The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table, February 18, 1896, by Various.

There was a suspicious sniffle, then a series of gulps, and then the letters grew blurred and indistinct, and even hard winking would not keep the tears back; to Charlie's mortification they actually splashed down on the page before him.

"What dost thou read?" he asked, kindly. "It is not, I hope, bad news from the home?"

"Ach, du liebe Zeit!" ejaculated the puzzled master. "And what is that—an American wild animal, perhaps?"

Charlie shook his head and smiled, such a pathetic, homesick smile. "No, it's a game," he answered. "You play it on the ice with hockeys—sticks with a crook at the end—and a block of wood or rubber."

"So? and our German boys they do not know it? Then[Pg 374] thou must teach them"—cheerfully—"yes? for the skating is good now, they tell me. Komischer Junge!" he exclaimed a little later to his wife. "He reads for pleasure, and then he cries. It is, of course, the homesickness, and I fancy he misses the out-of-door life and the sports which they have always in America."

Charlie Stanton was fourteen—quite old enough, he maintained, to be his own master, even in a foreign country; but when his mother and father had actually said good-by, leaving him in a German family in Berlin while they went to Egypt for the winter, he began to regret his boasted independence; and while not acknowledging himself homesick, even a hockey story recalled too many happy memories to be read quite stoically. Mr. and Mrs. Stanton had felt perfectly safe in leaving their son with Dr. Hartmann, for he was a man who made it as much his concern to know that his pupils were happy, as that they imbibed a sufficient quantity of German and the classics.

At two o'clock the next afternoon Charlie started out for the West End Eisbahn. It was a beautiful day, cold and crisp and clear, and the boy's eyes glistened as he adjusted the lever of his skates. Then he stood up and looked about. Germans to right of him, Germans to left of him, Germans all around him, rising and falling. He watched them for a moment, and then struck out rather dismally, for even skating lost half its charm when one was quite alone. What was his astonishment, then, when a small block of wood shot past him, propelled by a real hockey in the hands of a boy about his own size.

"Stop him! head him off! he'll make a goal!" shouted Charlie, in great excitement, forgetting his surroundings utterly; and seizing a cane that was lying on a bench, he started off in mad pursuit, colliding recklessly with girls and officers, and sending several stiff little cadets sprawling on their backs. The next minute, by a dexterous stroke, he knocked up the hockey, dislodged the ball, and before his astounded opponent could recover himself, had carried it in triumph to the end of the pond.

"You went out of bounds," he retorted; "but, George! you do know how to play hockey! Are you an American?"

"Rather"—emphatically. "We're only spending the winter here, because Edith, my sister, is taking violin lessons. Here she comes"—as a remarkably pretty girl, accompanied by a "colossal schneider" hussar, glittering in blue and silver, skated towards them.

"Are you on the war-path, Dick?" Edith Hartley asked, laughingly, "Herr Von Lutzow says that the dead and wounded are lying all over the pond, and that the German army will have to hold you to account."

"All right. We'll challenge the German army to a game of hockey—won't we!" turning to Charlie.

"Hear that, Rahden?" said Von Lutzow, to a Second Lieutenant in the Infantry Guards who had joined Miss Hartley.

The young officer laughed. "Is it what you call the American cheek—yes? I have heard of it. Guädiges Fräulein, may I have the honor?"

"Not if you insult my country. Oh, Herr Von Lutzow, do get up a hockey game. It would be such fun to see you try and play."

"You think we could not? Too stiff—what? Rahden, we will have to show them that the German army cannot be trifled with even in sport. Then, Young America, get up your company, team, what you call it, and we will meet you on the battle-ground of the Grunewald one week from to-day. Ah! It will be the birthday of your great man, is it not? Your Mr. Washington."

Dick and Charlie were old friends by the time they left the Eisbahn, and they walked home together, discussing most earnestly the vital question of "material" for their hockey team.

"A week is an awfully short time," Dick said, as they parted; "but if the ice lasts we will show them what American boys can do."

"I can't find a fellow who knows a hockey from a hole in the ground," Dick wrote. "It's awfully hard luck. I could get Englishmen to burn; but that wouldn't do, because we challenged the officers to an international game, and we've got to stick to it, and play them somehow."

Charlie's spirits sank to zero. He didn't know a single boy in the whole city, and, what was even worse, he could not go out that afternoon to help in the search. But surely in all Berlin there must be at least seven boys—for they needn't play eleven—who knew something of shinny, or even football—if they could only skate. So he wrote back to Dick in the words of the famous Lawrence, and then waited in a fever of impatience for Dick's next bulletin.

"It's all right," Dick wrote. "I hustled like everything yesterday, and managed to find some fellows who knew how to handle their hockeys pretty well, but have never played on a regular team. They'll do, though. I hope the officers won't crawl now."

So did Charlie, devoutly, for his spirits had risen so high with the first sentence that he felt ready for any thing—artillery, cavalry, infantry—let them all come on!

That afternoon the raw recruits were drilled with such energy by the "little corporals," as the officers had dubbed the boys, that it began to look dark for the German army.

Dick and Charlie really played a remarkably fine game for their age, and were indefatigable in their efforts to teach the team how to dodge, and stop short, and back up, and play together, etc.; and it was quite dark when a dozen dead-tired but hopeful and enthusiastic boys started for home, their skates over their arms.

"And it is to-day the great game—yes?" asked Dr. Hartmann, as he watched Charlie's serious face at the morning coffee. "And the Kaiser, he will be there?"

Charlie laughed such a clear ringing laugh it did the Herr Doctor's heart good to hear it. There did not seem to be an atom of homesickness left in the hoy, and all because of a game! Truly the sporting spirit was a strange and unaccountable thing.

No, the Kaiser was not at the Grunewald, but quite a number of brilliant uniforms lined the little sheet of ice on that memorable afternoon. The boys were in old and variegated sweaters—a great contrast to the smart military team that walked gingerly across the slippery ice while the officers on the bank chaffed them in ringing tones.

"Stillgestanden! Kopf in die Höhe!" (halt! head up!) cried one. "Knochen zusammen!" (legs together) called another; while a gaudy yellow hussar exhorted one to "shake himself into his coat."

Their amusement only increased when the Prussian force stood up in line, their faces crimson from the effort of putting on their skates without the help of a Bursche.

Frank Moore, a friend of the Hartleys, had promised to act as umpire, and had made all the necessary arrangements. After a little preliminary skirmishing, Dick and a big hussar with a fierce red mustache shook hands and declared themselves ready. Then the two teams lined up. The umpire placed the block in the centre of the field, and the whistle blew. Like a flash the forwards bore down upon the little solid vulcanized rubber block, the officers reaching it first.

The big hussar tried to dodge, but he was between too many fires; so, swinging his hockey, he gave the ball a tremendous whack, which sent it spinning down towards the goal. "After it! after it!" he yelled to his lagging team. "Great Scott! we'll—machen ein goal!" recollecting himself suddenly. But there was no goal, for the ball went out of bounds thirty yards from the posts.

It was brought out at right angles, and dropped by the umpire between the hockeys of the two captains. There was a few seconds of feverish scrimmage, in which all the forwards joined, and then a long hockey darted like the tongue of a snake into the crowd from the outside, skilfully hooking the block, and the owner whirled round in the very faces of his own men, and then backwards and sideways[Pg 375] he zigzagged, until he found an open space, for which he made a dash, and before the astounded hussars could recover themselves he had carried it, skating like the wind, past the backs and the goal-keeper, in for a goal.

A storm of "Bravos!" greeted this successful trick, and Edith led with a rousing American cheer, for it was Charlie who had scored one for his country.

"That's jolly good hockey!" said a fat, breathless little Lieutenant; and Dick turned and looked at him in surprise.

Then the block was put in play again, and back and forth it flew, until the big hussar once more got the ball and a clear space, and by a brilliant exhibition of fast skating and clever tricking, he too carried it safely in for a goal.

The German army was playing well, suspiciously well; their long passes would have brought joy to a lacrosse-player's heart, and their clean hits would have made a polo enthusiast shout with delight.

Dick and Charlie conferred together in low tones. Should they protest against the pure English of the gay hussars? Something was clearly wrong, though the uniforms seemed right. But no, they would not stop to challenge them.

Up and down the ice the rubber block spun, alternately threatening the well-guarded goal-posts. It was such pretty hockey that the officers on the bank, in the excitement of the game, forgot to chaff their representatives, and only when Charlie, "by playing for his man," had bowled a stiff little hussar clean over, did they give way to unrestrained mirth.

"You've broken my leg, you young idiot," roared out this forgetful officer, as he struggled to his feet; and then he bit his lip, and muttered "By Jove!" for he saw that he had given himself away.

"Was ist dann los?" (What's the matter) was called out from the bank as the game hung fire for a minute.

"We are discovered," came back the answer, and there was a burst of laughter from the crowd, for the fraud practised upon the boys had been an open secret to them all.

"Take your mustache off, Mackintosh, it dazzles my eyes," cried some one. And the boys looked up at the big hussar, who was grinning sheepishly under his disguise.

"What Dummkophs we were!" they exclaimed. "Why, their uniforms don't fit for a cent!"

"I can't bend in mine," groaned Thomas, the English chaplain's son; "it's got a ramrod up the back."

"My stiffest chokers are cotton wool compared to these impossible boards," said little Smith, wriggling his neck round inside the beautiful gold collar.

"Is there one real officer on the team?" demanded the little corporals, who were sternly superintending the unmasking of the impostors.

"No," answered Mackintosh, cheerfully. "We are all echt English subjects—for I'm a Canadian."

The two Lieutenants who had "crawled" so ignominiously came forward with Miss Hartley to make their peace.

"Your sister she have did it," said Von Rahden, for Germans too are descended from Adam.

"Yes," acknowledged Edith, penitently, but with a twinkle in her eye, "it was my fault. Herr Von Lutzow said, 'What is a German officer, a hussar, without his sword or spurs? He is not, as you say, "inside it."'"

"Or the skill," she answered, laughing. "At any rate, they regularly backed out, Dick, so Mr. Moore and I concocted this scheme in order to cover their disgraceful retreat, and redeem at least their uniforms."

"Take them off, then," she retorted. "You'll play it out boys? America against England instead of Germany?"

The little corporals looked at the strapping young Englishmen, all good football-players, and some old hockey-players as well; but they did not have the Napoleonic spirit for nothing.

Then the bogus hussars peeled off their tight gold-laced jackets, and breathed once more freely. It would be an international struggle, and they must put forth all their strength and skill. The teams lined up.

"We'll pass the block to each other as we did before," whispered Dick, "and then scoot for the open ice. And tell the fellows, Charlie, not to try and stop Mackintosh, but to hook his hockey the way you did; and we'll work that circling trick again, too."

Mackintosh was clearly a star player. He kept his body bent, his arm out straight, and his hockey ever ready for the block to nestle in. And when Thomas backed him, and the rest cleared the way, he was a formidable man to tackle. But "Young America," led by the gallant little corporals, never lost heart or head. They shinnied on all sides, they kept their eyes right on the block, they hit it hard, they "babied" it, they shoved it between legs and hockeys to an open field, and then darted like lightning for it themselves, and they worked tricks which made the more knowing spectators shout with enthusiasm.

The score kept running up, and still the apparently unevenly matched teams kept even. Five goals each, and only five minutes more to play.

"Look out for the long pass and skirting round the edges," said Mackintosh, and Thomas nodded.

The umpire blew his whistle, and once more the forwards charged down upon the block, which became the centre of a fierce scrimmage. Dick hovered on the outskirts, and when the puck flew from between the legs of Smith he caught it on his hockey and started off; to the right of one he dodged, to the left of another, and, when fairly cornered, he managed, by a quick turn and lightning stroke, to hit the ball, and send it whizzing down the pond.

Now there was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, and Mackintosh, the big Canadian, got there first. Then squirming and worming, he worked his way up the field. Edith held her breath.

"Hook his hockey! hook his hockey!" cried Charlie, who was guarding the goal, cool even at this critical moment; and he started slowly towards him, hoping to force him out of bounds. But Mackintosh, with Dick hard behind, could not afford to lose speed by dodging, and—crash! the two came together, and together went down, with a sound like falling timbers—giant oaks. The ice shivered, and then split from end to end, a long deep crack; but the game went on, for Dick, with the national honor at stake, could not stop to see what besides the eight-inch ice was cracked, and by a series of never-to-be-surpassed tactics he carried the ball straight up the pond for a winning goal; and then, while the air thrilled to the cloudburst of "Bravos!"—for the officers had basely gone over to the enemy, and were backing America with all the lung-power they could spare from their dignity—he skated back to find Charlie with a bleeding head and broken collar-bone, but mad with delight because his fall had saved the game. The crowd swarmed upon the ice, and the boys were the heroes of the hour. But they bore their honors very modestly, even though Edith declared it to be a double victory.

"They had beaten the Germans by default," she said, "and England by nerve. Any one, to look at the two teams"—here she glanced up at Mackintosh and down at Charlie—"would see that the boys were clearly outclassed; but the great American spirit—"

"And a week of hard practice," put in Mackintosh. "Only got our hockeys yesterday."

"I accept the amendment. The great American spirit, and a week of practice have gained the day."

"Three cheers for the little corporals!" said Von Lutzow. "They have nobly won their spurs. And we, Husaren of the Royal Guards, who cannot fight with crooked sticks, will be proud to cross swords with them at any time."

"And this," ejaculated Herr Dr. Hartmann, clasping his hands in horror as Charlie, with head and shoulders bound and bandaged, but happy as a king, was deposited at the door—"and this is called sport!"

THE RESTORATION OF "TIP."

BY J. PARMLY PARET.

Tip was a vicious young elephant, and during his brief life of twenty-three years he killed several of his keepers. His last act of violence came near causing the death of Snyder, the attendant who had charge of him at the Central Park Zoo, and as a result he now stands upon a wooden pedestal in New York's Museum of Natural History, where all may look at the brute which caused so much trouble for the circus people who owned him. For his attack upon Snyder, nearly two years ago, the Park Commissioners ordered his execution, and he was killed with powerful drugs given to him in his food. The process of mounting and stuffing his hide, to be exhibited at the museum, was very interesting, as the accompanying series of pictures will show.

The preparation of the elephant's tough skin and the cleaning of his bones took nearly a year before the actual work of mounting was started. As it is intended to mount Tip's skeleton separately, exact reproductions of his skull and a few of the other large bones were carved in wood, to be used in modelling the form on which the hide was to be mounted. All of the flesh, of course, was destroyed, and in its place the museum workmen built up a dummy of his body, or manikin, as they call it, from measurements and photographs taken of him before his death. Building this lay figure and fitting the skin to it took nearly six weeks' work, and the stuffed elephant then stood over two months, to allow the hide to stretch and dry on its new body before the specimen was ready to be shown. It has been on exhibition only a few weeks now.

The first part in the difficult task of mounting Tip was to build the manikin. The workmen sawed out of heavy planking a flat piece about the general shape of the big brute's side. This was supported by iron rods, in place of legs, bolted to the frame-work and to the temporary pedestal upon which the work was done. The wooden skull and leg bones were then screwed to the body, and other pieces of wood the shape of Tip's sides were fastened in place like ribs. A pair of handsome ivory tusks taken from some other real elephant were fitted to the skull, while another long plank was hung down between them for his trunk. Tip was nine feet and a half high at the shoulder, and eleven feet in length, so it was no easy task to reach all parts of his great body. Great ladders were built at each end of the manikin, and ropes were rigged from the ceiling over it, to haul up the heavy parts of the wooden animal they were creating.

Just as the carpenters build the walls of a house, these workmen covered the great ribs of their wooden elephant all over with laths. They nailed them to the frame-work, leaving his body hollow, and then for the first time the manikin began to take on the shape of a real elephant. His body looked more like some huge barrel, perhaps, than that of Tip, and his legs were a trifle stumpy and unfinished at the ends; he lacked a tail as yet, too, and his trunk was only a rough pine board; but the gleaming ivory tusks were there, and his head had a lifelike appearance that was very encouraging. But the difficult part of the work was just beginning, for the body must be made to fit exactly to the shape of the hide before it could be put on.

Excelsior was next called into use, and the lath-covered frame-work was completely enveloped in those thin shavings from wood so often used for packing china and glass. Bunches of it were tacked to the laths, and in some places it was tied on with string, while here and there a little lump was glued to the frame-work. The many photographs of Tip were gotten out, and measuring-tapes were used to get the exact size in all parts. For days the men were busy with nothing else but this work. They trimmed off corners here, and added patches there, as the defects in the manikin's shape were shown by the photographs and measurements.

At last the great hide was brought up from the cellar, and for the first time fitted to the wooden elephant. When Tip was skinned a year before, the men were careful to cut off the hide so that it would be easy to work with when they came to mount it, the two sides and the head[Pg 377] being skinned separately. Now these three pieces of hide had undergone an elaborate preparation. They had been soaked for months in acids, and had been scraped and pared down to about an inch in thickness. If this tough skin were kept long in the open air it would have hardened so stiff that it would have been almost impossible to mount it. So it had been kept in a solution the workmen call "tan liquor," and when the manikin was finished an enormous tub containing these soaking hides was brought up to where the dummy stood.

Ropes were fastened to one side of Tip's skin, and it was hauled up against the manikin and fitted around the body. Then it was lowered back into the tub again, and more excelsior added where the skin hung loose, or bits cut away to make room for the clumsy dimples in the elephant's hide. This was repeated over and over again, until the men were satisfied with the fit of the final covering for their specimen. But, like good tailors, they were not easily satisfied, and the patient manikin had to have its new coat "tried on" many, many times before it was ready to have the seams sewed up for good. Both sides had to be treated in this way, and then the head, which, of course, needed more fitting and alterations than the sides.

But it was finally finished, and the last work on the manikin was then done. The great body with its woolly coat of excelsior was hidden under a thin layer of modelling clay. This was spread over evenly and worked down smooth with the men's hands; the body, the legs, the head, the trunk, and even the tail were treated to this last coat, and at a little distance Tip looked very natural, except for the lack of eyes and soles for his feet. Again the big pieces of hide were hauled up out of the tan liquor, and again they were fitted to the manikin. Here and there a few final alterations were necessary, and then the body was ready to be sewed into its new coat forever.

Clumsy seamstresses these workmen would have made if fine linen and sewing-silk had been their materials, but with copper wire, and brad-awls to punch the needle-holes, they managed to make fully as strong, if not as neat, seams as the cleverest dressmakers. The two sides of the skin were hauled up and matched together at the top of the elephant's back. Then, with their clumsy needles and their wire thread, the workmen climbed up on top of the manikin, and sewed together the long seam where the knives of the skinners had opened the hide. Other seams down the back of the legs and under the elephant's belly were sewed up in this way, and Tip's hide once more held an elephant, although a very different kind of an elephant from that it was intended to cover. The skin of the head was put on in the same way, and the trunk-covering was sewed over the padded plank in a most natural position. Two large eyes of glass were fastened into the sockets, and Tip was put away to dry out.

Had any one who did not know the secrets of the taxidermist come upon the elephant a few days later, he would have thought he had seen a ghost—and the ghost of the famous white elephant, too, at that. There stood Tip, to be sure, but all white. The effect of the chemicals in which his skin had soaked so long had been to bleach the hide to a streaky gray that looked almost ghostly. But the workmen expected this, and they soon altered the disguise. They went over to the zoo in the Park with big buckets of paint, and mixed a lot of it to match the skin of Tom, another elephant there, whose hide is almost exactly the same color as was Tip's. Then they painted the stuffed elephant from trunk to tail, and varnished over the paint, covering up all the stitches they had taken in his hide, and giving him once more the appearance of the familiar old friend on whose broad back the children used to ride about the circus ring until he got too ugly to be safe.

Never again will Tip attack his keepers. Behind a railing he stands in the museum, as harmless as old Jumbo, whose skeleton stands nearby, but still as natural as in life. On his label one reads,

ASIATIC ELEPHANT,

followed by a brief history of his twelve years' experience in America, his death and restoration. His skeleton will be mounted by the museum experts, and will stand at the side of the stuffed hide.

DOMINOES.

After the dominoes have been laid face down upon the table, and well shuffled, each player—and there should be but two—draws seven cards, the one having the highest "double" leading the game. In case there should be no double out, the player holding the highest number of spots on one card is entitled to lead. The two then play alternately until the game is so blocked that one cannot match a piece; the other then continues until he blocks himself or plays all his cards, thus winning the game. In case both are blocked, each counts the number of spots on the cards left in his hand, and whoever has the smallest number wins the game.

The game is so simple, skill consisting almost entirely in the power of memory, that it cannot be hampered by many rules, but there is much advice which the learner would do well to remember.

In playing, lay down such cards as will enable you to play at either end the next time, if possible.

Play the cards with the greatest number of spots on them first, so that in event of the game being blocked to both you may stand a chance of winning by spots.

The numbers of which you have the most are the best to play, since your adversary is likely to have less.

When it is possible for you to block the game, do not do so if you have been playing high cards and your adversary low ones, for in that case the chances are that he will be able to "count out." It is dangerous to block your own hand until you have become so skilled in the game as to be able to form some idea of the size of your adversary's hand.

If you hold a double, and one or more with the same number, play it as soon as possible; but do not try to make a number for it, otherwise your adversary, if he be a good player, will see what you are trying to do, and prevent it. But if you hold a double of an end at which your adversary cannot play, work at the other end in the hope of shutting him out of the game entirely.

With a heavy hand, play first on one end and then on the other, to prevent any chance of blocking the game when the number of spots would count against you. A good hand is that having the greatest variety of numbers, as 6-3, 5-4, 2-1, 4-3, 1-0, 2-0, 0-0, and with it one can generally play every time, while a bad hand would be 6-6, 5-5, 6-2, 6-4, 2-2, 2-1, 1-1, and of course the very worst would be to hold all the doubles; but that would hardly occur in an actual game.

As an example of how doubles should be played, suppose your hand consisted of 5-5, 2-2, 3-2, 2-4, 1-0, 5-0, 6-2, it would be better in every way to play the 5-5, since your other double can be forced either by the 3-2, 2-4, or 6-2.

All Fives, or Muggins, is and should be played similar to the one above, save that the great object is to make the spots at both ends amount to five, or any number divisible by five without a remainder. If one plays 5-5 at the start, he counts ten. If 0-0 is played first, the 0-5 would count five to the player; then if 5-5 be played it counts ten, and 0-0 played on 0-5 counts five also. If 6-6 is at one end and 4-4 is played at the other, twenty is counted to the game, since twelve and eight make twenty. In this game he who can play 5-5 has the lead; and failing in that, he who holds 0-5, then 2-3; and failing in all, he who holds the highest card. The game should be fifty or one hundred points, and the winner counts all the spots in his adversary's hand at the close, adding them to his score, or, in case of a block, adds the difference between the lesser and the greater hand.

The Drawing game is played like the Double Sixes, save that when a player is blocked he must draw another card, and continue to do so until he can play. He who plays out first, or, in case of the game being blocked, he who has the smallest number of spots wins. This game really requires the most skill, since a player must remember all the cards, and try to form some idea of what remains in the pool and what his adversary holds. It is quite common to unite this game with All Fives, thus making a longer game of the former.

The Matadore game has more of the element of chance in it than any other. Each player draws three cards, and he who holds the highest plays first. After that the next player can only go when his domino, added to the one previously played, will make seven. Those cards having just seven spots on them, and the double blank, are called matadores, and may be played at any time, regardless of spots. There are, of course, but four matadores—6-1, 5-2, 4-3, 0-0. If one cannot play, he must draw until he can, or until but two are left, when no more can be taken. The number of points in this game may be made from twenty to a hundred, as the players decide.

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.

'Tis splendid to live so grandly
That, long after you are gone,
The things you did are remembered,
And recounted under the sun;
To live so bravely and purely
That a nation stops on its way,
And once a year, with banner and drum,
Keeps its thought of your natal day.

'Tis splendid to have a record
So white and free from stain
That, held to the light, it shows no blot,
Though tested and tried amain;
That age to age forever
Repeats its story of love,
And your birthday lives in a nation's heart,
All other days above.

And this is Washington's glory,
A steadfast soul and true,
Who stood for his country's honor
When his country's days were few.
And now when its days are many,
And its flag of stars is flung
To the breeze in defiant challenge,
His name is on every tongue.

Yes, it's splendid to live so bravely,
To be so great and strong.
That your memory is ever a tocsin
To rally the foes of the wrong;
To live so proudly and purely
That your people pause in their way,
And year by year, with banner and drum,
Keep the thought of your natal day.

Margaret E. Sangster.

THE SKATING BRIGADE.

BY ELIZABETH S. HICOK.

The boys worked hard that day, carrying sticks and dragging logs from the woods that bordered the banks of the Curve. The Curve was one of the many bends in the river that began its journey far up among the hills, whose summits could be seen from the town of Landon on a clear day.

The Rambler had evidently started out in life with no definite plans as to its future course, except, perhaps, the one purpose of seeking an easy, pleasant way. To accomplish this it wandered in and out, and formed many little bays and inlets as it flowed carelessly along. At all seasons it offered irresistible attractions to the boys fortunate enough to live near it. What swimming holes could be compared with those of the Curve and the Dip? Where could better fishing be found than at the Angle? Could there be a cooler place to rest on a hot day, after a good pull[Pg 379] at the oars, than under one of the stone arches of the bridge that spanned the river two miles above the town? In fact, at almost any time of year if a Landon boy was not around when wanted, it was pretty safe to conclude that the river was responsible for his absence.

But now it is winter. Though there is but a thin mantle of snow on the ground, the reeds and cat-tails are frozen stiff in the ice, and the willows look more dejected than ever, as they droop their bare slender branches to the ice-covered stream. But this winter scene is not a dreary one to a boy fond of skating, and the ice for miles up and down the river is as smooth as glass. The party at the Curve numbers sixteen, and they are all skaters.

It was a queer collection of wood that the boys had brought together—logs, large and small, branches of trees, and underbrush—but it suited their purpose.

"We have worked long enough," said Ralph Waring, a tall, overgrown lad, who was leaning lazily against a tree.

"We?" laughed a small energetic boy, pushing with all his strength against a large log that refused to move. "We!"

"Well, you, then," said the first speaker, good-naturedly. "Mr. Hastings did not bargain for this, I'll wager, when he said we could have all the wood we could use. We'd better go into the lumber business, with such a good start."

"Ralph is right," said Gordon Brice. "We have now more wood than we need. Besides, it is four o'clock. If we are to meet here at seven we must lay the logs and brush ready to light, and hurry home for a rest and something to eat. I'm tired as a horse and hungry as a bear."

The boys set to work again, Ralph doing his share, and soon a large cone-shaped pile stood in a cleared space near the shore.

"Now three good cheers for Washington's birthday," said Gordon. Hats waved in the air, and three cheers were given with hearty good will by all the boys, who then took the narrow path that led along the bank to the town.

It was somewhat past the appointed time that evening before all the boys were again at the Curve. Gordon had taken too long a rest, and overslept; Max Utley had mislaid his skates; and Ralph, of course, was late.

"On time?" drawled this delinquent, as he sauntered up to the group of boys, some on one knee fastening their skates, others sitting on a log as they performed this operation, and still others stamping a foot to make sure that all was secure before starting out.

"Yes, your time—half an hour late," replied Jack Foster. "We are all ready for the skate up the river, and do not intend to wait for any one."

"Don't expect any favors; don't deserve any," said Ralph, not in the least ruffled by Jack's remark. "Perhaps I can meet you on the down trip. I shall make the effort, anyway."

Half a dozen boys were ready for this work, and after a number of matches had flared up and gone out in the haste of each boy to be the first to start a blaze, little flames were seen creeping in among the brush and reaching out blue and red fingers towards the logs.

"To the Dip!" shouted Gordon. "To the Dip!" was sent back along the line, and on they sped.

It had all been planned. They were to skate to the Dip—a short distance up the river—and then return to spend the rest of the evening at the Curve, skating by the light of the fire.

At the Dip they rested a few moments, then started down the river, hand in hand, sixteen abreast. They skated fast, and for the most part silently, needing all their breath to maintain the steady motion.

"I wonder how the old Curve will look under fire?" said Clarence Bemen at last, to Ralph, who was at his right, working hard to keep up with his companions.

They could catch a faint glimmer thrown out from the fire over the ice directly in front. The boys, in their excitement, grasped hands tightly as with a long sweep they went round the point of land into the Curve.

But what do they see? They all stop suddenly, for on the bank in the full light of the fire was the figure of a man, tall and slight, and in military dress. A coat with broad rolling collar and with epaulettes on the shoulders was held together by three large buttons; the trousers were short, and met at the knee by high boots with flaring tops. The man wore a powdered wig, surmounted by a three-cornered hat. At his side was a sword, sheathed.

The skaters were too astonished to move forward or say a word. But at last Ralph, whose mind always moved faster than his body, said, emphatically,

Just then the man unsheathed his sword and waved it in the direction of the boys, as if wishing to summon them nearer.

"The old fellow looks kind of ghostly," said Max, irreverently. "But we are sixteen to his one. Come on! We will let him speak for himself, if he can speak."

On the line moved with slow long strokes, in perfect unison, till they came within a few feet of the shore.

"You come up in good style. I always like to see the young American show himself the soldier," said the strange man.

Then Gordon, as spokesman, said, raising his cap, "Have we the pleasure of welcoming to the Curve George Washington, whose birthday we celebrate?"

"You have," replied the person addressed, bowing low, and speaking in a deep bass voice. "Of all the places where the anniversary of my birth is being honored to-day none has offered more attraction than this. It reminds me of scenes from my past life which can never be effaced from my memory. The cliffs that surround this Curve, this frozen stream, this fire even, built in my honor, recall the terrible winter at Valley Forge, and that memorable night when I with my brave followers crossed the Delaware."

Here the General drew forth a large bandanna handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.

"And where did he find that rig—'The old three-cornered hat, and the breeches and all that'?" said Donald Gray, who was always ready, on every occasion, with a quotation.

Meanwhile the General had recovered from his emotion, replaced his bandanna, and resumed his speech.

"My experience amid the scenes of war has made me very sympathetic, and I am easily affected to tears. If you have studied your histories, as you should, you already know that I was very kind to my men, and always tried to make them as comfortable as circumstances would permit."

"The Commander-in-Chief is pretty eloquent," said Clarence to Ralph, "He is using large words. Have you any idea who it is?"

"I have my suspicions," answered Ralph, "but I am not sure. Hush! he isn't through with his oration."

"You all know the old fisherman down at the Ledge?" continued the speaker, inquiringly.

"Yes, Uncle Simon. I think there is not a boy here that he has not befriended, mended his fish-poles, disentangled his lines, patched his boats, saved him from drowning in summer and from freezing in winter. Well, Uncle Simon is down with rheumatism, and hasn't fire enough to keep him warm. When I happened to hear of the fine stock of wood you had laid in for a big bonfire, I thought now is Uncle Simon's chance to get warm. Now Uncle Simon's young friends can come to the rescue. What do you say, boys, shall we form ourselves into a skating brigade, pile the wood on these sleds that you forgot to take home, and carry it down the river to Uncle Simon? All in favor say 'Aye.'"

The response to this appeal did not come at once. The boys thought this rather a tame ending to their contemplated sport.

"One good turn deserves another," said the General, persuasively.[Pg 380] "Remember that Uncle Simon has helped most of you out of some difficulty. Now, once more, all in favor say 'Aye.'"

This time there was not a boy that did not respond. The cliffs around echoed with the young voices.

With the General's assistance they set to work. Two large logs were laid on each sledge, with a third log on the top, and some brush that Max said would do for Uncle Simon's kindling wood.

"Eight boys to a sledge, four on each side, with a firm grasp on the strap, and no racing, unless—well, unless you have to keep up with the other sledge," commanded the General. "Now on with your skates again."

"Skate? Of course I can. Brigade is a pretty high-sounding name for so small a company, but we shall do the work of one."

"The fire is pretty low," said Jack, regretfully, as he looked at the fast-dying flames.

"I don't care," said Hugh Bently. "Uncle Simon sha'n't suffer from cold if I can help it."

Before starting off, General Washington produced a large covered basket from behind a log. This he placed on the front of one of the sledges, and secured firmly. He said that it was his present to Uncle Simon.

While these scenes were being enacted at the Curve, Uncle Simon, in his cottage at the Ledge, sat by his hearth, looking despondently into the fire that was fast disappearing up the chimney in smoke. His thoughts ran something in this way:

"I shall have to go to bed pretty soon and stay there to keep warm. No more wood, and nothin' to eat in the house."

Here a twinge of rheumatism made him screw up his face, and his thoughts became, in consequence, still more bitter.

"I've done many a good turn to folks in my life. Every boy in Landon ought to be here this minute waiting on me. The ungrateful little rascals, never to think of—" Just here his thoughts were interrupted by a loud rap on the door. "Come in," said Uncle Simon, starting up, then sinking back in his chair as another twinge seized him. "Come in."

But he was not prepared to see sixteen of the young rascals march in with skates on their arms, and headed by a tall figure in military dress carrying a basket. The small room was full.

"We are the Landon Skating Brigade," said their leader. "Our headquarters are at the Curve, and we have brought you some wood and some provisions for Washington's birthday. We intend to split the wood, too."

The boys looked at one another in dismay. This was more than they had bargained for, and Ralph gave a low growl of disapproval. The spirit of the occasion, however, was on them, and the General went on, uninterrupted:

"Perhaps you don't remember the boy you fished out of the Dip five summers ago, just as he was going down the third time?" With this remark the General took off his cocked-hat, and with it came the wig.

"Yes, George Washington Hastings." Young Hastings explained that he was home from college to spend his birthday, had heard of Uncle Simon having a visit from his old enemy, the rheumatism, and of the preparations going on at the Curve. "Then I planned this campaign," he ended.

"It beats everythin'—it beats everythin'! You are a second George Washington," said Uncle Simon, in a choked voice.

The boys made three more trips to the Ledge that night, and on the last one they insisted on giving George Washington a ride.

Uncle Simon did not suffer any more from cold or hunger, for he was cared for by the Landon Skating Brigade.

FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A CONFUSION OF IDENTITY.

After Abel Norton had left the young man whom he supposed to be his friend George Frothingham, the spy, he hurried over to the westward toward the rocky shore of the Hudson. Abel had never seen the "other half," and did not know that George had a twin brother who might pass for his reflection in a mirror, even to the curve of his little finger-tip.

The scheme for the capture of General Howe or his brother had fallen through completely, and the two gentlemen, for some reason, had been more wary than usual about accepting promiscuous invitations. Abel's only wish now was to assist in relieving George (now that his wound enabled him some freedom) from the danger of being a "mysterious prisoner." He knew that if the latter's identity were disclosed he would get short shrift and no favor.

"Was it not lucky I met him? They must fare well at the sugar-house," Abel said to himself, as he plunged down a steep bank into a rocky hollow.

There was a cluster of huts nestling opposite. Wooden screens from which in the spring and fall the fish-nets were hung to dry surrounded them. A few boats were hauled bottom upward before the door, and the icy water of the Hudson lapped the shore of a small inlet only a stone's throw distant. As he reached the door of one of the larger hovels he was seized with a violent attack of coughing, and in the midst of it the door was opened, and a rough, bearded man stood there holding a flickering candle, which he was shielding with his knotty fingers.

"Jonas, good friend, it is I," spluttered Abel. "There's work for you and Roger to-night, and money in it."

He held the door open, and Mr. Norton essayed to pass him. A coughing fit more violent than the first struck him like an internal hurricane, and, being close to the candle, the blast from his lips extinguished the light in an instant.

"You must have swallowed the north wind," said the fisherman. "Roger, lad, get a light."

There was a movement in the further corner, and a young man raking together the embers of the fire in the large stone fireplace. A blaze broke out, and the candle was soon relit, throwing dancing shadows over the beams strung with gill and seine nets. Piles of floats were littered about, a sheaf of oars and a few sturgeon lances stood in the corner. The floor was covered with shavings.

"And what is the business on a night like this?" spoke up the younger man, whom the other addressed as "Roger."

"It's a bad night to cross," growled the older fisherman, looking out through the little window at the snow-flakes sifting through the ray of light.

"There's gold for you in the venture," coughed Abel Norton, who had regained his composure partly, but was wheezing badly. He shook the water from the shoulders of his great coat, and dove into a capacious pocket. "This will be doubled if you succeed," he said, putting two gold pieces on the edge of a sawhorse.

"Be at Striker's wharf at eleven o'clock. A tall young man will hail you. Ask no questions, but put him on the other side. He may add something to this himself."

"Aye," was the response; "we have butted the tide at a worse hour for good reason."

A minute more Abel was outside and climbing the bank; he skirted through the vacant fields, and again was amidst the houses. The effect of his illness was apparent, his steps were rather faltering, and it was ten o'clock when he reached Broadway. He turned down the lane, and stopped before the brick house in which Mr. Anderson had once held his school. He knocked on the door, and a[Pg 382] lanky servant girl admitted him. "I would see your master at once," said Abel, as he passed on into the study.

Mr. Anderson was seated at the end of the long table, his great horn spectacles giving him an expression of constant surprise. A green shade shielded his eyes from the glare of a bright lamp. "Gadzooks!" he exclaimed. "Are you not taking risks, out on such a night as this?"

"There are larger risks often taken," responded the older man, throwing himself back in a chair and pulling at his neckerchief. "I am going to break a rule, for the matter is urgent. We must talk despite the embargo laid on certain subjects of conversation. Listen. Our young friend has escaped. Number Four has broken out."

"I did not know it was to be to-night," said Mr. Anderson. "Are you sure? I was at the prison this afternoon, and saw no signal. You remember, if everything was ready, he was to place two crusts of bread outside the door of his cell. Only one was there. That meant to-morrow."

"Nevertheless, I saw him and talked with him not two hours agone," answered Abel.

"They will meet him at Striker's wharf at eleven o'clock. The last patrol goes down at half past ten."

"You have done good work; but one more question, and then, we will resume the rules. How was he dressed?"

Mr. Anderson had arisen and taken off his spectacles. He reached down from a hook a fine fur-lined coat, and was stretching it across his shoulders. "You had best home and to bed, good friend," he said. "We'll say no more upon the subject. It's a fine night."

"Aye, for in-doors," coughed Abel Norton; and both conspirators passed out into the cold air. They parted on the door-step. It had stopped snowing.

A wise plan for plotters to follow is that of never referring, even amongst themselves, by word of mouth to the matter they wish kept secret. If each receives his instructions from one source, and acts accordingly, there is a better chance for success and less danger of detection.

The friends of American liberty that had remained banded together in the city for the purpose of supplying Washington with information had adopted this wise plan. Their orders were received from Number One, who was none other than that trusted servant of the King, Rivington, printer by special appointment to his Majesty. This worthy had come to the patriot cause early in the fall. But he was the last man to suspect.

The conspirators were seldom or never seen in one another's company, and some were not even supposed to know the others. The action and discoveries of each, however, were made understood by their system of cipher correspondence. As an instance of the relation, the captain and lieutenant (Rivington and Anderson) were supposed to be on terms of bitter enmity.

The latter was now making all haste to gain the lower part of town. A suspicion had seized him that perhaps everything was not right. When he came to the City Arms he hurried into the coffee-room.

A young officer with a deep bass voice was singing a song full of sighs and apostrophes to some distant fair one.

Mr. Anderson slid into an empty chair and joined in the noise and applause that followed the musical effort. He then turned to his neighbor.

"Ah, Captain Markham," he said, "have you seen our handsome young friend, Lieutenant Frothingham, to-night?"

"I was talking to him less than an hour ago," replied the Captain, who, strange to say, was not in his cups. "He was to return, I take it, from what he said."

Hardly had bespoken the words when the subject of them entered. William's face wore a preoccupied expression, and seeing one of the inn servants, he beckoned him to one side. Mr. Anderson caught the gesture, and noticed that the servant had followed the Lieutenant into the hallway.

If by chance he could have seen what occurred he would have been surprised, for, after a short conversation, the servant departed with three gold pieces clinking in his palm. He had then made his way to the stables and aroused one of the tall young grooms. From the stables he had walked to William's lodgings with a complete suit of the groom's clothing over his arm. It comprised a short jacket and leather gaiters like those worn by the young prisoner at the sugar-house, a good costume for facing the snow.

William entered the room a second time, and seeing Mr. Anderson, dragged a chair across and sat down close to him.

The little schoolmaster drew a secret from a simple nature with as much delight as a keen terrier would draw a badger from his hiding-place.

"What do you think has happened?" he inquired, to see how much the young man knew.

"It has caused me many sleepless hours," said William. "Let us draw apart, for I must talk freely with you."

They pushed back their chairs, and sought a deserted corner by the open fireplace.

"As a lad," remarked Mr. Anderson, "your brother was not prone to waste words. You are like him. Talk quickly."

"I am betwixt two fires," said the young man—"my duty and my affections, Mr. Anderson. You know me. I love my brother as I love my life, but I serve my—"

"King," repeated William, wondering why he had found it so difficult to say country, as he had intended. "I would die to save my brother's life, I think most honestly," went on the young Lieutenant. "I would that he was free, but I cannot, any more than you, connive at the escape of a prisoner who might bear important news to the enemy. There is nothing wrong in feigning to know naught of his existence, but to aid in his escape I could not. Therefore I told you, and left the matter in your hands, knowing your interest. You think not harshly of me? Pray think how you would feel were you in my position. I feel sometime as if I were not young at all, as if the separation from the brother who is in my heart had aged me far beyond my years, so deeply do I feel it."

"You said that you could trust me with his welfare. Now, prithee, what has brought the subject up in this new light?" asked Schoolmaster Anderson. "Remember that should it be known who he was, and the authorities should find out what a dangerous person had been amongst them, his life would not be worth the dregs in that wine-glass."

"That I know well," returned the schoolmaster. "If it were frustrated and he kept safe, you would rejoice—hey?"

William reflected. "If it were base to be one," he replied, "my brother George would have been far from it, that I promise you. A spy risks his life to serve his king—"

"Or country," put in Mr. Anderson. "Ay, he is usually a brave, fearless man, and should not be condemned. He can harm no one but his enemy."

"Now the one who spoke to you to-night—" said Mr. Anderson, as if carrying on a train of thought of his own.

"Spoke to me, sir? I said naught concerning that," answered the young man, hastily.

"But he mistook me," again interrupted William. "What are you driving at? To whom do you refer?"

"His name has slipped me," replied the schoolmaster. "You may be able to jog my memory. I saw you talking with him a short while ago. I can find out easily."

"No; listen," said William. And then he told of his meeting with Abel Norton, and the conversation in the doorway, omitting, however, entirely the reference to the boat.

When he had finished Mr. Anderson replied. "This is interesting news to me," he said; "but it was not to this strange person that I referred. It was to your neighbor at[Pg 383] the table, Captain—what's his name?—over there, who had been talking to you before you left. So that was an adventure on the street? What are you going to do?"

William saw that he had been trapped into telling what he had better, perhaps, have kept quiet. "I have been ordered to the forces at the north," he said, confused.

"Indeed?" replied Schoolmaster Anderson. "Success to you. I judged that you were not a kind to idle in tavern parlors, or your regiment one to grow stale in barracks."

"Ah!" said the schoolmaster; "much better, mayhap; changes are oft for the best." A roar of laughter from the table attracted his attention. "Come, we are missing all the gayety," he said. And slipping his arm through William's, he strolled up and joined the group, who were listening to a red-faced adjutant relating a story of being lost in an Irish bog.

When William looked around a moment or so later the schoolmaster had disappeared.

He had slipped away unnoticed, and his nimble feet were flying up the road. He swung about the corner into Vine Street. The sentry at the door of the prison was fast asleep, his heavy head resting on his folded arms. The schoolmaster ducked adroitly underneath him and opened the door; he crossed the court-yard to the prison entrance, and pulled the bell. There was a stirring within, and the jailer stood there unsteadily, half asleep, with a blanket thrown about his shoulders.

"The prisoner on the second floor," said Schoolmaster Anderson. "His Lordship would have him examined. Know you whether he has a birth-mark on his cheek?"

"'Tis to decide a wager," said the little man, clicking his heels together, "and if he has not one, half of it is for yourself. You remember the inspection the other day?"

"Wait until you hear," laughed the schoolmaster. "I saw it plainly. Come, let us up, I say."

But now the jailer took a sudden turn. "I would not have him disturbed. I have a kindly feeling for the lad."

"What, turning soft-hearted?" answered the schoolmaster, who had already pushed half up the stairway. He picked up a lantern from the wall.

By this time the sound of Mr. Anderson's heels was echoing down the corridor. He held the lantern above his head, and a look of astonishment spread over his features.

He retraced his steps to where the jailer stood, leaning against the wall, his hands outstretched for support.

"You may save your pity and your solicitude," said Mr. Anderson, banging up the lantern. "There will be some reckoning made for this condition of affairs to-night."

"Mark what I say," went on the schoolmaster, looking the other squarely in the face with his twinkling ferretlike eyes. "Your prisoner has escaped. You careless sluggard!"

It had been a momentous day for the prisoner in the little cell. The signal, as agreed upon in another cipher letter which had been smuggled in to him, was this: If the bars were ready to be misplaced he would put two crusts of bread outside the doorway of his cell; if for any reason the time should be postponed, only one would be placed on the flagging. Some one on an ostensible visit to another part of the jail would be on the lookout for this simple sign. It happened that just before this visit was paid, the under jailer, unseen, swept away one of the crusts of bread, so the signal appeared to read for the following night.

The bars, however, were ready to be removed. It would take but a slight exertion to make a hole large enough for him to draw his body through. But how to escape from the door below or to pass the sentry at the gateway?

When the second jailer appeared early in the evening, George stopped him and handed him five golden guineas. "Have a feast at my expense," he said. "Share it with the people here who have been so good to me; to-day is my birthday." (This was a fact, and, for that reason, William's as well.) "Listen, also; go you to Fraunce's Tavern and buy four bottles of the best Lone Star Madeira. Present them to the head prison-keeper with the compliments of an officer. Pretend you do not know from whom they come. He might not accept them from a prisoner in his care."

Probably the man had never held so much gold in the grasp of his dirty fingers before. He fairly grovelled. "Lord bless you, sir, leave me to do the lying," he said.

George's last generous offer had almost proved his undoing, for shortly after dark he had heard the sounds of carousing and some merriment from the jailer's quarters. The sentry at the head of the stairs had disappeared, and the sound of the file biting away the last remaining bits of steel would have been audible were it not for the clamor below. He was about to push the loosened iron out when a wheezy voice humming a snatch of a song was heard coming down the corridor. It was the head jailer.

he chanted thickly. "I can be generous as well as other folk. I am not a hard man. My guest of honor must drink with me." In an instant he was before the doorway. "Here's a good health to you, my unknown friend. Long live the King!" With that the jailer wavered unsteadily and tossed off a glass of Madeira.

George feared that he was about to be discovered, and pretended sleep; but this was all the visit amounted to, for soon he heard the heavy footsteps lumber down the stairway, still protesting that it was not "a flint heart."

Now was the time. George pushed the bars gently, and they came off without much trouble. He laid them on the quilt, and drew himself through the aperture, then he tiptoed carefully down the steps.

A ray of light from a room to the right showed that the door was partly ajar. He looked inside. The jailer was fast asleep. Before him on the table wore three empty bottles of Madeira. A heavy military cloak hung from a peg at one side, and a huge three-cornered hat above it. George throw the cloak about his shoulders and placed the hat upon his head. It came down over his ears. He drew the bolt of the big front door and stepped out under the stars—for it had ceased snowing—and into the court-yard. The only entrance was guarded by a man leaning on his musket.

How to pass him was the question. But as the young fugitive drew nearer he perceived that the tall soldier was fast asleep. He was leaning on one side of the door with his foot propped against a post on the other. His leg made a barrier.

Making his body as small as possible, George essayed to stoop under the outstretched leg; but his shoulder jostled the sentry, and he awoke. George recognized the ex-corporal.

"Well, well, McCune," he said, shaking the man roughly; "asleep at your post, man! It will never do!"

The sentry drew himself up as best he could, and his musket snapped to a present. "Pardon me, Lieutenant," he said. "Do not report me, or I will get the lash." The poor fellow trembled as he spoke.

"May the saints bless you, sir!" said the sentry thickly, as he watched the figure of his supposed officer disappearing about the corner. It was at this moment that Anderson and William were holding their talk at the tavern.

At eleven o'clock a small boat jumped about under the rafters at the end of Striker's wharf. A man with a boat-hook held it securely against the pier head.

At that moment a soft hail was heard, and a young man bent over the edge of the timbers. In an instant he had lowered himself into the boat, the oars were manned, and it had swept out into the swirling tide of the river.

Hardly had it disappeared when another figure of the same size and general appearance came on a quick walk to the water's edge. He hailed softly, looking under the pier.

There was no answer, or no boat in sight. The cloaked figure then turned about and hurried back to the eastward.

[to be continued.]

MYSTERIES OF STAGE SCENERY.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

You have taken off your overcoat and made yourself as comfortable as possible in an angular little folding-chair that never was intended to give any human being a minute's comfort. The orchestra has crashed through the last measures of the overture. The footlights are turned up; the auditorium lights are turned down; the curtain rises. You see a beautiful valley, winding away among very purple mountains till it loses itself in the crimson of the glowing sunset. The sky is as luminous as if it were nature itself, and you are almost tempted to believe that the rear wall of the theatre has been removed, and that you are looking out at something real. Presently you notice a few soft fleecy clouds drifting across the sky. The crimson fades gradually, and the pale gray of a brief twilight follows. The sky grows darker and darker, and presently you see the twinkle of a single star, then another and another. And now a gentle greenish glow begins to pervade the scene. It increases in power till the stage is flooded with the bright refulgence of a summer moon. The whole thing is beautifully managed, and is most realistic.

But after a time the moonlight fades out, and leaves behind it a threatening gloom. A dull distant peal of thunder proclaims the approach of a storm. There is a flash of lightning. The storm breaks. Peal upon peal of crashing thunder rends the sky. The wind howls and shrieks, and the sharp cut of the driving rain is distinctly heard. The curtain falls at the end of the act, and you rub your eyes and wonder if you have been dreaming or have really seen these things on a wooden stage.

The next act shows a scene in the forest, and as the sunlight filters through the rustling leaves, the dancing shadows on rock and trunk are plainly seen. Again the scene changes. This time it is a fire. The stage is filled with flames and smoke and the crash of falling timbers. You are almost tempted to believe that the house is really afire. But the same old curtain comes down at the end, and only a strong smell of powder reminds you of what you have seen. In the last act of this surprising play the hero and heroine, converted into disembodied spirits, go to the heavenly regions on a winged horse; and you see them, glowing with supernatural light, go flying across the deep blue sky. You leave the theatre in a state of wonder.

Of course I have been imagining a play in which many different effects were combined; but nevertheless you have seen these illusions, though not all in the same play.

Spectral appearances are often managed nowadays with a stereopticon. For instance, in Siegfried there is a scene in the forest in which the music of the opera is supposed to depict the rustling of the leaves. In order to heighten the effect of this scene it is customary to produce the illusion of the flickering of the sunlight caused by the waving foliage. This is done by means of movable glasses, something like the arrangement of a kaleidoscope without the variety of colors. The white light is thrown through these moving glasses, and the audience sees the waving shadows, as if caused by sunlight filtering through wind-shaken leaves. In the last act of Die Walküre the sisters of Brünnhilde are heard coming through the air to their customary place of assembly to the wild measures of the "Ride of the Valkyries." It is also necessary that they should be seen. This necessity is fulfilled by the stereopticon. A picture of a Valkyr maid mounted on her steed is thrown on the dark drop-curtain at the back of the stage, and is made to pass from the upper left-hand corner down to the lower right-hand corner. By keeping the power of the light at a moderate pitch, the picture is prevented from being too hard and definite. Again, when the sisters, fleeing before the angry Wotan, depart in a body, a picture representing the group passes from the lower right-hand corner to the upper left-hand corner, while the stormy music of the "Ride" dies away. The effect is very fine indeed.

In the Flying Dutchman there is a view of the sea in the first scene, and a gale of wind is supposed to be blowing. The audience sees thin, gray, filmy scud scurrying across the sky from the beginning of the scene until the gale ends. This is also a stereopticon effect, and is produced by passing properly painted glasses across the opening of the lens. These few instances will give the reader some idea of the part which the stereopticon now plays in the illusions of the stage. It cannot be said that the results are always satisfactory, and, no doubt, in the course of time a better plan will be introduced.

One of the most familiar and beautiful effects produced upon the stage is the change from day to night or from night to day. The former, owing to the conditions surrounding stage illusions, is the more striking, and is that most frequently seen. In order to produce this effect the rearmost piece of scenery is a "drop," which is made about double the height of the ordinary scenes. This drop is painted to represent sky. The lower half is colored with the bright tints of the sunset, and these gradually blend in the middle of the drop into the subdued shades of a moonlit night. Sometimes the setting sun itself is shown, and this is effected[Pg 385] by cutting a circular hole in the drop, pasting a piece of red muslin over the back of it, and putting a light behind it. The drop is now hung so that the lower half alone is visible. Now the scenery of the distance is painted upon a separate piece, which is "profiled"—that is, the irregular line made by trees, houses, mountains, etc., is cut out with a circular saw. This profile piece is set about four feet in front of the sky drop. Some six or eight feet further toward the front is hung what is called a cut-gauze drop, though this is sometimes omitted, especially if the view at the rear embraces an expanse of water. If it is woods, however, the cut-gauze drop is always used. This drop has sides and a top of canvas, painted as the case requires. The open central part is filled with stout gauze netting, which gives a charming aerial effect to the distance.

Now all is ready for the sunset except the lights, which are arranged thus: Behind the profile a row runs across the stage to throw its light on the lower part of the sky drop. The top part is illuminated by the border lights. A similar arrangement is made in front of the profile, while the foreground depends for its light on the borders and footlights. In all new theatres these are electric lights in three circuits. One circuit consists of lights with white globes, another red, and the third green. For broad daylight effects the white are used. In the scene we are describing, beginning with sunset, the red circuit is turned on. Calcium-lights with red glasses are stationed at the sides of the stage, and thus the whole scene is suffused with a glow of red light. The change from sunset to moonlight is effected by slowly and imperceptibly lowering the sky drop. As the sun disappears behind the distant hills the red "mediums," as they are called, are turned off and the green ones gradually turned on. When the night sky has fairly got down to its place the green mediums are all turned on at full force, and green glasses are placed in front of the calciums. The stage appears now to be flooded with moonlight. Of course the moon cannot be shown, for it would naturally be too far toward the audience. I was once in a theatre where the sun went down behind a mountain, and in half a minute the moon rose in the very same place. And the strangest part of it was that the audience did not pay any attention to this astounding freak of nature.

The change from moonlight to sunrise is, of course, effected by simply reversing the process just described. Either one of these changes may be rendered more effective by certain additions. For instance, in the sunset part of the drop all the spaces between the clouds may be cut out. Muslin is then pasted over these openings, and is painted to represent the sky between the clouds. By placing lights behind this muslin a beautiful transparent sky is produced, and by gradually changing the color and intensity of the light as the sun goes down the appearance of the scene is made very realistic. This method is seldom employed, except in plays in which the scenic effects are an important element. A moonlit river is made also by cutting out the canvas, putting in muslin, and lighting it from the rear.

Moonrise is produced with a sky drop, cut out between the clouds, as in the case of the sunset just described, and a "moon-box." This moon-box is simply a box with a circular hole cut in one side of it. Over this hole is pasted a piece of white muslin, and inside the box is a light. The box is placed behind the muslin sky drop, with the hole against the drop. The light is turned on, and the moon is drawn slowly upward by wires. Of course the illuminated face of the moon shows through the muslin, and disappears when it passes behind the thick canvas clouds. By having another piece of muslin painted red, and imperceptibly fading to white in its upper part, the orb of night can be made to appear red at the horizon, and gradually change to pale yellow as it floats upward, just as it does on a summer night. A few floating clouds may be added to the general effect by hanging in front of the sky drop a gauze drop with a few muslin clouds sewn on it, and moving the whole slowly. These matters charm the eye and create an illusion when they are skilfully managed.

I spoke of a moonlit river. Sometimes you see in the theatre a river or a bay which does not simply lie calmly luminous under the rays of the stage moon, but which sparkles with dancing ripples. This is a very pretty stage effect, and is by no means difficult to produce. The position of the moon having been determined, the next thing is to make what Mr. Howard Pyle so gracefully describes as the "moon path." Beginning at the upper edge of the water, a number of irregular holes are cut in the scene. These are then covered on the back with muslin, and the whole is painted over to represent water. Behind these holes is placed an endless sheet of canvas, passing around two cylinders of wood, one at the top and the other at the bottom. The lower cylinder has a crank by which the sheet is turned. In the sheet are cut a number of holes similar to those in the scene. A strong light is now placed between the two sides of the sheet. When the crank is turned the flashing of the light from the moving holes in the sheet through the stationary ones in the scene produces a fine ripple. It is necessary to turn the crank so that the front part of the sheet is always ascending, because in this way the holes through which the light flows[Pg 386] pass upward, and that makes the mimic waves seem to dance upward toward the sky. Sometimes the man who turns the crank becomes tired, and the audience is surprised to see the ripples go by fits and starts. For this reason an electric motor is better, or a steam attachment, if such a thing can be had in the theatre. The moonlit sky above the waters may be improved by the addition of a few twinkling stars, and these are easily enough produced by hanging large spangles on bent pins. The slightest tremor of the drop will cause them to shake, and the flashing of the light which they reflect produces the illusion of twinkling.

STUDYING TO BE MUSICIANS.

Some agreeable writer, whose name I have forgotten, said that there was no art which had so many devotees as music, and none of which there was such widespread ignorance. If I should say that there must be in the city of New York not less than 50,000 girls engaged in learning how to play upon the piano, I should perhaps astonish some of the readers of this paper, yet it is my firm belief that these figures are much too small. Such institutions as the National Conservatory of Music and the New York College of Music have each from 600 to 800 piano students, and there are some thirty smaller conservatories in the city. The number of private pupils is enormous, and one often wonders whether it can be possible that Americans are so fond of music that every family contains a student. The truth is, however, that nine-tenths of the girls who study the piano—I had almost said study music, but they do not do that—are actuated not by a love of music, but simply by a desire to possess an accomplishment. These young women are quite contented if they can acquire sufficient technical skill to perform a few brilliant, showy pieces in such a manner as to surprise their friends. There are a few, of course, who learn to play the piano because they are really fond of music, and desire to be able to give themselves artistic pleasure. And there are a few others who are studying seriously in the hope of becoming fine artists, capable of delighting the public, or, at the worst, of becoming professors in conservatories. Even then they are not much worse off than the great artists of the concert stage, for it is only once in a generation that a man like Paderewski arises, who can earn hundreds of thousands of dollars. Most of the noted pianists are compelled to teach in order to make a living, for concert engagements are not numerous. Their devotion to their art is the result of a deep and absorbing love for it, which must be its own reward.

Life in the music schools of New York is by no means as picturesque as life in the art schools, so charmingly described by Mr. Ralph; but it is interesting, and it has a remarkable jargon of its own, quite unintelligible to the non-musical person. The girls—the boy students are very few—flock to the New York schools from the entire surrounding country. Every morning train brings them from Newark, Paterson, Elizabeth, Yonkers, Tarrytown, Nyack, Greenwich, and other outlying towns and cities, where, indeed, good teachers may often be found, but not the advantage of conservatory systems. The New York girls come in street cars, in carriages with liveried coachmen, and on foot, for the students are of all classes. It is an inspiriting sight to see them trooping in on a stormy winter morning, with their heavy wraps, their snow-covered furs, their stout overshoes, their arms full of music, their cheeks full of roses, and their eyes dancing with the glow of exercise. Then there is the usual chatter about the lessons as they assemble in the waiting-room.

"Oh, I don't believe I shall ever manage that queer passage in the bass—the one where the chord of five notes is, don't you know?"

"Yes, I had that sonata last year; but, my dear, it's child's play to the Schumann piece I have now."

"Oh, dear!" says another, drearily, "I do wish that Bach had never lived. I'm sure I can't see anything pretty in his eternal fugues."

And then the bell strikes, and off they all go, still chattering, to the various class-rooms or lesson-rooms. A few minutes later the conservatory becomes a dreadful babel of confused sounds. Down in the basement some one is groaning out an organ fugue by Thiele, with a great clattering of heels on the pedals. On the first floor the sight-reading class is droning angularly a part song by Weinzierl in the large room, while in the apartment next to them the "gold medal" pupil is pounding Schumann's Etudes Symphoniques into sounding brass without any tinkling of cymbals. Upstairs one young woman is pursuing the uneven sopranos of her way up and down the scale, a boy is playing a violin étude in several kinds of pitch, and a dozen girls are hammering out their semi-weekly allowance of Bach, Beethoven, Weber, Mozart, and Chopin all at once. The teachers—German, Polish, Russian, French, Italian, occasionally American—sit, stand, or pace the floor, according to their temperaments, and correct, guide, and urge gently or excitably as the case may be.

"No, my dear, the accent on the second beat, and the pedal taken after it, and held over to the first beat of the next bar."

"Ah, mon enfant! You sing wiz ze troat vide oppen, so—ba-a-a-ah. Is it not? Vell, I vish you sing viz ze glottis a lettle pinch, so—bu-u-u-uh. Now, sing."

And the unhappy pupil closes her throat up, as if she had a sort of artistic croup, and tries to force her voice through by main strength. In the mass of pupils in the conservatory there are always twenty or thirty who are studying seriously, with the hope of making artistic careers for themselves. These do not simply study the pianos or singing; they study music, which is a vastly more laborious undertaking. For once a week there is the lesson in harmony, which is one of the driest and most discouraging topics in the world. Yet no one can be said to know anything about music who does not understand harmony. Just think of it—harmony, counterpoint and fugue, form, theory, composition, instrumentation, sight-reading, history of music. Those are the subjects which the educated musician must know, and they are all taught in the regular music-schools. Harmony is the science of chords, you know. The teacher explains the laws by which the various intervals are governed, leading the pupil step by step till he has advanced from a simple "resolution" like this:

Then comes that wonderful art of counterpoint, culminating in the building of a grand and complex composition out of two little phrases, called subject and answer, which flash and frown one against the other like lightnings against a blue-black sky. The student has to learn all about form—how a symphony is constructed from the humble beginning of a simple motive like this:

Furthermore, he must study instrumentation, and learn how the small army of voices in the modern orchestra are to be used. He must know their compass, their capacity for fast performance, the notes upon which it is possible to make trills, the keys in which they stand, and, above all, the character of the writing best suited to them. And again, he must be acquainted with the history of his art, for without it he is quite ignorant of the purposes of the composers whose works he attempts to perform. What a light it throws upon the correct interpretation of Mozart to know that in his day smoothness, finish, and a singing tone were the requisites of good playing. What a valuable thing it is for the pupil to know that Mozart desired to[Pg 387] have the passages flow like oil, and that he was opposed to all decided violations of the time. What a flood of illumination it throws on all music to know the meaning of the three great periods of musical history, polyphonic, classic, and romantic. These subjects are taught to classes by lectures and special teachers; but it is a sufficient evidence of the light-mindedness with which most pupils approach, music that not more than five per cent. of the conservatory students enter these classes. The composition classes, of course, are only for very advanced students. Indeed, in Dr. Antonin Dvoràk's composition class at the National Conservatory several well-known composers are to be found.

And what do the music students outside of their study and practice hours? You can see them by the dozen at concerts and at the opera. They are especially conspicuous at the matinée entertainments. They have a school-girlish look, coupled with an air of wisdom, and they devote great attention to pianists' hands and arms. If the student is an aspiring young vocalist, she uses her opera-glass continually. I said to one of them at an opera matinée once,

"Well," she replied, "my teacher says that I must keep my tongue flat, because all good singers do, and I'm trying to see how Madame Lehmann holds hers."

"I am watching Mr. Paderewski's wrists. My teacher says I must keep my wrists up, and there he goes every few minutes and lets his drop below the key-board."

"Perhaps when you are as far advanced as Mr. Paderewski," I suggested, "your teacher will allow you to do as you please with your wrists."

It takes time and devotion to make a good musician. I know that Mr. Paderewski is in the habit of practising from four to six hours a day, in addition to the performance of his long and difficult concert programmes, in order to preserve the skill which he acquired by long and wearisome labor. Even the men who play in the orchestras spend several hours each day in practice, for fingers will grow stiff and awkward unless they are used constantly.

FALCONRY, OR "HAWKING."

BY ZITELLA COCKE.

The training of hawks was a recognized profession in the last century. There were men who devoted their lives to it, and drew immense salaries for their labor. Louis XIII., who was devoted to this sport, and always rode out with his falconer and falcon for a hunt before going to mass in the morning, paid his trainer by the day a sum which seemed fabulous. Poor Louis XVI. did not care for the sport, and dismissed trainers and falcons from his service as an unnecessary expense.

So much time and pains were taken in the training of these birds that it was the occasion of a regular technical language, understood only by those who were versed in the art and the sport. Training the bird was called "manning it." Jesses were part of the bird's equipment, and consisted of narrow strips of strong leather fastened to its leg, by which it could be held when not on the hunt. Flat gold or silver rings called "varvels" were attached to the end of these jesses, with the owner's name and address written upon them. Bells were frequently tied to the leg of the bird, so that when it flew out of sight it could be traced by sound of the bell. To teach the bird to do what was called "jumping to the fist" was a great art, and took great time and care to accomplish. And a pretty sight it must have been—a sight quite worthy of being portrayed in Queen Matilda's embroidered tapestry—to see the bird, eager and impatient, about to spring to its master's fist. The graceful motion could not, of course, be represented in a picture, but as we imagine it, we cannot wonder that hunting with hawks was even more fascinating than hunting with hounds. And then to see it spring from the gauntleted fist into the air, and soar far away until it became a mere speck in the sky, yet never forgetting its resting-place, and returning to it after a flight of many a mile.

And this glove, or gauntlet, upon the hand of the falconer, and sometimes the monarch, was an important feature of the equipment. It was made of thick buckskin, and the royal gauntlets were wondrously adorned with gold and silver threads, and even jewels, set in forms of flowers and family crests. The bird itself often wore a helmet bedecked with plumes and jewels, to be removed, however, when it was pluming itself for flight. The call to the hawk was a spirited cry—"Yo-ho-hup—yohup—yohup"; and another, "Helover—helow—helow—helover."

When the bird was taken out and exercised, with a view to keeping him in good physical condition, as well as in thorough acquaintance with the various things taught him by his trainer, it was called "weathering."

The distance accomplished by these birds in a short time seems almost incredible, and this circumstance alone would make them a terror to their victims. Few birds could compete with the falcon. Its flight was as rapid as it was untiring, keeping always a little above the victim, and swooping down upon it in such a way as to make resistance impossible. In the air the heron itself was unable to resist his assailant, but if the two fell to the earth the heron had the advantage, and the falcon rarely escaped without losing one or both eyes. It was the eye always at which the heron aimed. A German Duke is said to have wept bitterly when his favorite falcon, falling to the earth with a heron in his talons, lost both of its eyes in the encounter which took place on the ground.

Lovers of dogs insisted that the hawk came to the "lure" only—the "lure" being the feed which constitutes a part of the training—and was never actuated by an affection for its master. But lovers of falconry declare the falcon to be capable of warm and lasting affection. A Colonel Johnson, of the Rifle Brigade, was ordered to Canada with his battalion. He had devoted much time and expense to the "manning," or training, of two falcons, and he took them with him across the Atlantic. During the voyage, after feeding them, he would fly them every day. Sometimes they sailed far out of sight, but always returned to the master. One evening, after a longer flight than usual, one of the falcons returned alone; the other, the chief favorite, was missing. Colonel Johnson made up his mind that he would never see his falcon again, but one day, after the arrival of the regiment in America, he saw a paragraph in a Halifax newspaper announcing that the captain of an American schooner had in his possession a fine hawk, which had suddenly made its appearance on board his ship during his passage from Liverpool. Colonel Johnson believed this bird to be his much-prized falcon, and obtaining leave of absence, started in pursuit of it. He went to Halifax, saw the captain of the schooner, and asked permission to see the bird. The captain refused the request, "guessed" that he would keep the bird himself, and asserted his disbelief in the Englishman's story. Colonel Johnson proposed that his claim to the ownership of the bird should be put to the test by an experiment. It was this: Colonel Johnson was to be admitted to an interview with the hawk, which had shown no partiality for any person since its arrival in the New World, and had repelled the caresses of its new owner. If at this meeting it exhibited unequivocal signs of recognition such as would convince the by-standers that Colonel Johnson was its original master, the American captain was to surrender all claim to it. Several Americans present admitted this test to be perfectly reasonable, and the captain was persuaded to acquiesce. He went up stairs, and returned with the falcon. The door was hardly opened before the bird jumped from the captain's fist and perched upon the shoulder of its long-lost master, rubbing its head against his cheek, taking hold of his buttons and champing them playfully in its beak, and evincing by every way in its power its delight and affection. The verdict was unanimous. Even the hard-hearted captain relented, and the falcon was restored to its rightful owner.

PUTTING THE SIXTEEN-POUND SHOT.

From instantaneous Photographs taken of W. O. Hickok, Inter-collegiate Champion.

Although putting the shot and throwing the hammer are events usually performed by the same man in an athletic competition, it is a fact, nevertheless, that the two things do not go well together. The hammer develops the pulling muscles in the back and arms, while the shot, on the other hand, develops the pushing muscles.

At one time Hickok, the present inter-collegiate champion, devoted himself exclusively to the shot, and soon got himself into such form that he could put 45 feet at any trial. Then he started in to practise with the hammer, and found his best throw measured only 110 feet—his best former record being one hundred and forty odd. He kept on systematically working then at both weights, but he soon noticed that the shot went down as the hammer went up, so that in a month he could scarcely do 40 feet. At the next inter-collegiate contest he put the shot 44 feet, which he considered a lucky performance—and it was—although before training for the hammer event for the same contest he had put over 45 feet.

To become successful in this event requires long and persistent work, just as in hammer-throwing. Shot-putting is a great science to develop, and it usually takes several years before an athlete can really become proficient in the event. The beginner must first strengthen his arms, giving particular attention to the development of the triceps and deltoids. This is best accomplished by work on the parallel bars, and by pounding a bag, as in boxing. The latter exercise cultivates swiftness. Sprinting is also an important exercise for a shot-putter, for it teaches him to be quick and light on his feet—a most important feature of the general preparation.

In addition to these things he should, of course, constantly work at putting the shot—in the gymnasium in winter, and on the field in the open-weather months. Let me say right here to the beginner, always use a 16-lb. shot. Shun a 12-lb. shot as you would a shuttle-cock. If you feel you are not strong enough to use the regulation weight, do not under any consideration go into training for the event. Wait until you are strong enough. There is plenty of time. The shot is an event that only strong and well-developed young men should indulge in—and if you feel you are not strong enough to handle sixteen pounds, you had better devote your energies to some other branch of athletics. The man who works with a 12-lb. shot is like the boy who prepared for entering the cavalry by riding assiduously on merry-go-rounds. In other words, practice with a lighter weight is a waste of time; you will have to learn all over again when you take up the regulation 16-lb. shot.

The shot is put from a seven-foot circle, along four feet of the circumference of which is placed a board four inches high. This is the so-called front of the circle, and the put is measured from this board to the nearest mark made in the ground by the shot. A fair put is one that has been made without any part of the competitor's body having touched in front of the circle or on the board before the measurement is made. A put is counted a foul if the competitor steps over the front half of the circle or on the board before the measurement of his put has been made—and the foul counts as a trial. Therefore be sure to remain in the circle until the field judge has measured and registered your put.

The careful athlete will always spare his right arm as much as he can. For instance, when he picks up the shot he will hold it in his left hand, and he will do the same while he steps into the circle and gets his footing. After this has been secured he will roll the shot over into his right palm—as shown in illustration No. 3 on the opposite page—and then he is ready to start.

Assuming as easy a position as possible, let the shot be well balanced in the right hand. Do not grip it tightly. In starting off, as shown in the fourth illustration, place the whole weight of the body upon the right leg, holding your left arm forward as a balance. Then take a quick hop with the right leg, all the time keeping the shot as near the shoulder as possible. Upon alighting after the hop, touch your left foot to the ground—and it ought to fall very close to the board rim. This is the position shown in the sixth illustration. The seventh shows the next movement, which is the transposition of the feet.

The correct attitude for getting across the circle on this hop is crouching. Then, as soon as your left foot touches ground, you bring it swiftly backward, throwing the entire right side of the body forward; and you turn half around, so that the right shoulder will be in the exact direction in which the shot is to be put. After the impetus upward has been given by the legs and body, shoot the arm outward with all the force at your command, the motion being just such a one as you would make with the clinched fist against the sparring-bag. This motion—the change of feet, the lift, the turn, the thrust—is a very rapid one, but the photographs illustrate it very well in the last two pictures of the series. Furthermore, this movement must be perfectly uniform from beginning to end, with no jerks and hitches; but it takes long practice to acquire a perfect smoothness.

The shot must be allowed to leave the hand easily, and the forward effort of the put must be so regulated that the equilibrium of the performer will be maintained. The perfect performer allows his body to bend forward just to that point where, should he go half an inch further, he would be forced to step out of the ring.

The beginner should practise with the shot for a good period every-day. He should work until he begins to feel tired, but after he has become master of the event—say in a year or so—he need practise but two or three times a week, and he will find that his form and powers are thus best retained.

In England the university athletes put the shot from a ten-foot square instead of a seven-foot circle. This gives them a certain advantage over American athletes, for they get a longer run, and thus more speed, and hence a greater momentum at the end. Hickok can put the shot from two to three feet farther from a ten-foot square than he can from a seven-foot circle, and with practice he believes that he could do even better. If an unlimited run, or series of hops, were allowed, the record for putting the shot would certainly be much greater than it is at present; but there is no doubt that the average form of athletes who take part in this event would be very much lower than it is now with the present scientific restrictions.

The first important indoor games of the season were held on Saturday, February 8th, in the Eighth Battalion Armory by the Barnard School. There were ten events on the programme, all of which were open, and a cup was offered to the visiting school winning the greatest number of points. This trophy went to Berkeley, who took two[Pg 390] firsts and one second, and still, no doubt, retained something up her sleeve.

The Barnard team captured six firsts and two seconds, and showed that there is plenty of strong material in the school from which to develop a promising team for out-door work in the spring. All the events were interesting to watch, there being no handicaps, and the junior races were especially good, being rather more "for blood," perhaps, than the others, and being always a better field for surprises, as new material of an unknown quantity is continually appearing there.

Four records were broken, and the little fellows did most of the figure-smashing. W. S. Hipple, who made such a good showing against Kilpatrick last fall, defeated Irwin-Martin in the quarter-mile run, and then lowered the half-mile in-door record, made by Martin two years ago, from 2 m. 14-2/5 sec. to 2 m. 5 sec.! The time of the man who finished second to Hipple was 2 m. 19-4/5 sec. Beldford lowered the record for the mile. He took the lead from the start, but had a sharp tussle with Manuel of Pingry's toward the end, beating him in by only a few yards in 4 m. 54-2/5 sec.

Moore ran the first heat of the 60-yard dash in 7 seconds, and repeated his performance when he won in the finals. He took another first in the 220, which was the only sprint run without heats. His time in this was 26-1/5 seconds, with Goetting of Brooklyn High second. The in-door scholastic record for the Junior 60-yard dash was made by Moeller, Columbia Grammar, in 1893, 7-2/5 seconds. At this Barnard meeting, Wilson, Leech, Hewitt, Armstead, and Tebyrica each won his heat in 7-1/5 seconds, but Armstead came home first in the finals in 7-2/5 seconds. The record for the Junior 220-yard dash went down likewise. The old mark was 28 seconds, made by Wilson last year. Wilson ran his first heat this year in 27-2/5 seconds, Millard got the next in 27-3/5 seconds, and Wilson took the final in 26-4/5 seconds.

The high-jump mark only got up to 5 feet 6 inches, where Pell and Brown tied. The hurdles looked like an easy thing for Beers, but in the final heat he had a hot tussle with Herrick and Harris, winning on a close margin. On account of a claimed foul the two latter had to race over again, and Herrick won in 8-1/5 seconds. Beers had cleared the distance in 8 seconds.

Name.	Firsts.	Seconds.	Thirds.	Total.
Barnard	6	2	..	36
Berkeley	2	1	..	13
Brooklyn High	..	2	1	7
Stevens Prep	1	..	..	5
De La Salle	1	..	..	5
Cutler	..	1	1	4
Colombia Grammar	..	1	1	4
Pingry	..	1	1	4
Adelphi	..	1	..	3
Trinity	..	1	..	3
Oxford	..	..	2	2
Alling's Art	..	..	1	1
Drisler	..	..	1	1
Dwight	..	..	1	1

At the meeting of the Long Island I.S.A.A. last week the protest entered by Brooklyn High against Adelphi as a result of the League game of handball, played between them the previous week, was decided. The protest grew out of one of those inexplicable misunderstandings about rules which seem to crop up every now and then in all kinds of sport. In this case the High-school claimed the game on points, while Adelphi wanted the game on actual wins, which were 5 out of 7, the points being 133 to 131 in favor of High-school. According to the Y.M.C.A. rules, which were adopted by the League, Adelphi won; but both captains were ignorant of the rules, and agreed on playing for points. Before the game was well advanced Captain Forney of Adelphi found out his mistake, and declared he was playing for games won.

The decision reached was the most natural and logical one. It was found that both teams had violated the rules equally by agreeing to play for points, and the game was awarded to Adelphi, because that team had won in accordance with the Y.M.C.A., and consequently the L.I.I.S.A.A., rules. This case is somewhat similar to the one which cropped up on the football field last fall in this same Brooklyn League. It looks as though the captains did not keep very well posted on the rules. And yet one of the first things a captain should do is to know these by heart. Talk with the captain of a Yale or a Harvard university team, and there is not a question of the most intricate nature covered by the rules of his game that you can corner him on. It ought to be the same way with school captains. Slipshod knowledge is worth nothing; absolute familiarity with the law is vital.

The Long Island League has decided to hold annual in-door games henceforth, and the first ones will be given in the new Fourteenth Regiment Armory, Brooklyn, on Saturday, the 29th. The following events will be open to members from any school that is a member of the National Interscholastic Association: 75-yard dash, 75-yard dash (boys under sixteen), 220-yard dash, 440-yard dash, 880-yard dash, 1-mile run, putting 12-pound shot, running high jump, pole vault, and 75-yard hurdle. The rules governing entries and competition will be those of the Long Island Association and of the A.A.A. Entries close February 22d with H. O. Pratt, 232 Clinton Avenue, Brooklyn.

The convention of New Jersey schools, held in Plainfield last week, resulted in the formation of a New Jersey Interscholastic A. A. Its members are Plainfield High-school; Newark Academy; Pingry's School, of Elizabeth; Stevens Preparatory School, of Hoboken: Rutgers Preparatory School, of New Brunswick; and the Montclair High-school. It was decided that each school shall hold an athletic meeting every year. The State athletic meet will be held on the first Saturday in June, and the annual meeting of the association will take place on the same day. The association will control track athletics, baseball, football, and cricket.

It is encouraging to see so many associations starting up in various parts of the country, and I cannot but feel that the formation of the National Association has had much to do with it. The schools have realized what a great advantage it will be to have an established and recognized standard, and a central and controlling body; and knowing that the only way for them to become members of such a central or parent body is to first form an association, the result has been the organization of interscholastic leagues in many sections where hitherto there had been only a desultory sort of interest and activity in track athletics.

Another new association recently established is the Hudson River Interscholastic League. It is composed of the Mohegan Lake School, of Peekskill; Riverview Academy, of Poughkeepsie; and Holbrook's, of Sing Sing. Doubtless before long the many other institutions in the towns along the Hudson will see the advantage of belonging to an association, and will apply for admission. It looks now as if by the time the officers of the National Association get ready to make their announcement of the spring games there will be more than double the number of associations to answer the call than there was a year ago at this same period.

The ice-polo season has been a most successful one in Boston this year, and many of the games have proved exciting and close. Lack of space has prevented our giving any detailed account of the matches in this Department, but I hope to be able to publish the result of the winter's work and the scores of the League games, for the sake of the record, as soon as the finals have been settled.

The suggestion made by Professor Atewell, of the Columbia Grammar School, to hold an interscholastic gymnasium contest is an excellent one, and one that this Department[Pg 391] heartily endorses. Such a contest has many advantages over an in-door track-athletic meeting, and now that most of the schools in the city are provided with gymnasiums, it would seem an easy matter to arrange one. Trinity School, at present, seems to take the greatest interest in gymnasium work of any school in the city. By gymnasium work I do not mean exercise in the gymnasium preparatory for track athletics. I mean work on the rings, bars, etc., and calisthenics.

PREPARATION OF TINTED SENSITIVE PAPERS.

NO. 2.—HOW TO MAKE VIOLET TONES.

To make violet tones the paper is first sensitized in the same way described for making red prints. Make a solution of 96 grs. of nitrate of uranium and 4 oz. of water. Put this solution in a shallow tray, such as is used for toning, and float the prepared photographic paper on this for twenty seconds; drain carefully, and pin up to dry in a dark room. If dried by artificial heat the paper is made more sensitive and prints more quickly.

As soon as the paper is dry wrap it in post-office paper, and then in black needle-paper—such as sensitive papers are wrapped in—and lay it away in a drawer or covered box till wanted. This paper may be prepared several days before using, but should not be kept too long.

To print, place in the printing-frame and expose to light. If the negative is thin, three minutes in bright sunlight or one hour in the shade or a very dull day will be necessary for printing, and if a strong negative, ten minutes in bright sunlight or two hours in the shade will be necessary.

Have ready prepared a solution of 8 grs. of chloride of gold and 4 oz. of water. As soon as the print is taken from the frame wash it for twenty-five or thirty seconds in hot water (120° Fahr.), and place face up in a toning-tray, and flood the print with the chloride-of-gold solution. The print does not show when it is taken from the frame, but is developed with the chloride-of-gold solution. When the detail is well out, and the color a rich violet, take from the tray and wash in running water or in several changes of water, till none of the coloring matter shows in the water. Pin by the corners on a flat board, and set the board in an upright position till the prints are dry.

These violet prints are very attractive for certain kinds of work. Flower studies, especially those of single flowers, make novel prints. A set of four different colored prints might be made and used as decorations for a calendar. Mount the prints on square sheets of heavy drawing or Bristol board, and on each sheet place a three months' calendar. These calendars may be obtained at any stationery-store. The cards may be further decorated by tracing fine gilt lines round the picture and calendar leaves. An appropriate motto may also be added to each sheet.

Of course the first of the year has already passed, and it may seem out of season for suggestions as to making calendars, but one of the prettiest birthday gifts to a friend is a calendar beginning with the day of the month which marks his or her birthday. Such a calendar is very convenient, for it laps over into the coming year, which is sometimes a great advantage. Instead of mounting the prints directly on the card, an opening may be cut in the card and the picture placed behind it, as described in "Tinted Papers," No. 1. If this is done, a thinner piece of card-board should be pasted on the back, not only as a finish, but as a protection to the picture.

Blue prints may be toned to a dark violet by first printing, washing them in clear water, and then flowing them with a solution of 1 part potassium hydrate in 300 parts of water, and again with a solution of 4½ oz. of alcohol (90 per cent.), 7½ oz. distilled water, 1 oz. gallic acid. This gives the prints a dark purple or violet color, not so pleasing as that made by the process just given, but, if not printed a too deep blue in the first place, look very well.

Tinted papers—with the exception of carbon papers and blue prints—are not found in the market, but must be prepared by the amateur.

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It is practically impossible in this Department to give satisfactory answers to inquiries in bicycle matters. The questions are in many cases so similar, and yet just different enough to require separate answers, that it would require a good portion of this periodical to answer them. For example, many inquiries are received as to the best route from some town or city in one State to another town or city in an adjoining State. Of course these letters require separate answers in each case, which would be impossible. It is, however, quite possible to give here some general information as to the best methods of finding out such answers, each man for himself. In the first place, it is wiser in the end to join the L. A. W. You pay $2 per year for membership, which brings you free the road-book of your State, if there is one, and the L. A. W. Bulletin and Good Roads—a periodical that, among other things of value, gives you all the addresses, up to date, of consuls, chief consuls, and other State and central officers of the League. From these men all such information can be obtained. If you do not belong to the L. A. W., you have to pay $1.50 for the road-book and $2 for the Bulletin, which is the only paper in which you can find all the officers and consuls of the United States. The question then presenting itself to you, How can I ride best from A in Pennsylvania to B in Ohio? your course in seeking information is clear. Write to the chief consul of Pennsylvania and the chief consul of Ohio—whose addresses are in the Bulletin—and ask each to send you the road-book of his State. You will receive the Pennsylvania book free if you live in Pennsylvania yourself, but you must, of course, pay for the Ohio book. Having obtained these road-books, or book of maps, or tour-books (for each State has a different plan in getting up its books), pick out A, Pennsylvania, and B, Ohio, on the maps of each book, and then follow the routes on the maps which lead to some common point on the border. Here, then, is your trip marked out carefully, well described, and in a form that you can carry with you—and all at a cost of $3.50. If either State happens to have no road-book of any kind, write to the chief consul, tell him your proposed plan, and he will be glad to answer your questions to the best of his ability. If there is no chief consul, then that State is indeed benighted and behind the times—at least from a wheelman's point of view.

Another general set of questions which can be classified in an indefinite sort of way is the set which refers to training for long distances or short distances either for racing or for pleasure trips. General rules here can be laid down for training. In fact, the Interscholastic Sport Department is constantly giving suggestions in training for one particular event or another. Bicycle-training is practically the same as the preparation gone through by a man who is to run in the longer distances. Of course the principal part of the work is wheeling constantly day after day for certain distances, depending on the event for which we are training, gradually increasing speed or distance as the event is a short distance or a long tour. Muscular development and lung-power are required, and these must be practised by constant gymnasium work. Running slowly on the toes, rising and falling on one leg and then on the other many times, rising on the toes and falling back slowly on the heels two or three or four hundred times in succession without bending the knees—these exercise the proper leg muscles. But when the lungs and heart come into the question more care should be taken. Many strong men find that while their lungs and heart are vigorous for ordinary games, bicycling puts too great a strain on both, especially the latter. For instance, after riding steadily up hill and down hill for twenty miles at fifteen miles an hour, you begin to feel a stricture across the chest, you have that peculiar sensation as if you were tasting blood, and it is impossible to take a long satisfying breath which seems to "go" beyond a certain point down into your lungs. When these facts become noticeable, especially if you are not in the best of training, it is well to dismount and walk a little by your wheel, until you can mount again and ride with the mouth closed and the air entering your lungs through the nostrils. In fact, all riding should stop when the wheelman cannot breathe most of the time through his nose; otherwise the lungs are overtaxed, which may do no harm in occasional instances, but will in the end, if kept up, be injurious.

A WONDERFUL VIOLIN.

Wandering through the Italian quarter of New York lately, I came across a copy of Dante's Inferno. It was bound in very thick covers, and in looking it over a few days ago, I was much surprised to find a sort of pocket, partially disguised, in the under cover. It contained some sheets of manuscript written in a fine Italian hand. I had the manuscript translated, and found that it was a sort of diary of a young lad whose whole life must have been wrapped up in violins, for the records of his day-book are liberally interspersed with memorandums on that instrument. After reading the pages through, I found a little story among them, and for its curious interest, I give it herewith.

It seems the boy's family was of noble origin, and had grand designs for the future of their son, whose name was Paolo. Paolo, however, was averse to their ideas, as his only desire was violins, either to make them or play them, and ofttimes, in defiance of his father's orders, he would steal into a distant part of the house, and indulge in his love of playing. This had happened so frequently, and Paolo was fast growing to be a manly fellow, that his father rebuked him very strongly one day. He touched the sensitive chords of the musician's soul too much, and Paolo responded with hot words that led to his father's banishing him forever from the house.

Paolo went forth with his valuable violin, his one friend, as he thought, and passed on from town to town, city to city, playing for his living. He changed his name, and as time went by, his father, who sat brooding in sadness over his hasty action, never recognized in the name of a new brilliant maestro his banished son. A violin hung in front of his chair in the large hall, and he was accustomed to sitting there before it and dreaming of Paolo. One day, as the light of the afternoon was fast waning, he sat with eyes wandering over the instrument. Suddenly, almost like fairy music, the low sweet melody of a favorite piece of Paolo's came from the violin. He started back, fearing that he was mad; but no, the music was certainly coming from the violin. What could it mean? He seized it, and the moment he did so the music stopped. He dropped down in his chair again, and waited. Softly the strains came from the strings, and with a cry of grief the father called aloud for his son, only to hear a voice, and, turning, he found Paolo standing before him with outstretched arms. They were reconciled at last.

Paolo accounted for the wonderful music by leading his father to the other end of the hall and pointing to a small alcove behind a pillar, explained that everything spoken or played in that spot would cast the sound directly over to where the violin hung, and that as a boy he had discovered the wonderful echo, and experimented with it more than once. He had driven the nail in the wall years ago, and when he entered the hall upon his return, and saw his father sitting there before the violin, he resolved to try his love by use of that boyish experiment.

It would be hard to credit this story, were it not for the fact that such an echo is one of the show-cards of the guides in the Capitol at Washington, and several others are more or less famous through the world.

I have been putting in order my top drawer. Do you keep yours in perfect order, girls? I have the greatest respect for you if you do. Mine gives me more trouble than I can begin to tell you about. However, if you could peep into it this morning you would admire it as much as I do, what with the boxes all closed, and the gloves smoothed out and laid lengthwise, and the handkerchiefs in small white piles, and the veils folded, and everything else spick and span, and beautiful to see! It will stay so, too—at least I hope it will—for at least a fortnight, that wonderful upper bureau drawer into which so many things go, and out of which so many things come. I'm afraid, though, that one of these days when I'm hurrying to catch a train, or somebody is waiting to speak to me, I'll dive down among the laces and boxes and gloves and cards and handkerchiefs, upsetting this and overturning that, and woe is me! the top drawer will be in a whirl of confusion once more. When I was a little girl I shared a drawer with my sister, who had a great deal of system and a natural talent for arrangement and compactness which I did not have, and therefore had to cultivate. We divided our territories by a pasteboard fence, and on her side there were always beauty and peace and harmony; a place for everything, and everything in its place. But I would rather not tell you very much about my side. I used to have clearing-up days then, and I have them still.

Now don't imagine for a moment that I began this talk just to let you know that I often have to fight against an inclination to be a little bit disorderly in my arrangement of my various things. I had something else in view. We are many-sided beings, you and I, and our top drawers are not the only parts of our belongings which are now and then the better for being gone over and straightened out and set right. Think about it, girls. Can you not, looking back across the last month, or the last week, or even over this very last hour, see that in something you did or said or thought you were mistaken, you were not quite unselfish, or you had not the fair point of view? Aren't you often sorry, after a hasty word, that you had not waited before you spoke? And, again, are there not times when you did not speak out bravely and strongly in defence of an absent friend? Clearing-up seasons are good for the soul, and one's mind and heart are the better for the taking one's top drawer in hand—one's top drawer where she does not keep ribbons and roses and belts and buckles only, but fancies and resolves and notions and dispositions and prejudices.

Speaking of clearings up, there are moods when we are frank and open with ourselves, and when we confess that we are not so sweet and amiable as we might be. Perhaps we are not so just as we might be. What fusses and frictions are caused by the sort of temper in the top drawer that explodes like a fire-cracker the instant a match of irritation comes within touching distance! What a disagreeable thing a certain sort of smile is, the hateful smile that comes out of the top drawer where vanity and jealousy lurk! When we are about it, we might as well, in our clearing up, burn and get rid of the bad tempers, the crossness, and the suspiciousness which help to make us and others wretched. To be happy ourselves and to make others happy should be our constant aim and effort. Above everything else, do not let us be contrary, like little Miss Mary in Mother Goose. Many people are so, and they make others very unhappy.

There is one little corner of the top drawer which is more important than any other. It ought to be labelled "Conscience." Here we should be careful that we never leave a single thing in confusion. Where we are in doubt whether an action is right or wrong we must settle it by the light of conscience, and our decision will be influenced by our general habits of thinking and doing, and by our every-day habit of asking our Heavenly Father's guidance for each hour of life.

STARVED TO DEATH

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RICHARD R. BROWN, KEYPORT, N. J.

STAMPS!

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$117.50 WORTH OF STAMPS FREE

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

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FOREIGN STAMPS ON APPROVAL

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FINE PACKETS in large variety. Stamps at 50% com. Col's bought. Northwestern Stamp Co., Freeport, Ill.

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HARPER'S CATALOGUE

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

A PRIZE MUSIC COMPOSITION.

The ability to compose music is not as common as that to solve puzzles, and so the Table in its Music Contests this year opened competition to amateurs without regard to age. For variety, a song and a hymn setting were asked for, $5 being offered for the best in each class, and packages of visiting-cards, with copper plates, for the second best. First verses of two poems were given. Both were by Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster, in her book Little Knights and Ladies.

We publish this week the song setting which won the first prize, and the whole poem, in order that you may have a complete song. The composition is by Miss Mary E. Bigelow, of Berea, O., who is a Round Table Patron. The second prize is awarded to Harry R. Patty, of Los Angeles, Cal., Knight. Others whose compositions are deserving of high praise, mentioned with honor, are: Helen H. Sohst, Alice C. Banning, Penry Jones, Frank Balentine, Minnie Brendel (Weimar, Germany), and E. S. Hosmer. The additional verses of "Our Little Echo" are:

This little echo, soft and sweet,
Repeats what others say,
And trots about on tireless feet,
Up stairs and down, all day.

It makes us very careful not
To use a naughty word,
Lest in the echo's lisping tones
It should again be heard.

Which would be such a dreadful thing,
As any one may see,
Who has an echo in his house
A little over three.

A Leech Barometer.

About Some Chapters.

The Table has a flourishing Chapter in Santiago College, Agustinas 150, Santiago, Chile. Its president is Blanca Oliveira, aged fourteen, and she wishes to correspond with American Ladies of her own age. Writing under date of November 25th, the president tells of an entertainment given by the Wide Awake Chapter in the college gymnasium, in which songs, dialogues, recitations, and the like were the attractions. The invitation cards are very neat. The Chapter has forty-one members, who have corresponded with many readers of the Table in this country and Europe, some doing so in French and Spanish as well as in English.

Washington Chapter, of Racine, Wis., was organized on February 22, 1894, and is prospering. It holds semi-monthly meetings, and the dues are five cents per month. Officers are elected every four months. The present officers are: President, Hira E. Tyrrell; Vice-President, Russell Lewis; Secretary, Frank H. Marlott; Treasurer, Arthur Murray. "We think it would be nice to know what some of the many other Chapters are doing," writes Secretary Frank H. Marlott, 1511 Wisconsin Street. "I am sure we are not the only ones who should like to have some suggestions from successful Chapters regarding programmes," etc.

Information Wanted.

Name and address of story "All at Sea," sent in competition for a prize, that manuscript may be returned, and address of Rudolph Raphael, "Tea Picker of Chang Choy," for same purpose.

The Good Will School Fund.

Amount previously acknowledged	$1579.16
Little Women Chapter, of New York, $6; Barbara Arbogust, 25 cents; Frank Alfred Stetson, 50 cents; Paul C. Conn, 10 cents; Fred W. and George M. Beal, 50 cents; Walter Goff, 50 cents; The Kirk Munroe Talk at St. Agnes Hall, New York, $10.08; "Euclid Place," $1.30; Sunday-school Class, Stillwater, Minn., 50 cents; Francis S. Winston, $1; Louis O. Brosie, from contributions to his amateur paper, $2; Margaret C. Walter, $1; Carrie M. Walton, 10 cents; John Burroughs Chapter, Winsted, Conn., $15.84; Sophie R. St. Clair, 50 cents; Fred W. Christensen, 10 cents; Bessie Cauffman, $3.50; Franklin Pendleton, 25 cents; Paul A Sensheimer, $1; "Sancho Panza," 25 cents; Mrs. H. E. Banning, 50 cents; Alice May Douglas Chapter, Bath, Me., $3; "Midget," 10 cents; John H. Campbell, Jun., 5 cents; "Bruno Morgan," 50 cents; Laura Gooding, $1; "Antonio," 20 cents; Evarts A. Graham, 30 cents; Dick, Polly, Tom, Harry, etc., $1; George Taylor, 20 cents; Katherine W. Butler, 10 cents; Alice V. B. Foos, $1; Sidney Davis, and each of the following-named, 10 cents: Edward O. Tatnall, Mary Fithian, Adela Harper, Randolph Wilson, Walter P. Hall, Edith and Amy Shattuck, Ethel Van Rennselaer, George H. Hogeman, W. W. Harvey, Edith Moore, and Richard Corcoran; Lindsey D. Holmes, and each of the following-named, 50 cents: Mrs. D. L. Miller, Mary A. Lippincott, S. J. Peters, Lulu Wangelin, L. I. and E. Brown, James F. Rodgers, Grace M. Fay, Grace E. Hall, Stella L. Tutewiler, L. S. Whittaker, Pauline L. Stockton, J. A. Beach, Ethel R. Betts, B. W. Gale, Frankie L. Potts, and W. Stowell Wooster; Ellen B. Laight, $1; John Nixon Brooks, $1; "Santa Claus," 5 cents; J. Howard Beckley, 15 cents; J. F. Hammond and Sophie V. Gray, each 5 cents; Daisy Noyes and Ralph Page, each 25 cents; G. W. Hinckley, $1; Albert Gregory, 16 cents; Whitman Dart, 15 cents; K. K. Forsythe, 25 cents; Eleanor Davis, $1; Harry G. Sprowl, 5 cents; "Hecla," N. Y., $1; Eileen and Robert Weldon, 19 cents; and Robert W. Stockbridge, 16 cents.
Total	69.75
In the formal acknowledgment of a contribution from the Admiral Benham Chapter the sum was given, by mistake, $8.95. It should have been $18.95. Hence we add	10.00
	—————-
Total of Fund	$1658.91

STAMPS.

In the Round Table for January 26, 1896, I illustrated twelve of the rare Confederate locals. I complete the list (with a few exceptions) in this number.

Livingston, Kingston, Greenville, Madison, Ringgold, and Victoria are all great rarities. The stamps are worth from $250 to $750 if on envelope and in good condition.

Goliad (several varieties) are worth from $100 to $500 each. Rheatown and Tellico Plains (same type) are worth over $100 each.

Petersburg is worth $15; Pleasant Shade (same type) is worth $150. Lynchburg, worth $25 to $30; Lenoir, from $50 to $75.

Marion (six varieties) is a very rare stamp, but the original plate from which the stamps were printed is in the possession of a New York stamp-dealer. (Not illustrated.)

There are several others not illustrated, such as Spartansburg, Salem, etc., which resemble the ordinary postmark, and several others which are not yet fully accepted as genuine.

Representative Pugh, of Kentucky, has introduced a bill in Congress permitting all cities of 100,000 or more inhabitants to issue stamps of special designs for local use, the designs on such stamps to commemorate the history of the city or the memory of its prominent deceased citizens; but no such stamps shall be made to advertise the business of any individual, firm, corporation, or society. The cost of engraving and printing will be paid by the city issuing the stamps, not by the general government.

A well enforced rule of order and Ivory Soap will make the kitchen an attractive and appetizing spot.

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FREEDOM TRIUMPHANT.

Nine Volumes. Profusely Illustrated. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $3.00 each.

Mr. Coffin avoids the formality of historical narrative, and presents his material in the shape of personal anecdotes, memorable incidents, and familiar illustrations. He reproduces events in a vivid, picturesque narrative.—N. Y. Tribune.

Mr. Coffin writes interestingly; he uses abundance of incident; his style is pictorial and animated, he takes a sound view of the inner factors of national development and progress; and his pages are plentifully sprinkled with illustrations.—Literary World, Boston.

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

FROM CHUM TO CHUM.

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

III.—FROM BOB TO JACK.

Dear Jack,—I got your letter the day we came aboard this ship and I was so much interested with what was going on here that I put it in my pocket to read next day. The trouble with the next day was what I might have expected. I wasn't seasick at all but something I had for dinner didn't agree with me and I lay down all day and wished I was ashore. As an old man who stood near me said "they run trolly cars all over the land where you don't want 'em, but out at sea when you'd give ten dollars to be carried ashore in one they don't have 'em." I'd have gone ashore on a shingle if I could have. If you can imagine the Mountain House dancing around like a cork, 'way up in the air one minute and fifty feet lower down the next you'll get some idea about what I've been going through. I'd have enjoyed it though if I hadn't eaten that thing that disagreed with me, for to people that don't get seasick the moviness of the whole business is great.

There's a sailor on the New York that's had almost as many thrillers as Sandboys and between you and me I think he could talk Sandboys all around the block. He's been a pirate, he told me, but a nice kind of a pirate. He says he was called the Chesterfield of the Black Flag because he always did what he did politely no matter how horrible. If he attacked a ship at night he always did it in a dress suit and things like that, and if there were ladies aboard of any ship he captured and he had to lock 'em up in the hold he always apologized for doing it, and hoped they'd have a good time. He was brought up in Salem Massachusetts where he imbibed a love of the sea and learned manners—those are his own words, particularly imbibed. That word shows what a fine man he really is. His language is really splendid. Most pirates, he told me, wasn't fit to associate with gentlemen because they couldn't talk like gentlemen, but he felt that he could go anywhere, even into a lady's parlor and talk and never say a word that "wouldn't go with the furniture," as he put it, without swearing off a bit of his piracy neither. He has charge of the steamer-chairs on board this boat and nobody but me knows who he really is. He hasn't been on shore for five years because he says there's a price on his head. Just as soon as the boat gets into port he takes a dozen cans of sardines and a box of crackers and goes and hides up under the bowsprit and lives there on the sardines and crackers until the ship starts to sea again, when he comes out and takes charge of the chairs. That's how I came to know him. I get up early and go out on deck and he tells me all the thrillers he knows.

He had an awful experience last trip over. He was putting away the chairs one night when all of a sudden he saw one of the English detectives that had been looking for him for years coming along the deck and in the moonlight the detective saw him and recognized him at once.

"Not as I know on," said the sailor. "Seems to me I'm run to sea." And then he gave a wild ominous laugh. "I'm very glad to see you," he continued. "How are Mrs. Detective and the children?"

"You haven't lost any of your manners, Chesterfield," said the detective; "but they don't go with me. You're my pirate!" And he laid his hands on Chesterfield's shoulder.

"Pardon me," said Chesterfield. "But really my dear Mr. Detective you don't realize your peril. I could throw you overboard in two seconds, and if it wasn't an exceedingly impolite thing to push a gentleman of your standing into the water where you'd get your clothes spoiled I'll be jiggered if I wouldn't do it. Can't I summon assistance for you?"

"I'll summon it quick enough!" cried the detective rudely not even thanking Chesterfield for his offer, and he ran to one of those big air funnels that came up through the decks and hollered help down it, supposing that it lead into the cabin where the stewards stay; and Chesterfield just took him by the coat tails and pitched him head first through the funnel into the hold, where the fellow could howl to his heart's content and nobody'd hear him because he landed way below the lowest deck on a bale of cotton and there he staid until the ship got into port—and when he came out he was so excited that nobody'd believe what he said, he spoke so sort of crazy and he was arrested for a stowaway. Chesterfield of course had gone and hid under the bowsprit, and even if folks had believed the detective they'd have thought he'd escaped. But to show how polite he was, every morning Chesterfield would go to the funnel when nobody was looking and call out good-morning to the detective and drop down two sandwiches and a bottle of ginger-ale so he wouldn't starve.

When the pirate isn't on duty I don't have quite as much fun, though I have fun enough. We have to eat by a time-table. Soup comes at half past six, fish at twenty minutes to seven, lobster patties at ten minutes to seven, roast beef at seven, and so on, and I don't like it a bit. I don't ever want anything but soup and pie. The soup comes in early enough but you have to wait an hour and forty minutes for the pie and it's slow work. I asked the Captain if I couldn't have my pie at six forty and he said he'd be glad to let me only discipline had to be kept up and if the waiters were allowed to bring in pie out of its turn it would upset the whole system an' we'd get nothing but chaos. I don't know what chaos is; we've never had any at home and I never saw it on a bill of fare anywhere, but Pop says it's no good and spoils one's digestion.

The pirate gave me a pointer for coming home. He said there was a boy on the New York two years ago that had a pair of roller skates, and on very rough days he'd put 'em on and stand up near the bow and when the bow went up with the waves the boy would slide 'way down to the stern on his skates without a bit of trouble, and then back he'd go when she pitched the other way. It seems to me that's a great scheme and I'm going to try it. I always did like skating and the decks are bully for it, smooth as a park road.

The scenery isn't much so I won't try to tell you about it. It's nothing but water all the time, and when we get up in the morning you seem to be in just the same place you were last night.

The gong has just rung for dinner, and I must go. Maybe in a few days I'll write to you again, but I'm going to mail this letter to you now, because the pirate says maybe to-morrow we'll meet the sister ship to this one going back to New York, and he thinks if I can catch the eye of the Captain of the Paris, perhaps he'll stop long enough to take this letter aboard and carry it home to you.

published weekly.	NEW YORK, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1896.	five cents a copy.
vol. xvii.—no. 851.		two dollars a year.

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BY J. PARMLY PARET.

ASIATIC ELEPHANT,

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A Story of the Revolution.

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CHAPTER XVIII.

A CONFUSION OF IDENTITY.

[to be continued.]

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

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PUTTING THE SIXTEEN-POUND SHOT.

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