reunion of athletic interests.

These arrangements could not have been very well laid out, for, at the
school meetings held the same hour, the same day, at Exeter and Andover,
different votes were reached. One school voted to resume friendly
relations, and the other school, unfortunately, voted to maintain the
same attitude that had caused the unpleasantness for the past two or
three years. The school that held out the hand of friendship naturally
felt hurt at this, and also naturally vowed that it would never take any
steps toward making up again. But that time has passed, and let us hope
those who were at the meeting have forgotten how they felt, and let us
also hope that the other school has seen by this time that it is not
well to refuse to shake the hand that is held out in good-fellowship.

So much is to be gained by both Exeter and Andover from the contests as
they used to be ten or fifteen years ago that it would seem that both
schools must yearn for the old order of things. Andover now seeks
Lawrenceville as its rival, and although Lawrenceville is decidedly a
strong opponent, and Andover-Lawrenceville games should never be
discontinued, yet Lawrenceville is not Andover's natural rival. Exeter
has sought Worcester Academy, and tries to make itself believe that it
holds a great interest in the Exeter-Worcester games; but there is no
doubt that there is not half the enthusiasm in the school over a
Worcester victory as there used to be, and would be now, over an Andover
victory. The same might justly be said concerning Andover and
Lawrenceville.

It is for this reason that I so sincerely hope that the graduates will
take some steps this fall, and open the new era of friendship with a
football game. Let each school be willing to make concessions, and in
the end they will find that they have gained tenfold in self-respect and
self-satisfaction for each concession they made.

The seniors at these schools, and the men who graduated from them last
year and are now entering Freshman year at college, can combine in this
movement, and I feel sure that if they are careful and thoughtful in
their methods, they can heal this breach which has been a painful one
for every Exeter and Andover graduate, and an unexplainable one for
outsiders who have looked upon these two schools as strong exponents of
the healthy spirit of scholastic sport in America.

[Illustration: Beers. O'Rourke. Moore. Washburne. Hipple.

Bedford.

THE N.Y.I.S.A.A. TEAM AT THE NATIONAL GAMES.]

The new football rules for 1896 have at last appeared in book form. It
is pleasant to know that they are a great improvement on anything of the
kind we have ever had before in America. The thanks of all sportsmen are
due to the University Athletic Club's committee for the work they have
performed, and, as the season grows older, every football-player will
realize more and more how much the reform of the code was needed.

There probably never was a more critical period in the history of
football than last year, when there were three sets of rules, and when a
certain number of colleges were playing under one set, an equally large
number were playing under another set, and perhaps a larger number still
were using the rules of the year before or a compromise between the
factional codes.

The principal changes to be observed in the 1896 code are in the rules
governing the fair catch and the scrimmage. The committee have thought
it wise to bring back the fair catch to the old ruling, which requires
that a mark be made with the heel; the old penalty of fifteen yards for
holding has been retained. There were those in the committee on revision
who thought that there should be a penalty of twenty-five yards for
holding a man who had made a fair catch, but the general opinion seemed
to be that few umpires would have the courage to enforce this rule, and
a compromise on fifteen yards was consequently adopted. Therefore, in so
far as the fair catch is concerned, the situation is about the same as
it was three years ago, except that the player making the catch is well
protected by the severe penalty against interference or being thrown.

As to the scrimmage, the committee felt that there had been too great
concentration of men in recent years, and they have attempted to hold in
check the momentum plays. They have ruled that no player may take more
than a single step before the ball is put in play--except one man, who
may be in motion toward his own goal; this will bar out all forms of
momentum play, and is a step in the right direction.

There is also a rule forbidding five men to bunch inside of tackles;
this will serve to hold back mass plays, although, doubtless, the
inventive minds of college football-players will be able to make up
plays that can evade the spirit of this law. But the makers of the rules
have hoped that the good judgment of captains and coaches may be relied
upon to see that there is fully as much to be gained in open play as in
the recently developed concentrated push work.

Among the minor changes to be noticed, in a cursory glance through the
rules, is that on a fair catch the opponents must retire ten yards from
the mark made by the catcher; this is a good ruling, for it places some
value upon a fair catch. It is pleasant to note that the rule concerning
interference with the centre rushers' snapping back of the ball has been
made more stringent, and the officials must see that the ball is fairly
put in play, and they must, according to the rule, insist that the
opposing team do not interfere either with the ball or the man.

A number of years ago it used to be a favorite trick of the opposing
centre to do all he could, by kicking or toeing or fingering the ball,
to annoy the man who was snapping back. This was then put a stop to, and
the opposing centres and guards began to shove and jostle their
opponents, much to the delay of the game. These new rules concerning
interference with centre play will prevent all of this nonsense, and
will tend toward making scrimmage play more rapid and snappy.

On account of the development of quarter-back kicking, it has been found
necessary to establish some rule that would make clear what kind of a
kick must be made to give the opponents a fair chance at the ball. The
rule has it that the ball when kicked by the quarter-back must pass
beyond the line of the scrimmage.

One of the most complete and noticeable changes in the rules, however,
although it is one that does not affect the game itself, is the
common-sense arrangement of the paragraphs. The code begins by stating
that "the game shall be played upon a rectangular field," etc. The old
rules began with the statement that "a drop kick is made by letting the
ball fall from the hands, and kicking it at the very instant it rises
from the ground."

There is nothing in the old rules to show on what kind of a field the
game should be played, or what the game was, or what kind of a ball it
should be played with. There was nothing in the old rules forbidding a
man to play the game with a cocked hat or a rubber boot if he chose; and
if a team had come on a field with a baseball, and had insisted on
running with that, there was absolutely no provision in the old rules by
which the referee could forbid the playing of the game with a baseball.

Now, however, this absurd defect has been entirely done away with, and
the new regulations, after describing the field and the teams, state
that "the football used shall be of heavy leather, enclosing an inflated
rubber bladder, and the ball shall have the shape of a prolate
spheroid." Furthermore, no term is used in the new rules which has not
first been fully defined. The first part of the code, therefore, is made
up largely of definitions, and this is of great assistance, for it will
prevent many a discussion and dispute on the field.

A few more remarks in conclusion of what was said in the Department last
week concerning preliminary football work: Remember that by practice
alone can a team perfect itself; and consequently every manager should
try to arrange as many practice games as possible for the eleven under
his care. After the school season has fairly begun, and the neighboring
schools have their elevens somewhat organized, it is always possible to
arrange games with outsiders. Thus when the championship contests come
along the players will be accustomed to games with strangers. Too much
practice with a scrub team breeds slack play and indifference. If it is
possible to schedule practice games with other schools for Wednesdays
and Saturdays--playing some teams two or three times, perhaps, in one
season--the manager should make such arrangements. In or near large
cities this is almost always possible, and perhaps that is why the
football elevens of New York and Boston are usually so well trained and
developed.

The reason is very clear. When you play a team from a distance, you are
bound to learn something of that team's methods, and it usually has some
points which had not yet occurred to you. If you play that same team
again two or three weeks later, it has learned from others, and puts its
newly acquired knowledge in practice against you, and you again have the
advantage of the other fellows' work. Of course your opponents are
benefited in the same way through playing with you; but that is only
right, and is much to be desired.

If it is possible for a school team to have the services of a
coach--some graduate or some ex-football-player living in the
neighborhood--it should avail itself greedily of the privilege, for it
is too much to expect a young captain to handle his men well and do all
the coaching besides. And when an older player has been invited to
coach, his commands should be obeyed to the letter; for if the players
had enough confidence in him in the beginning to desire or accept his
services, they can do no less than carry out his instructions if he
gives up his time to coach them in their sport.

Furthermore, it should be remembered that the coach has had greater
experience than any of the players, and he can also--as an
outsider--tell much better what the proper course of action for a team
is than any member of that team, who may be influenced by a great many
conditions that do not affect the coach, and so do not weaken his
judgment.

"TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL."--ILLUSTRATED.--8VO, CLOTH, ORNAMENTAL,
$1.25.

  THE GRADUATE.




[Illustration: STAMPS]

     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.


I was misled by the telegraphic report of the A.P.A. convention. The
annual dues are $1.80, not $1.08, as mentioned in last week's paper.

One of the weaknesses of human nature is a desire to get something for
nothing. Many stamp-collectors are constantly on the lookout for a "big
bargain" in rare stamps. Now bargains of this kind are never offered by
first-class dealers, as they know the real value of their wares, but
unprincipled persons take advantage of this weakness of humanity, and
many a new collector finds reason to repent of having bought such
"bargains."

A French journal, _Le Collectionneur des Timbres-Poste_, in a late
number gives an amusing instance. Baron de M---- purchased a collection
of rare stamps for 25,000 francs, which would have been a big bargain if
appearances had not been deceitful. With the assistance of a well-known
collector, the Baron discovered his stamps to be a marvellous collection
of counterfeit, fake, and patched-up stamps.

The following are some of the varieties of tricks practised by
unscrupulous persons:

1. Ordinary perforated stamps with exceptionally wide margins have their
perforations trimmed off, and such stamps are offered as rare
unperforated stamps.

2. Ordinary perforated stamps with wide margins are re-perforated with
the rare perforations. This is frequently done by means of an ordinary
hand punch.

3. Where stamps are printed in the same color with slight changes in
lettering, the rare varieties are made by piecing. For instance, the
one-franc French Empire is made by taking the 80 centimes, dark carmine,
with the bottom label from the one franc of the Republic.

4. Bicolored stamps with the centre reversed, which are extremely rare,
are made by cutting out the centre and reversing it on another copy of
the same stamp. For instance, the 1869 U.S. 15c., 24c., and 90c. have
been made by this process.

5. By chemical means the color is changed. For instance, the 10r. blue
of Brazil is changed into the 10r. black.

6. Stamps which have been cancelled by pen and ink have their
cancellation marks removed by chemical means, and these stamps are then
sold as unused.

7. Counterfeit cancellations are frequently made on genuine stamps which
have been surcharged "reprint" or "specimen."

8. Counterfeit surcharges are extremely common. They can be made on an
ordinary printing press.

9. False water-marks are sometimes made by printing the stamps with
wood-cuts, using a certain kind of oil, or they are made by pressing the
design of the water-mark on the stamp, and then removing a portion of
the paper by rubbing with pumice stone.

10. Very rare stamps of which a portion has disappeared have had these
portions added.

11. Are the ordinary counterfeits. Sometimes these counterfeits are of a
higher order of work than the originals. One of the great European
houses made fac-simile copies of all the U.S. periodical stamps, and
advertised the same as fac-similes. Each stamp bore the word
"fac-simile" or "falsch." These copies have frequently had a heavy
cancellation applied to them immediately over the word "fac-simile" or
"falsch." These stamps were then sold as genuine cancelled stamps.

The moral is a very simple one. Rare stamps should be bought from
responsible dealers or responsible persons only.

     MISS CECILE G. ROGERS, 118 B Bluff, Yokohama, Japan, wishes to
     exchange Japanese stamps for those of other countries.

     H. W. K.--No special value.

  PHILATUS.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




[Illustration: ROYAL BAKING POWDER]

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

ROYAL BAKING POWDER CO., NEW YORK.




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]




[Illustration: BICYCLING]

     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.


[Illustration: Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.]

Several weeks ago we mentioned in this column another way of getting
from Chicago to Waukesha. This was by taking steamer from Chicago to
Milwaukee, and riding thence to Waukesha. The sail is a beautiful one,
and makes one of the most interesting and varied pleasure trips near
Chicago. On arrival in Milwaukee you will find yourself near the
C. and N. W. Railroad depot, and the start awheel should be made from
this point. Ride out Grand Avenue direct, crossing the river. This is a
run of two and three-quarter miles, and when you are within about half a
mile of the toll-house at the end of Grand Avenue, turn to the right and
run up to it, keeping to the left on reaching it, and running thence out
over the Watertown Plank-road. It is two and a half miles to Wauwatosa,
and on entering the centre of the town turn left and cross the track.
Thence run out up a steep hill, leaving Homewood on the south, and
running into Elm Grove. On crossing the two tracks at Elm Grove, the
road is clear to Brookfield, four and three-quarter miles away, and in
good condition, except just as you leave Elm Grove, where there is a bit
of hilly country. At Brookfield take the left hand of the three roads,
and run thence direct to Waukesha. This three miles or more of road is
in parts hilly, though at no point in the whole run is there any very
bad hilly road. The road-bed itself is in very good condition for the
whole sixteen or seventeen miles.

We have now covered this particular vicinity of Illinois pretty
thoroughly. It is by far the best for bicycling on account not only of
the good roads, but of the variety of scenery that presents itself to
the wheelman. He can either ride by train from Chicago to Waukesha, or
by boat and wheel, or by wheel. A very good week's trip would be to make
the two days' bicycle trip from Chicago to Waukesha, as already
described, stopping the night at Lippencott's. On the third day, or
after a day's rest, to make the run to Oconomowoc and return to
Waukesha, and then, with another day in the vicinity, to finally ride by
wheel to Milwaukee over the road described this week, and return to
Chicago from the latter place by boat. Or the trip could be reversed,
and begun with the sail to Milwaukee, thence proceeding to Waukesha, and
returning by the two days' trip to Chicago.

     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. City of
     Chicago in No. 874. Waukesha to Oconomowoc in No. 875; Chicago to
     Wheeling in No. 876; Wheeling to Lippencott's in No. 877;
     Lippencott's to Waukeska in No. 878.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sheriff of the village had been annoyed with complaints from the
farmers about the loss of their chickens. He suspected a couple of
colored gentlemen, and catching sight of them among the usual
congregation at the village store one afternoon, he strolled in.

"Well, boys," he said, "there's a powerful rain-storm brewing in the
west. I tell you that when that rain comes it will bring things above
ground mighty lively."

In a short time the two colored men left the store. The sheriff chuckled
to himself, and going after them, found them both busily burying chicken
bones deeper in the earth.




[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

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


PRINTING ON COTTON, SILK, OR LINEN.

Photographic printing may be done on almost any textile fabric if it is
properly sized and sensitized. Linen and silk may be obtained already
sensitized, but it may be prepared very easily by the skilful amateur.

To size the fabric make a solution of

  Boiling water              8 oz.
  Chloride of ammonium      10 grs.
  Iceland moss               6 grs.

When nearly cold filter through two thicknesses of blotting-paper, and
soak the fabric in it for a quarter of an hour. Tack it at the corners
to a smooth board so as to stretch out the wrinkles, and dry in a place
free from dust.

Another sizing solution is made as follows:

  Ammonium chloride         1 part
  Water                   125 parts
  White of one egg.

After the fabric has been sized and dried it may be sensitized in any
good sensitizing silver bath. A bath which is always reliable is made
from

  Nitrate of silver          60 grs.
  Water                       1 oz.

Dissolve the silver in the water, and add strong ammonia water drop by
drop. A brownish precipitate will be formed, but keep on adding the
ammonia till the liquid clears again. The mixture should be stirred all
the while during the process, using a glass rod for the purpose. If the
solution does not clear after the addition of twenty-five drops of
ammonia, clear by filtering.

The fabric may be either immersed in this solution, or it may be
stretched on a flat smooth board or sheet of glass, and the solution
applied with a brush. The fabric should be stretched while drying, and
if one uses the small-sized artist's thumb-tacks, there will be no
danger of holes remaining in the fabric after it is taken from the
board. It is almost needless to say that the sensitizing must be done in
a room lighted by gas or lamp, and the fabric dried in the dark.

For printing one must make a special back for the printing-frame. For
this take wood the same thickness of the back, and instead of making the
two pieces which are hinged together of the same size, make one of them
two inches, and the other six inches across--if the frame is a 5 by 8
printing-frame. A 5 by 8 printing-frame is a good size to use; the 4 by
5 is too small.

In the larger half of the printing-frame cut a round hole of two or
three inches in diameter, and fit it with a smooth tapering cork. This
cork should be of fine grain, and made to fit snugly into the hole.

To print, draw the fabric over the cork and push it up through the hole
in the printing-frame far enough to come in close contact with the
negative without pressing too hard against it. Fasten the springs and
print as if on sensitive paper. Any boy or girl who is handy with tools
can make one of these backs for a printing-frame.

One can make prints on the corners of silk handkerchiefs, on silks for
cushion covers, on linen for doilies, or on linen for photograph-frames.
The process is simple and inexpensive.

     SIR KNIGHT RALPH B. ROOD, Cleveland, Ohio, asks if the radial
     energy of light is greater when the snow is on the ground than on
     clear days in summer; how dust can be kept from collecting on films
     during the drying; what makes the corners of a negative come out in
     some pictures with no detail, making heavy shadows when primed. The
     light is much stronger in the winter when the sun is shining on the
     snow than it is in a clear day in summer, owing to the intense
     white glare reflected from the snow. A shorter exposure should be
     made for snow pictures, and a small diaphragm used. To keep dust
     from films when drying, pin the films by the corners to a flat
     board--the editor uses grape-basket covers for this purpose--and
     set the board in a slanting position against the wall, with films
     on the under side. The reason of the defective corners in the
     negative may be either from the film not being evenly coated, or
     from a shadow falling across the lens during the exposure. Sir
     Ralph has a No. 1 Kodak for sale, which is in good repair, and has
     a leather carrying-case. Sir Ralph's address is No. 23 Dunham
     Place, Cleveland, Ohio. Any member of the club wishing a Kodak
     cheap is requested to correspond with Sir Ralph.

     SIR KNIGHT HUGO KRETSCHMAR, N. Y., asks if chloride of ammonia is
     the same as sal-ammoniac; if red prussiate of potash can be made of
     yellow prussiate potash; and if artists' gold-leaf could be used to
     make chloride of gold; and if an amateur could make nitrate of
     silver. Sal-ammoniac and chloride of ammonia are the same. Red
     prussiate of potash cannot be made from yellow prussiate of potash.
     If blue-print paper is made of yellow prussiate of potash
     (potassium _ferrocyanide_) instead of red prussiate of potash
     (potassium _ferricyanide_), the result will be a negative print,
     instead of a positive. The gold used by china-painters may be used
     for chloride of gold. Do not put the gold into _muriatic_ acid, but
     into _nitro_-muriatic acid, made by mixing one part nitric and two
     parts muriatic acid, diluting with an equal quantity of water. This
     liquid is known as "aqua-regia." An amateur could make nitrate of
     silver, but it would not pay for the trouble, nitrate of silver
     being very cheap.

       *       *       *       *       *

FEED THEM PROPERLY

and carefully; reduce the painfully large percentage of infant
mortality. Take no chances and make no experiments in this very
important matter. The Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk has saved
thousands of little lives.--[_Adv._]




ADVERTISEMENTS.




[Illustration: COLUMBIA BICYCLES]




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Established Dorchester, Mass., 1780.

Breakfast Cocoa

[Illustration]

Always ask for Walter Baker & Co.'s

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Made at

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It bears their Trade Mark

"La Belle Chocolatiere" on every can.

Beware of Imitations.




[Illustration: HARTFORD SINGLE-TUBE TIRES]

The Standard Single-Tube

Hartford Single-Tube Tires are the Standard tires. They have many
imitators, but the Hartford Rubber Works Company has been making
Single-tube tires for six years, and experience has taught them how to
make the right kind of single-tube tire.

IF IT'S A HARTFORD TIRE

IT'S RIGHT.

THE HARTFORD RUBBER WORKS CO.

HARTFORD, CONN.

New York. Philadelphia. Chicago.




HARPER'S NEW CATALOGUE,

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




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]

       *       *       *       *       *

About Order Chapters.

Here are two letters about Chapters:

     I have read of many flourishing Chapters, and often wished I knew
     what was done to keep up the interest of the meetings. The Good
     Times Chapter, of Bridgeport, Conn., of which I was president,
     disbanded from lack of interest. We tried sewing while one read,
     entertainments by each member in turn, and a Chapter paper; but we
     tired of the first, gave up the second from lack of new ideas, and
     the third for the same reason and because the members did not wish
     to write for it. There is now some talk of reorganizing the
     Chapter, but unless something new is undertaken it will be useless.
     If members of Chapters, particularly those like ours, consisting of
     about half a dozen girls, would send some hints, I should be much
     obliged to them.

  JOSEPHINE BELDING.
  12 WILLIAM STREET, BRIDGEPORT, CONN.

     The Columbian Chapter is in trouble. For many months it had largely
     attended meetings and jolly times. Then three members seemed bent
     on making trouble. We thought to disband and reorganize without
     them, but could not do so very well, because two of those proposed
     to be left out were our officers. There are six or seven new
     members to come in. What shall we do?

  HOMER C. BRIGHT.
  314 WEST FOURTH AVENUE, DENVER, COL.

It is to be remembered that societies are aimed to effect improvement in
their times, and to afford members a good time. Do not undertake to
start a club and then find something to interest it to keep it in
existence. Reverse the order. Find something to do, and then organize
for the specific purpose of doing it. Pledge each member to a certain
task. If there is lack of interest or apparent discussion, disband. When
the foregoing conditions can be complied with, reorganize--but not until
they can. As for suggestions for tasks, will some who have had success
with various lines of work write to these inquirers? Order Chapters have
been the sources of much profitable recreation, but always in cases
where they set out to do certain things, and stopped when those things
were accomplished or when interest flagged. An invaluable adjunct to a
Chapter is an intelligent middle-aged lady who can and will make
suggestions, settle disputes, etc. Those Chapters have been most
successful that have had such help.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kinks.

No. 28.--A MUSICAL MELANGE.

     One starlit night in the month of roses I attended what was set
     forth on my invitation card of bay leaf to be a "Musical Melange."
     Though due at the Mountebank Club at nine, I was loath to miss this
     assuredly delightful midnight entertainment. A Brownie troop
     mounted on dormice hurried me out of the great bustling city to a
     grove of lindens and larches. In a cleared space in the centre I
     was within an hour introduced to my favorite musical geniuses, whom
     I little supposed would ever again appear upon this terrestrial
     sphere. As I look back upon the event, I can still see the
     glittering eyes of the goblins and ghouls who covered the branches
     of the near-by trees, and hear the whir and buzz of myriad crickets
     and katydids sweetly blended with the strains of a hundred musical
     instruments. Among those seated around a log glowing with fox-fire
     were these well-known musicians:

     A vegetable, threw, and a consonant^1; to hew, and a preposition^2;
     a part of the body, and a French article reversed^3; the English
     equivalent of a sign of the Zodiac^4; the outer bark of trees, a
     preposition, and a personal pronoun^5; a masculine name meaning "a
     twin"^6: a part of a priest's robe, a preposition, and a vowel^7; a
     hook^8; a rope for capturing cattle^9; a member of a secret
     society^{10}; to trifle^{11}; a murmuring noise, and a small
     room.^{12}

     These spectral celebrities were each playing some instrument of
     soft and mellow tone. I noted with wonder that many of the
     instruments were bestudded with flashing stones. Among the
     instruments were:

     To trifle^{13}; a small wood^{14}; to channel^{15}; a shining bead
     of black glass^{16}; to proclaim^{17}; a sack, and large
     casks^{18}; an iron pot, and part of the ear^{19}; a city of
     Scotland^{20}; a famous cape^{21}; a bird of New Zealand^{22};
     dwells upon, a vowel, and harmony^{23}.

  CLEMENT RONALDSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 29.--A DUODENARY.

In each of the sentences is concealed the name of a celebrated poet.

1. The scarab urns of the Egyptians are at least bizarre.

2. As we gazed, horror-struck, Maguire's cot tottered, then fell.

3. "What a dasher, Bert! Throw the thing away."

4. A strong will is both fortunate and unfortunate.

5. Said the Ash, "The Aspens erred; the Abele was moaning."

6. "Too-whit!" exclaimed the owlets.

7. On the stand were scattered sundry dental appliances.

8. "It will be hard to reach 'em," snarled the guide.

9. While they were fumbling their creeses the trap opened.

10. The snug old smithy stood near the mill-stream.

11. Gleason's unruly red cow perambulated around the dairy.

12. The bearded stranger from the South eyed Charcourt suspiciously.

  ZOE D. ACKE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Answers to Kinks.

No. 23.

Third column, _Isaac Newton_. 1. Cringe. 2. Tassel. 3. Prance, 4.
Stamen. 5. Tocsin. 6. Ponder. 7. Clench. 8. Powwow. 9. Totter. 10.
Crower. 11. Tinsel.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 24.--1. Genet. 2. Edile. 3. Nidor. 4. Eloin. 5. Terns.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 25.--Blunderbuss.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 26. Piano-forte.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 27.

A Gay Young Scot set out one day for a Hunt. He was thoughtful enough,
Prior to starting, to Stow(e) away a lunch of Lamb and Bacon, and some
Porter bought from a Brewer. Being a Lover of fishing, he carried also a
Steel(e) Hook tied to a Reed. He wore a Brown Spencer and a Gray Hood.

As he was a Longfellow, he made Swift progress, till he stumbled over
some Shell(e)y Knolls, and so got an aching side (Akenside). "How it
(Howitt) Burns!" he exclaimed in a Stern, Savage voice. "It is enough to
anger a Pope or a Bishop. But what are Wordsworth in curing a Pain?" he
asked, with a Grim(m) smile.

He made a fire to Cook his fish, and while they were Browning he went to
a coal-ridge (Coleridge) to dig for ore, with the intention of showing
it to a Goldsmith to see if Sterling coin (Coyne) could be made of it.
He dug until the sound of a Horn and a Campbell recalled him home.

       *       *       *       *       *

Questions and Answers.

Charles Wood writes: "Will you kindly let me know what steps to take to
become a cabin-boy on one of the ocean steamships? Also please tell me
what is the pay of a cabin-boy, and whether there is a chance of
advancement." Apply to the agents of the line; also to pursers of ships
in port. Such positions are sometimes found on steamers plying to South
American ports. A young man went recently on a steamship bound for San
Francisco, _viá_ Cape Horn, expecting to be about a year. He was
required to furnish his own outfit of mattress, sheets, etc, sea chest,
and heavy clothing. His pay was to be $8 a month, and he was promised
instruction in the rudiments of seamanship. There are apprentices in the
engineer's as well as the sailing-officer's branch of the service, and
advancement is promised in both. The work is very difficult, and the
places are not easy to secure.

A. D. T. asks the meaning of the astronomical symbols which adorn the
numerous calendars about Christmas-time. Each dot and quirk represents
some emblem.

[Illustration]

the Sun, is a bossed circular shield;

[Illustration]

Mercury, represents the winged god's serpentlike _caduceus_, or wand;

[Illustration]

aptly imitates the looking-glass of Venus, while Mars's symbol,

[Illustration]

brings to mind the war god's helmet and plume;

[Illustration]

Jupiter's sign, is an eagle, while

[Illustration]

that of Saturn, forms a scythe;

[Illustration]

is at once seen to be Neptune's trident. The signs of the ascending and
descending nodes,

[Illustration]

and

[Illustration]

immediately suggest a croquet arch, or an eye of the hook-and-eye
combination, but are, in point of fact, the head and tail of a dragon.

"Can you give me any information regarding the 'Daughters of the
Revolution?' I would like to know who the founder is, where the
headquarters are, and what the requirements are. Is there a society of
this character that a child may join?--Eleanor C. Gardner." There are
two adult societies of almost identical names. One is "Daughters of
American Revolution," and the other, "Daughters of the Revolution." The
first-named was organized in Washington in October, 1890. It aims to
perpetuate the memory and the spirit of all who helped to achieve
American independence, to acquire and protect historical sites, to
erect, where possible, monuments thereon, and to preserve records,
relics, and the like of early patriots and their acts. The conditions of
membership are very liberal, being simply proof of descent from an
ancestor (male) who fought loyally for independence. The age requirement
is eighteen years. The president of the organization is Mrs. Adlai E.
Stevenson, and the secretary Mrs. Donald McLean, 180 Lenox Avenue, New
York city.

The other society is an offshoot of the former, organized in 1893, and
membership in it is much more restricted. The president is Mrs. Edward
P. Steers, 2076 Fifth Avenue, New York. The society for children is "The
Society of Children of the American Revolution." This has its
headquarters in Boston, but there are State organizations. The local
societies are called chapters, and the chapter in New York city has
about one hundred members. One of its objects is to form libraries,
prominence being given to books on national subjects. Professor John
Fiske has prepared a list of books for young students of American
history. Applicants for membership must, as in the adult societies,
prove their descent from active participators in the war for
independence. The president is Mrs. Margaret Lothrop, Concord, Mass.,
who will, without doubt, have further information mailed if applied to.

Leo Rehbinder writes to say that he enjoyed reading about West Point and
Annapolis, and adds: "I do not think they would suit me. Can you name
some universities or colleges for a poor boy, the cost, and chances in
life after graduating?" All universities and colleges are for poor boys,
in the sense that all lend every aid they can to brains and ambition
that chance to belong to those in limited financial circumstances.
Tuition is $40 to $150, with an average of $75, but in every college
there are free scholarships. Apply to the dean for conditions governing
them. In not a few colleges there is no tuition at all, as in Michigan
and most State universities, to pupils whose parents are citizens of the
State. At Lehigh, located at South Bethlehem, Pa., there is no tuition
charged any one. Board is $5 per week, but there are students who live
on less. In many colleges tutoring is to be had--sometimes enough to pay
one's entire college expenses. As for "chances in life after
graduating," no special answer can be given to that question. A general
answer is that others succeed, and what others do you can try to do.

       *       *       *       *       *

One Great Man's Method.

It is interesting to get a peep at the source of power, whether that
source be an electric motor, a steam-engine, or a man while gathering
material for great popular addresses. Mr. Francis Wayland Glen, who
years ago was a partner in a nursery establishment in Rochester, New
York, tells of a visit made by Henry Ward Beecher to his nurseries in
that city. Having been shown everything, Mr. Glen asked if the great
preacher cared to meet an educated Scotch gardener who had had thirty
years' experience in the care of greenhouses. Mr. Beecher replied that
he did.

Mr. Craig, the Scotchman referred to, was in the potting-house engaged
in mixing potting-earth. He was a most retiring man, and as the party
came upon him he was much confused at the announcement of the name of
the renowned preacher. The latter stepped forward and grasped the
gardener's hand, disregarding the fact that it was covered with
potting-earth, and shook it so warmly and so unconventionally that Mr.
Craig was at his ease in a moment. Then began a remarkable series of
questions. Mr. Beecher asking them, and for fully an hour, the Scotchman
answering them with the confidence of an expert. Mr. Glen continues:

"I stood by and watched the operation with wonder and admiration. Mr.
Beecher was gathering food and storing it away to digest and assimilate
and give out to his parishioners. He was so cordial with Mr. Craig that
he relieved him from all embarrassment, and he gave forth his answers
with freedom and pleasure and great clearness. Plant after plant was
taken up in the greenhouses, and its habits discussed, as well as those
of the fruits in pots in the orchard-house. The parting was as cordial
as the reception, or more so. Mr. Craig realized that he was appreciated
by the great preacher, and Mr. Beecher recognized the fact that he had
been receiving knowledge from a well-trained horticulturist and florist.
It was a lesson to me, then a young man, having just passed my majority,
that I have never forgotten, and the picture of one of the greatest
teachers of men sitting at the feet of a plain, unpretending, unassuming
gardener as a pupil is one I shall never forget."

       *       *       *       *       *

Autography.

The omnipresent autograph-hunter has passed through many fortunate and
unfortunate experiences. His hobby is somewhat of a lottery, bringing
him a cold rebuff, or mayhap a prompt enclosure of the coveted
autograph. An English nobleman once requested Talleyrand's autograph.
The author promised to send one in a few days, and, true to his word,
this note arrived:

     "DEAR SIR,--Will you oblige me with your company to dinner on
     Wednesday next, at eight o'clock? I have invited a number of
     exceedingly clever persons, and do not like to be the only fool
     among them."

Daniel O'Connell, on being urged to pen an autograph, sent the following
message to the stranger:

     "SIR,--Yours requesting my autograph is received. I have been so
     bothered with similar impertinences that I'll be blest if I send
     it.

  "Your ob'd't servant,
  "DANIEL O'CONNELL."

The Rev. Dr. Sprague, of Albany, a Presbyterian pastor, was the
possessor of a superb collection of autographs. He once requested the
autograph of Benjamin Franklin from an eminent professor. "Oh, you have
one already," said the professor. "No matter," replied Dr. Sprague, "I
want it for exchange. One Benny Franklin in Europe is _worth two
kings_!" Miss Alcott was always most patient with the ardent collector.
She was once visited by a large club of young men, each one of whom
wanted her autograph, and she did not refuse. Longfellow always kept a
packet of autographs in his pocket, in case of need. And what malevolent
person announced that a certain celebrity kept a rubber stamp of his
_fac-simile_ handwriting in his writing desk?

  LIONEL R. LANDON.
  MONTANA.




[Illustration: IVORY SOAP]

"Health is the vital principle of bliss, and exercise, of health."

  No health--there is no hope of bliss,
    No exercise--and health soon flies,
  No bath with Ivory Soap--you miss
    The best results of exercise.

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




Postage Stamps, &c.




[Illustration: STAMPS]

100 all dif. Venezuela, Bolivia, etc., only 10c., 200 all dif. Hayti,
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STAMPS on Approval! 50% disct. _List free._

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EARN A BICYCLE!

[Illustration]

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.




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]




A NEW BOOK

By MRS. SANGSTER

=WITH MY NEIGHBORS.= 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. (Ready Sept. 4.)

Under the title "With My Neighbors" Mrs. Sangster has gathered a number
of plain talks to plain people on familiar and homely subjects. Making
no attempt at literary excellence, these chapters are simply intimate
and confidential colloquies with women, younger and older, their aim
being to uplift and encourage the weary, comfort the sorrowful, and give
an impulse towards the better life.

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR:_

_On the Road Home._ Poems. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, $1.25.

_Little Knights and Ladies._ Poems. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, $1.25.

_Home Fairies and Heart Flowers._ Verses by Mrs. SANGSTER, Engravings by
FRANK FRENCH. Illustrated. 4to, Cloth, $6.00.

       *       *       *       *       *

OTHER RECENT BOOKS

=FOR KING OR COUNTRY.= A Story of the American Revolution. By JAMES
BARNES. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50.

=OAKLEIGH.= By ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.

=AFLOAT WITH THE FLAG.= By W. J. HENDERSON, Author of "Sea Yarns for
Boys," etc. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

=TOMMY TODDLES.= By ALBERT LEE. Illustrated by PETER S. NEWELL. Square
16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

=A LIFE OF CHRIST FOR YOUNG PEOPLE,= In Questions and Answers. By MARY
HASTINGS FOOTE. With Map. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

=THE STORY OF BABETTE,= A Little Creole Girl. By RUTH MCENERY STUART.
Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50.

       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HE STIRRED THINGS UP.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A MATTER OF STORIES.

"My uncle Jim," said Hal, "is building a house six stories high."

"That's nothin'," said Frankie. "My uncle George is writing a book ten
stories long."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FIRST STEP.

"I suppose, Jacky," said the visitor to the little four-year-old, "that
you will be going into business soon?"

"I'm going into pants first," said Jacky.

       *       *       *       *       *

On one of the tram-cars that climb the hills in the streets of the
little mountain town of D----, the driver is a quaint old man full of
interesting and humorous characteristics. In the course of conversation
with a passenger the other day he remarked that he and his mule had been
working steadily for the company for ten years, and that's a long time.

"Yes, it is," replied the passenger; "and surely the company must think
a good deal of you both to keep you so long."

"Well, I've done honest work, and they know that, but I'm doubtful about
how much they think of us. It was only the other day that the mule took
sick, and the company got a doctor for the mule, and docked me for the
time I lost. I dun'no', though; guess it was all right. Getting off
here? Well, good-day, sir."

       *       *       *       *       *

George Washington Jones, a colored gentleman, was sad, very sad. He was
a kalsominer when he had work to do, but, as he expresses it,

"Dem dere white trash hab gone into de trade, an' now Ise got no work to
do." But this was not what made him sad. "Dis yere life," he said, "am
not wuth livin'."

"What's the matter, George," inquired his friend.

"Why, Ise got a little money on dat last job, an' Ise went round to
settle de bills Ise owed."

"Didn't you attend to it all right?"

"Dat's de strange part of it. De butcher he wuz out, an' de grocer he
wuz out, an' every one Ise wanted ter pay wuz out, an' den what'd I do
but lose dat money."

"Well, that was unlucky, and no mistake; but still you showed your good
intentions, and no doubt they won't press their claims."

"Press dere claims! Yah, dat's de trouble. When Ise got 'ome Ise found
ebery one of dem waitin' to press dere claims, an' as Ise couldn't fix
dem, dey done an' fixed me."

       *       *       *       *       *

A STRIKING LIKENESS.

Miss Susan is an exceedingly refined young lady who has seen some five
summers. She is full of airs and of graces, reserved, self-contained,
and decidedly uppish. She cut her uncle dead in the street one day, and
when he reproached her for her extreme hauteur, she said, with her most
pronounced society manner,

"Oh, I saw you, uncle, but I thought it was auntie!"

       *       *       *       *       *

There is an Irish porter employed in a large commission house in New
York, one of the kind that will make a witty reply to any sort of
question. He is very fond of expressing his views in general, and has
great admiration of his arguments. If he fails to get a listener he will
talk to himself in lieu of something better. A member of the firm being
annoyed one day at his constant muttering, which he was unfortunate
enough to hear, sent for him.

"See here, John, did it ever occur to you that your constant talk and
muttering is a great annoyance to people that happen to be around? Why
on earth do you chatter away to yourself, anyhow?"

"Shure I have two reasons fer doin' that."

"Two reasons! Well, what are they?"

"One of them is that I loike ter talk to a sinsible man, and the other
is that I loike ter hear a sinsible man talk."

       *       *       *       *       *

A RULE THAT DIDN'T WORK BOTH WAYS.

"What's your name?" said the new school-teacher, addressing the first
boy on the bench.

"Jule Simpson," replied the lad.

"Not Jule--Julius," said the teacher. And addressing the next one, "What
is your name?"

"Billious Simpson, I guess."

And the new teacher had to rap for order.

       *       *       *       *       *

Teddy brought a green caterpillar in from the garden the other day, and
showing it to his mother, he exclaimed, "I've got a big worm, mamma, but
he ain't ripe yet!"

       *       *       *       *       *

ALFRED'S DISCOVERY.

ALFRED. "This is a funny sort of an ice-cream-freezer, mamma."

MAMMA. "Why so, Alfred?"

ALFRED. "Because it freezes the ice-cream, and then goes and lets it
melt."

       *       *       *       *       *

BOBBY (_pointing to a fish jumping out of the water_). "Mamma, see that
fish playing leap-frog!"





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, September 1, 1896, by Various



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