Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, August 18, 1896, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Harper's Round Table, August 18, 1896 Author: Various Release Date: March 10, 2019 [EBook #59045] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, AUGUST 18, 1896 *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire
Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.
| published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 18, 1896. | five cents a copy. |
| vol. xvii.—no. 877. | two dollars a year. |
It was the day before a great storm. Any one familiar with the face of the sea could have told that. The sky was a dead, dull sheet of cold leaden-gray cloud, and the color of it was reflected in a darker shade in the vast expanse of heaving waters. From the southward and eastward long, broad, oily swells were rolling in a formidable procession. As each one swept into the shallow water close to the shore it reared itself in a curving pinnacle of gray shot with green. Then it whitened in a quivering, broken line along its crest, and rushing forward, hurled itself[Pg 1014] upon the beach in a crashing swirl of snowy foam. Not a breath of air was stirring. The atmosphere was damp and heavy, and it seemed to clog the lungs. Sounds along the shore were preternaturally clear in the intervals between the thunder-bursts of the surf, and the crowing of a cock at a farm-house half a mile away could be distinctly heard. Not a sail was to be seen except far away in the northeast, where the light canvas of a schooner showed above the wavering line of the horizon. Nearer at hand a south-bound steamer was ploughing her way seaward, rolling so perilously that the yawning throat of her fuming black smokestack lay wide open toward the land at every starboard lurch of her. The Old Sailor was sitting in his accustomed place on the pier, gazing around the horizon and shaking his head. There was no doubt that the day or the ship in sight had aroused in his mind some reminiscent train of thought. So Henry and George, who had caught sight of him, determined to join him. They walked quickly out on the pier, but before they reached their friend, he turned his head and called out,
"Wot d'ye think of 't?"
"Of what?" asked Henry, as they paused beside him.
"O' the weather."
"It looks as if we were going to have a severe storm," said Henry.
"Werry good; werry good indeed," declared the Old Sailor, gazing around the horizon once more and indulging in one of his silent laughs. "An' s'posin'," he continued, "I was to go fur to ax you wot quarter would the wind come in, wot'd ye say?"
"Southeast," answered George, confidently.
"Not so werry good," commented the Old Sailor. "Ye can't allus say that the wind are a-goin' fur to come from the same quarter as the swells is a-comin' from. I reckon we'll git this fust o' the no'theast, an' then east, an' then southeast, an' so on around to nor'west, w'ere it'll clear off. It are a-goin' to be one o' them there cycloons wot ye read about. An' w'en it comes, w'y, gimme plenty o' sea-room an' a good stout main-torps'l; that's wot."
The Old Sailor relapsed into a deep silence, and the boys waited patiently for several minutes, knowing that if there was any memory at work within him it would surely work its way out. In about five minutes the old man suddenly broke out thus:
"Ye may paral and sarve me with fish bones ef this ain't the werry identical kind o' day wot it happened on, 'ceptin' as how it didn't really happen till night, an' it are now not more'n five bells in the arternoon watch. I were a-takin' the brig Banana Peel out from St. Paul de Loanda to Delagoa Bay with a cargo of frankfurter sausages, condensed milk, leather shoelaces, an' beeswax. The Cap'n, Jerubabel Moxon, were took sick o' coast-fever in St. Paul, an' had to be left there. So bein' I were the fust mate an' it were my dooty fur to take command an' perceed with the woyidge aroun' the Cape an' into Delagoa Bay, I called at Cape Town fur some fresh purwisions an' water, and we laid at anchor in Table Bay fur two days. W'en I were a-gittin' ready fur to git under way a old boatman sez to me, sez he, 'Ef I was you, I'd wait a day or two longer. It are a-goin' to blow putty fresh from the east'rd, an' ye won't be able fur to double the Cape.' But seein' as how there weren't no other signs o' weather 'ceptin' his talk, I reckoned I'd go ahead, an' I did.
"Waal, boys, we hadn't no more'n got clean out to sea nor she come on in stiff puffs onto the east'rd, an' in about three hours it were blowing half a gale. I laid the brig close-hauled on the port tack, but she made leeway by the rood, and I knowed I were a-headin' a good deal nigher fur the antarctic continent than fur the Cape o' Good Hope. Fur three days an' nights that easter blowed. It warn't never a whole gale, but it kep' us under short canvas, an' riz enough sea fur to keep us way down to leeward all the time, an' when it bruk we was two hundred miles sou'west o' the Cape. Now we got a southerly wind, an' in twenty-four hours we doubled the Cape o' Good Hope, and I laid the course to weather Cape Agulhas. Blow me fur pickles, ef it didn't fall a flat calm w'en we was off that cape, jess like this one to-day, with a mos' disorganizin' swell a-runnin' in from the southeast. I seed that it were a-goin fur to come on to blow, but wot could I do? We was about ten miles off the land, an' them swells a-settin' us in toward it all the time at a mos' amazin' pace. I wished as how I were back on the other side o' Good Hope, w'ere them same swells would 'a' bin a-settin' us off shore. Howsumever, it warn't no use wishin'; 'cos w'y, wishes ain't steam-engines or perpellers, an' won't make ships go w'en there ain't no wind.
"Waal, there we was, a-buggaluggin' aroun' in the mos' permiskous fashion, like a fly in a plate o' butter. Night come on darker'n the inside o' an empty mess-chest with the lid shut down. We was a-rollin' an' a-rollin' so that I were more'n half afeard as how we'd roll the masts out o' the bloomin' hooker, an' most o' the men was on deck hangin' on fur dear life, an' waitin' to hear the wind begin fur to howl. But I kinder b'lieved myself that we wouldn't get it afore mornin'. Waal, all on a suddent down to the south'ard an' west'ard, on our stabboard quarter, there comes one o' the mos' awful ear-splittin' screeches I ever heerd in all my life. We all held our breath, an' I reckon most on us turned white. 'Cos w'y, none on us ever heerd any sich sound afore. In about three minutes we heerd it ag'in. Then the whole sky down there lit up with a big green flash, as ef all the green fireworks on 'arth'd gone off at oncet.
"'Wot in bloomin' Africa are it?' sez I to Hiram Sink, my mate, sez I.
"'Ghosts, sure,' sez he to me, sez he.
"I were jess a-goin' to tell him that ghosts didn't walk aroun' at sea an' set off fireworks, w'en a shout from the hands forrad stopped me. There, broad off our stabboard quarter, about a mile away, were a brig lined out against the sky in a reg'lar skellington o' waverin' fire. It were the palest greenest sort o' fire, an' she looked like the ghost o' a brig.
"'The Flyin' Dutchman!' sez Hiram Sink, sez he.
"'By the great anchor flukes, them's it!' sez I.
"An' at that werry identical minute there were another one o' them awful screeches, an', pst! that there brig jess went out, like as ef ye'd turned off the gas.
"'We 'ain't got no show to git out o' this,' sez Hiram Sink, sez he.
"'Nary show. We got to go on them rocks sure,' sez I to he, sez I.
"A werry few minutes arter that a hand forrard yells, 'Steamer on the stabboard bow!'
"An', sure 'nuff, we could see the lights in her cabin. Nex' thing I knowed, there were a launch off our quarter, an' a voice hailed us,
"'Aboard the brig there!'
"'Hello!' sez I. 'Who on 'arth are you?'
"'I'm the owner o' that steam-yacht up there, an' I want to come aboard you,' sez he.
"'Come on, then,' sez I.
"So the launch come alongside, an' the man comes aboard. He sartinly were a pikooliar pusson. His face were so full o' wrinkles it looked like it were made o' rope, an' he had a stiff mustache as white as chalk. His eyes was little an' black an' piercin'. But he were dressed in the swellest kind o' yachtin' toggery ye ever seed, an' spite o' his lookin' a hundred years old, he skipped over the side like a midshipman. He come up to me with a jolly laugh, slapped me on the back, an' sez he to me, sez he,
"'How'd ye like the show?'
"'Wot show?' sez I to he, sez I.
"'W'y, my show down yonder—shrieks, lightnin', ghost ship, an' all them—eh?'
"'W'y,' sez I to he, sez I, 'we thort it were the Flyin' Dutchman.'
"'So it were,' sez he to me, sez he, jess like that, me bein' Cap'n o' the brig, an' him a grinnin' Methuselah in yachtin' togs.
"'Wot d'ye mean?' sez I.
"'I'm the Flyin' Dutchman, the only one in the business, Cap'n G. W. Vanderdecken,' sez he.
"'But it ain't reg'lar at all,' sez I. 'Wot are you a-doin' of with a steam-yacht an' them clothes?'
"'Wot did ye expect? W'y, I'm up to date, I am,' sez he, laffin' like he'd bust hisself. 'I ain't no old moth-eaten barnacle-covered, worn-out spook. I'm a real, live, wide-awake Flyin' Dutchman, right down here in my own partikler latitoods, an' out an' 'tendin' to business w'en there's thick weather a-brewin'. It'll blow a livin' gale by mornin'.'
"An' with that he went into sech a fit o' laffin' I thort he'd putty well choke hisself to death, an' I 'mos' wished he would, him a-comin' aroun' scarin' sailor-men, an' makin' fun o' 'em w'en they was in danger o' shipwrack an' death.
"'Waal,' sez I to he, sez I, 'ef you be the Flyin' Dutchman, you'd better go back to wherever you come from, an' let us get wracked in peace. We ain't in no humor to be laffed at,' sez I to he, sez I, jess like that.
"'W'y,' sez he, 'ye might jess as well laff as cry, 'cos w'y, arter ye're all dead ye can't do nothin'.'
"'Waal,' sez I, gittin' putty mad, 'there's one thing I can do afore I goes to Davy Jones's locker; I can throw you overboard.'
"I made a move toward him, an' he jumped back an' pulled a whistle out o' his pocket an' blowed it. The nex' second the air jess shook with them awful screams ag'in, an' the yacht blazed up in streaks o' fire. I stopped like I were shot.
"'Good show, ain't it?' sez he. 'There ain't nothin' like it a-scourin' the high seas.'
"With that he dances aroun' on one leg an' laffs ag'in like a crazy hyena.
"'Look here,' sez I to he, sez I, 'I don't see wot business you got with a steam-yacht, anyhow.'
"'W'y,' sez he to me, sez he, 'you made one kick about that already. Wot d'ye s'pose? D'ye think I'm goin' to be behind the times? 'Ain't I got as good a right to have all the modern improvements as any other man afloat?'
"'But the last time I seed you,' sez I, 'were about ten year ago, an' you had a old-fashioned sailin'-vessel then.'
"'An' wot good were she?' sez he, speakin' kind o' mad like. 'I couldn't git to wind'ard in her in any sort o' weather at all.'
"'O' course not,' sez I to he, sez I. 'Ye ain't expected to git to wind'ard. You're expected to be down here a-tryin' to double this 'ere cape in a gale o' wind an' gittin' blowed back.'
"'Waal, my son,' sez he to me, sez he, 'we got all that old story changed now. That's wot used to happen to me, but it don't happen no more. I got a steamer now, an' I can git to wind'ard in putty poor weather. An' as for doublin' this 'ere cape, I jess do that two or three times a year fur my health, an' to keep up my repitation. It wouldn't do fur me never to be seed down here at all; 'cos w'y, a lot o' you ignerent sailor-men'd git so ye wouldn't b'lieve in me, an' then my occupation'd be gone. I jess showed up fur you as a matter o' business, an' I'm sure I give you a mighty good show, too. An' now here you are a-grumblin' an' a-kickin' an' a-talkin' about throwin' me overboard. Not as I'd mind bein' in the sea werry much, 'cos ye can't drown me, ye know. But I got feelin's, I have, an' I don't like to be treated bad by nobody at all, I don't.'
"An' blow me fur pickles ef the old willain didn't pull out his hankercher an' wipe his eyes jess like he were a-cryin'.
"'Ef you don't want to hear hard words from sailor-men,' sez I to he, sez I, 'don't go fur to come fur to appear to 'em off this 'ere cape an' bring on foul weather an' shipwrack.'
"'Ah, say,' sez he, takin' the hankercher from his eyes and commencin' fur to laff ag'in, 'd' you b'lieve that tommy-rot?'
"'Wot!' sez I, 'ain't you the cause o' this 'ere weather?'
"'Naw-w-w,' sez he, disgusted like.
"'Waal,' sez I, 'you're the sign o' 't.'
"'Not edzackly,' sez he. 'I allers turn on my show w'en there's bad weather comin'. I got to. I got to keep up my repitation. W'y, wot'd Herne the Hunter, the Erl-King, the Headless Horseman, an' old Mother Erda think o' me ef I didn't attend to business? I'd git kicked out o' respectable spook society, an' w'ere in goodness'd I go then?'
"There not seemin' to be no fittin' answer to that there inquiry, I didn't make none. No more did Hiram Sink, him havin' lost his breath w'en Vanderdecken first came aboard, an' not bein' able to speak.
"'But I want to tell you one thing,' sez the Flyin' Dutchman, sez he; 'ef it's the weather an' the lee shore you're a-worrin' about, I can prove to ye that I 'ain't got no sort o' interest in it.'
"'How can ye do that?' sez I to he, sez I.
"'I'll tow ye round the cape,' sez he.
"Waal, my sons, ye could 'a' knocked me down with a compass-card. Who ever heard o' the Flyin' Dutchman doin' sich a thing?
"'All right,' sez I to he, sez I. 'Will you give us a line?'
"'Sure,' sez he; 'look out there forrad.'
"He blowed that whistle o' his a couple o' times, an' the end o' a heavin'-line lit onto my fo'k's'le deck. The hands was 'mos' afraid to touch it, but bime-by Hiram Sink got the hawser aboard an' made fast. The Flyin' Dutchman's launch were dropped astern, an' his bloomin' steam-yacht went ahead, towin' us along at about seven knots an hour. As fur him he walked up an' down the deck mumblin' to hisself like he were puffickly disgusted with the entire perceedin's. Arter he'd towed us putty well past the cape, an' I commenced fur to feel a leetle easier in my mind, I walked up to him, an' sez I to he, sez I,
"'Look here, Mr. Flyin' Dutchman.'
"'Waal, Mr. Sailin' American, wot are it?'
"'I'd like fur to have the privilege o' axin' you a fair question.'
"'Heave ahead,' sez he, 'an' I'll answer 't ef I likes.'
"'What brought ye aboard o' my vessel, anyhow?'
"'Waal,' sez he, 'I'm out o' baccy, an' I thort as how ye might let me have a little.'
"'Oho!' sez I to he, sez I, 'I s'pose ye can't lay in a cargo 'cos ye kin only land once in seven years.'
"'Aw, gammon!' sez he, 'I can land w'enever I wants to.'
"'But how about keepin' up yer repitation?' sez I.
"'That's all right,' sez he. 'Who's goin' to know me in broad daylight with a steam-yacht an' in these togs? W'y, I'm goin' up to Calcutta as quick as I can get there.'
"I told him to wait a minute, an' I went an' got him a box o' smokin' baccy, an' he were werry grateful fur 't, too.
"'Now,' sez I to he, sez I, 'I got to tell ye somethin' afore ye go.'
"'Waal,' sez he, 'wot are it?'
"'I can't jess edzackly b'lieve,' sez I, 'that you're ginuwine.'
"'Ginuwine wot?' sez he.
"'Genuwine Flyin' Dutchman.'
"'Wot!' sez he. 'Waal, jess you wait a few minutes an' I'll show ye.'
"With that he jumped over the rail. I thort he were in the sea, but I seed him in his launch goin' out ahead o' us. At the same time the tow-line gave a jerk an' parted right under our fore-stay. The nex' minute them awful screams bruk out ag'in, an' then the Flyin' Dutchman's yacht came down past us at a twenty-knot gait. She were red hot all over, an' steam hissed from the sea as she passed. Her masts and spars looked to be all afire, an' on the bridge in a cloud o' smoke stood the Flyin' Dutchman hisself, smokin' a pipe o' the baccy I give him. An' he looked like he were a sheet o' white fire.
"'Ha, ha, ha, ha!' he yelled. 'Ye don't believe I'm genuwine, eh? I'll show ye!'
"An', pst! him an' the yacht an' the fire an' the steam was gone, jess like that, leaving the sea blacker'n ink. An' the nex' minute whee-oop come the gale, not out o' the southeast, but out o' the no'theast. An' it blowed us back two hundred mile, dismasted us, an' generally used us up. An' I don't want to be towed by the Flyin' Dutchman ag'in."
There is no pleasanter way of spending a day than snipe-shooting, and there are many reasons why it is so popular. The birds are to be found almost anywhere where water and sedge-grass abound, though the best shooting-grounds are the salt-meadow-bordered bays on the coast. When a bird is shot there is small danger of losing it as compared to that in upland or thicket shooting, and a dog is not a necessity, as all wing-shots are generally made over water or short grass, where the bird can easily be recovered. Most boys are not so fortunate as to possess a good dog, and as very fine snipe-shooting can be had without one, it is especially fitted for them. The bird when "flushed" anywhere near the water will fly out over it.
THE BEACH SNIPE.
The bird that will be especially referred to in this paper will be the ordinary little beach snipe that is so common everywhere, though what remarks apply to him will, with very slight exceptions, apply to all of the snipe family.
The sand-piper always flies on a dead level, about a foot above the water, unless the flock is flying high to escape some obstruction. He propels himself with a jerky motion of the wings, a stroke, and then an instant's soaring, at a pretty fair rate of speed. The "yellow leg," a larger variety, on the contrary, flies quite high, and sometimes in the formations adopted by the wild-duck. They can always be recognized by their peculiar whistling call. The predominating colors of the snipe family are gray and white, though some few have a touch of brown on the back plumage. There is also a slight variation in the length and shape of the bill, though the character is about the same in all. The legs of the snipe are long and a greenish-yellow in color; those of the "yellow leg" being almost a bright yellow. The sand-piper is a very rapid walker, or perhaps, more properly, runner, and this remarkable facility should always be borne in mind when a bird is only "winged." When not frightened they usually travel in a very irregular course along a beach, but when frightened they will make as straight a line as the best sprinter. These little birds are very good swimmers and divers, remaining under water for a long time, propelling themselves with great rapidity by the use of their wings.
Sand-piper Snipe is a very sociable little fellow, and travels with lots of company, though the snipe are split up into small flocks during the latter part of June, July, and the first part of August, when they are breeding, usually beginning to flock again about the middle of August. No true sportsman will shoot during this season. Aside from that, it is against the game laws; the old birds are not fit to eat, and there are in the latter part of the breeding season large numbers of small flocks of young birds who are too small to be of any use, and are so tame that it is possible to decimate a whole flock by a single barrel as they are bunched on the beach. This is not the aim of the sportsman.
A word about the game laws. You should always respect them. They were made for your and all sportsmen's benefit, and not as a means of annoyance. If you kill the birds whilst breeding, or destroy the young, there will soon be little left in the country to shoot.
There are three times to find the snipe at rest: in the early morning, shortly after sunrise; at low tide, when the ground usually under water is exposed, so they can pick up the sand insects and feed on the sea-grasses that the high-water has brought up; and in the evening, when the flocks are coming to rest for the night. The early morning and low-water are the best times, as the birds will be found along the water's edge feeding, whilst in the evening they usually retire some distance inland on the meadows, and after they are settled in the grass for the night it is pretty hard to get them up again. There is sometimes a pretty fair show of finding the birds on the beach feeding just before sundown. It must be remembered, however, that the strength and direction of the wind have much to do with the number of snipe. The above is in fair weather, and now for the ideal "snipe weather."
If you live on the Jersey coast, or any of the neighboring ones, and wake up one September morning with a good southeaster, which has been blowing since the previous evening, rattling around your windows, accompanied by drizzle, get up and put on your shooting "togs," oil your gun well, and prepare for a good day's sport. The birds do not like to fly in a high wind, and will almost always come up into the coast bays and rivers to feed on the overflowed meadows that such storms produce.
It is a rather difficult thing to determine on what kind of ground you will find snipe; some days they will be found in great abundance in one locality, and the day after hardly a bird will be seen. The weather has something to do with this, and by a careful study of it some idea may be gained as to where to find the birds, though this will not always prove reliable.
When the wind in a storm is not too high, the birds usually remain on the sea-beach, but when it is violent you will run a pretty fair chance of finding them inland. During the southeaster mentioned, if the wind is rather high and there is a heavy tide, Sand-piper likes nothing better than to spend the day paddling around on the flooded salt-meadows, picking up the little worms and bugs that have been soaked out of their homes in the grass and soil. Here you will find him in large flocks, travelling by short flights from one end of the meadow to the other, showing very[Pg 1017] little disposition to move on. But above all his happiness seems wholly complete if he can find a meadow on which the grass has been cut and not collected in mows at the time of the overflow. The floating grass affords a refuge for all the washed-out bug inhabitants of the meadow, and the snipe make the most of the rare treat offered. This kind of meadow-shooting is very pleasant, as the birds will not fly far when "flushed," and it is possible to follow a flock all around the meadow, securing several shots before it takes flight for good. The sedge islands at the mouths of rivers and bays are great feeding-grounds when the wind is not so high, and tide not sufficient to flood the fields.
Sometimes on the day after a storm pretty good shooting can be had on the meadows that have been overflowed. The soil is usually of a clayey character, and the water does not drain off in the lower places very rapidly, forming puddles and patches of slimy mud around which the birds like to feed. They are usually found on the sea-beach just before or after a storm.
The favorite haunts of snipe in fine weather, at low water, are the little sand or mud beaches bordering the sedge islands and meadows, and in the inlets along the water-front.
There are three methods of shooting snipe: tramping the beach, crawling up on them by boat, and by using decoys.
TRAMPING FOR SNIPE.
Tramping the beach or following up on land requires the smallest outfit of any, all that is necessary being the gun and your equipments. It is best to wear rubber boots, unless you intend to shoot along hard beaches or dry meadows. This tramping of the meadows will afford rather good sport when they are flooded, and although you may not get as many birds as by decoying, the action it necessitates adds much to the pleasure. However, if the birds are plentiful and inclined to move about, I should advise the use of a blind and decoys.
Let us suppose we are going out at low water to look out for the birds on the beaches. You have arrived at the scene of action and loaded your gun. Put it in the hollow of either arm; if there are two shooting, carry the guns in opposite arms. In walking along the water you should not walk on the beach, if there is one, but about fifteen or twenty feet back, going up to the beach at frequent intervals to study it for a distance ahead. By this means the birds behind the sedge-grass will not be able to see you until you are quite near. If when studying the beach ahead you do not see any birds, you should make a careful note of the likely places behind which snipe may be, and use corresponding care when approaching them. The snipe do not take to wing until you get quite near, and there is little danger of frightening your birds by these short examinations. You have been walking along the shore in the described manner for some time, and in one of the above examinations you locate some birds, let us say two hundred feet off. Crouch down in the grass and make a study of the lay of the beach where the snipe are, noting with care the positions of any high tufts of grass, bushes, or anything by which you can locate the place without seeing the beach, and it is best to select two between which the game is. Now strike inland some fifty feet, more if level meadow, and move up parallel to the beach until opposite the marks noticed. When directly in back of where you think the birds ought to be, work up to the beach, cocking your gun, and holding it in a position for instant use. You will probably get within twenty or thirty feet of the edge of the grass, when the shrill whistles of the snipe will let you know the birds are off. It is then only a question of your skill as to whether you bag some. In approaching this way, the birds will usually fly directly off-shore and away from you for a distance, thus affording the best kind of a shot. Taking the birds by surprise, you can afford to let them get steadied in flight before shooting. Do not shoot as the bird first starts off, as his twisting will destroy the aim; but let him get settled, cover him with the muzzle of your gun, following him with it for an instant until your hand is steady, and then pull the trigger.
Perhaps it should be mentioned here that if the wind is at all heavy you will never find the birds on a lee shore; always look for them on the windward. If the snipe is "flushed" on the meadow, or any other place where he has the choice of direction, he will always rise against the wind; so if you approach up wind you will get mostly driving shots, but if down wind good shots will be presented.
SHOOTING FROM A SNEAK-BOAT.
Following the birds by boat is sometimes very effective. Perhaps before coming to the shooting proper we should consider the boat. The best kind of boat for this work, where there is a great deal of running up on beaches, is a sneak-box (description of shooting-boat in Harper's Round Table No. 818). The long bow overhang makes it easy to land without running the boat hard aground. We will consider the sailing first. No special equipment is required, but if you are going out alone a yoke-line attachment will be necessary for steering (see sketch). By this device you can steer the boat from any part of the cockpit by simply catching hold of the line at the nearest place, and pulling either way you wish.
If alone, it is best to sit pretty well aft, as you are less liable to be bothered by the sail, but if there are two in the boat, one shooting and the other sailing, the man with the gun should sit as far forward as convenient, and on the side next to the shore. If the sail happens to be on the shore side, if possible sit on the forward deck so as to be able to shoot ahead of the mast; if not, you will have to shoot under the sail or in whatever manner a shot offers.
ROWING AFTER SNIPE.
The pleasure of the expedition may be greatly marred by mismanagement of the boat. There are no particularly new problems in sailing presented, but there are several points that must be borne in mind. Above all, the boat must not race alongshore, but should only drift along about thirty or forty feet off, because, when going at only a fair speed, objects on shore pass so rapidly as to make all accurate shooting impossible; and, also, a boat travelling[Pg 1018] even slowly in shallow water will kick up such large waves, that these, breaking on the beach, will frighten all the birds within hearing.
There is one peculiarity of snipe that perhaps ought to be mentioned. When the flock is feeding on small beaches broken up by patches of grass extending down to the waters edge, the birds, if approached on the water in a direction parallel to the beach, will run along it until they are all bunched at the grass before taking wing. This affords a good shot, and you can usually bag several. If you prefer to row after the birds, select a two-oared light flat-bottomed boat, and sit in the front row seat, the person pulling occupying the rear. Sometimes the boat is propelled with a pole used over the stern. There is one indispensable article in shooting snipe from a boat—a crab-net. By this, the dead and wounded birds can easily be picked up.
DECOYING SNIPE.
Decoying, though requiring quite an extensive outfit, under proper conditions, will yield fine results. The blind is of first consideration, much depending on its location. Before building it you should try to determine where the birds are flying the day in question, though the following general locations may be of help in the selection: a neck of land separating two streams or arms of a river; a sedge island; or a flooded meadow. In choosing the site try to find a spot where natural conditions give as much cover as possible, as behind weeds or tall grass, and try not to alter the appearance in the construction. If you intend to shoot on a meadow, place the blind at a convenient distance from some spot where you notice the birds feed. If on a beach, try and place it so as to get a raking shot. In the meadow-blind, if you have been able to find a convenient clump of weeds, cut down the extra ones so as you will have a thin circle around you, or as near so as possible, and line the inside with hay or anything procurable, filling up the thin places in the barrier of live weeds with those you cut down. If no clump can be found, look over the meadow until you find some stiff-stemmed weeds, and cut them quite near the roots. Carry these to the selected spot, and construct the blind by sticking the ends in the ground, and finish as before. The beach-blind may be constructed like this, or a hiding-place can be made in the sedge-grass.
DIAGRAMS OF SHELLS, DECOYS, AND STEERING-GEAR.
The decoys are an essential part of the outfit. They can be made at home, and should be at least twice life size. Their construction may be understood from the sketch. In painting them, try to lay the colors in the same relations as in the live bird.
Suppose we have constructed our blind near a beach, and set our decoys, some twelve or fifteen, fairly bunched. A flock is seen approaching. They see our decoys, and head in, apparently just skimming the water. Let them land, if they will; if not, fire as they wheel off. They will most likely land, and if clear of the decoys use the right barrel, reserving the left (usually choked) for when they fly off. You have most likely bagged some birds, but do not attempt to recover them now, for a flock will often return if any birds are lost. If there are any dead birds on the water, you had better keep an eye on them, as the crabs are fond of dead snipe.
A few words here about the gun. The dangers of mishandling have been gone over so often that it is unnecessary to repeat them. A boy is perfectly safe with a gun if he will bear in mind the old and perhaps rather ambiguous saying, "A gun is always loaded." A gun should not be allowed to stand for anytime with the remains of previous discharges in the barrels, as the acid contained in the powder will pit them. It is best to follow the rule of swabbing it clean after a day's sport; first, perhaps, if very dirty, with the wire burr, and polishing with soft rags. Sometimes the barrels become so much coated that they cannot be cleansed by these means, and it will be necessary to wash them out with water. If this is the case, be sure to remove every trace of moisture afterwards. Always keep every part of the gun well coated with oil, and never forget to oil the barrels after swabbing them clean, bearing in mind also that the heat of the discharge will dry the oil off the outside.
A great deal might be said about shells, but it is not essential here. Machine-loaded shells with suitable charges for snipe can be bought for about $1.40 a hundred, and will answer all purposes very well. There is room for discussion as to the proper charge. I should say 2¾ or 3 drams of powder and 1 ounce of either No. 8 or No. 9 shot is a good load for a 12-bore gun. The smaller shot is best for flock shooting. In the sketch is represented a section of a shell showing the position and kind of wads, and there is also shown a light home-loaded shell to kill crippled birds. Many sportsmen load their own shells, but this takes much time and trouble, and the saving is not as great as would be supposed, unless expensive powders are used. The boy learning to shoot should by all means buy his ammunition, at least for such a time, until he will know exactly what he is doing when loading his own shells.
The port of Prairie Flower was in the eastern part of the then Territory of Dakota. It stood out on an open plain a half-dozen miles wide, which seemed to be the prairie itself, though it was really the valley of the Sioux River, that funny stream which could run either way, and usually stood still in the night and rested. To the east and west the edges of this valley were faintly marked by a range of very low bluffs, so low that they were mere wrinkles in the surface of the earth, and made the valley but very little lower than the great plain, which rolled away for miles to the east and for leagues to the west.
It was a beautiful morning a little after the middle of September that the Rattletrap got away and left Prairie Flower behind. The sun had been up only half an hour or so, and the shadow of our craft stretched away across the dry gray plain like a long black streak without end. The air was fresh and dewy. The morning breeze was just beginning to stir, and down by the river the acres of wild sunflowers were nodding the dew off their heads, and beginning to roll in the first long waves which would keep up all day like the rolling of the ocean. We shouted "Good-by" to Grandpa Oldberry and Squire Poinsett, but they only shook their heads very seriously. The cows and horses picketed on the prairie all about the little clump of houses which made up the town looked at us with their eyes open extremely wide, and no doubt said in their own languages, like Grandpa Oldberry, that they had no recollection of seeing any such capers as this for many years.
"See here," I said, suddenly, to Jack, "where's that dog you said was going to follow us?"
"You just hold on," answered Jack.
"Oh, are we going to have a dog too?" asked Ollie.
"You wait a minute," insisted Jack.
SNOOZER.
Just then we passed the railroad station. Jack craned his head out of the front end of the wagon. Ollie and I did the same. Lying asleep on the corner of the station platform we saw a dog. He was about the size of a rather small collie, or, to put it another way, perhaps he was half as big as the largest-size dog—if dogs were numbered like shoes, from one to thirteen, this would have been about a No. 7 dog. He was yellow, with short hair, except that his tail was very bushy. One ear stood up straight, and the other lopped over, very much wilted. Jack whistled sharply. The dog tossed up his head, straightened up his lopped ear, let fall his other ear, and looked at us. Jack whistled again, and the dog came. He ran around the wagon, barked once or twice, sniffed at the pony's heels and got kicked at for his familiarity, yelped sharply, and came and looked up at us, and wagged his bushy tail with a great flourish.
"He wants to get in. Give him a boost, Ollie," said Jack.
Ollie clambered over the dash-board and jumped to the ground. He pushed the dog forward, and he leaped up and scrambled into the wagon, jumped over on the bed,[Pg 1019] where he folded his head and tail on his left side, turned around rapidly three times, and lay down and went to sleep, one ear up and one ear down.
"He's just the dog for the Rattletrap," said Jack. "We'll call him Snoozer."
"That looks a good deal like stealing to me, Uncle Jack," said Ollie. "Doesn't he belong to somebody?"
"No," said Jack, "he doesn't belong to anybody but us. He came here a week ago with a tramp. The tramp deserted him, and rode away on the trucks of a freight train, but Snoozer didn't like that way of travelling, because there wasn't any place to sleep, so he staid behind. Since then he has tried to follow every man in town, but none of them would have him. He's a regular tramp dog, not good for anything, and therefore just the dog for us."
Snoozer was the last thing we shipped, and after taking him aboard we were soon out of the harbor of Prairie Flower, and bearing away across the plain to the southwest. In twenty minutes we were among the billowing sunflowers, standing five or six feet high on either side of the road, which seemed like a narrow crack winding through them. Ollie reached out and gathered a handful of the drooping yellow blossoms. The pony was tied behind, carrying her big saddle, and tossing her head about, and showing that she was very suspicious of the whole proceedings, and especially of a small flag which Ollie had fastened to the top of the wagon-cover, and which fluttered in the fresh morning breeze. Snoozer slept on and never stirred. At last the road came to the river, and then followed close along beside its bank, which was only a foot or so high. Ollie was interested in watching the long grass which grew in the bottom of the stream and was brushed all in one direction by the sluggish current, like the silky fur of some animal. After a while we came to a gravelly place which was a ford, and crossed the stream, stopping to let the horses drink. The water was only a foot deep. As we came upon the higher ground beyond the river we met the south wind squarely, and it came in at the front of the cover with a rush. We heard a sharp flutter behind, and then the wagon gave a shiver and a lurch, and the horses stopped; then there was another shock and lurch, and it rolled back a few inches.
"There," exclaimed Jack, "some of those wheels have begun to turn backwards! I told you!"
I looked back. Our puckering-string had given way, and the rear of the cover had blown out loosely. This had been more than the pony could stand, and she had broken her rope and run back a dozen rods, and stood snorting and looking at the wagon.
THE FIRST ACCIDENT.
"First accident," I cried. "She'll run home, and we'll have to go back after her."
"Perhaps we can get around her," said Jack. "We'll try."
We left Ollie to hold the horses, and I went out around among the sunflowers, while Jack stood behind the wagon with his hat half full of oats. I got beyond her at last, and drove her slowly toward the wagon. She snorted and stamped the ground angrily with her forward feet; but at last she ventured to taste of the oats, and finding more in the feed-box on the rear of the wagon, she began eating them and forgot her fright.
"I guess we'd better not tie her, but let her follow," said Jack, "As soon as we have gone a little ways she'll come to think the wagon is home and stick to it."
"Yes," I said. "I think she is really as great a tramp as Snoozer, and just the pony for us."
"Are we all tramps?" asked Ollie.
"Well," said Jack, "I'm afraid Grandpa Oldberry thinks we don't lack much of it. He says varmints will catch us."
"Do you think they will?" went on Ollie, just a little bit anxiously.
"Oh, I guess not," said Jack. "You see, we've got four guns. Then there's Snoozer."
"But will they try to catch us?"
"Well, I don't know. Grandpa Oldberry says the varmints are awfully thick this fall."
"But what are varmints?"
"Oh, wolves, and b'ars, and painters, and—"
"What are painters?"
"Grandpa means panthers, I guess. Then there's Injuns, and boss-thieves, and—"
"There's a prairie-chicken," I cried, as one rose up out of the long grass.
"Perhaps we can get one for dinner," said Jack.
He took his gun and went slowly toward where the other had been. Another whirred away like a shot. Jack fired, but missed it. We started on, leaving the pony tossing her head and stamping her feet in a great passion on account of the report of the gun; but when she saw that we paid no attention to her and were rapidly going out of sight she turned, after taking a long look back at distant Prairie Flower, and came trotting along the road, with her stirrups dangling at her sides, and soon was following close behind.
"We can depend on the life-boat," said Jack.
Before we realized it the chronometer showed that it was almost noon. By this time we had left the sea of sunflowers and crept over the wrinkle at the western edge of the valley, and were off across the rolling prairie itself. Still Snoozer never stirred.
"I wonder when he'll wake up?" said Ollie.
"You'll see him awake enough at dinner-time," said Jack.
"Well, you'll see me awake enough then, too," answered Ollie. "I'm hungry."
"We hardy pioneers plunging into the trackless waste of a new and unexplored country never eat but one meal a day," said Jack. "And that's always raw meat—b'ar-meat, generally."
"Well," said Ollie, "I don't see any b'ar-meat, or even prairie-chicken-meat. Why didn't you hit the prairie-chicken, Uncle Jack?"
"I'm not used to shooting at such small game," answered Jack, solemnly. "My kind of game is b'ar—b'ar and other varmints."
Just then we passed a house, and down a little way from it, close to the road, was a well.
"Here's a good place to have dinner," said Jack; so we drove out by the side of the road and stopped.
"If I'm to be cook," said Jack to me, "then you've got to take care of the horses and do all the outside work. I'll be cook; you'll be rancher. That's what we'll call you—rancher. Rancher, feed the horses and look out for hoss-thieves and sich like cut-throats."
I unhitched the horses, tied them behind the wagon, and gave them some oats and corn in the feed-box. The pony I fed in the big tin pail near by. The grass beside the road was so dry, and it was so windy, that we decided that it was not safe to build a fire out-doors, so Jack cooked[Pg 1020] pancakes over the oil-stove inside. These with some cold meat he handed out to Ollie and me as we sat on the wagon-tongue, while he sat on the dash-board. We were half-way through dinner when we heard a peculiar whine, followed by a low bark, in the wagon, and then Snoozer leaped out, stretched himself, and began to wag his tail so fast that it looked exactly like a whirling feather duster. We fed him on pancakes, and he ate so many that if Jack had not fried some more we'd have certainly gone hungry.
"I told you he was a true tramp," said Jack. "Just see his appetite."
After we had finished, and the horses had grazed about on the dry grass some time, we started on. We hoped to reach a little lake which we saw marked on the map, called Lake Lookout, for the night camp; so we hurried along, it being a good distance ahead. All the afternoon we were passing between either great fields where the wheat had been cut, leaving the stubble, or beside long stretches of prairie. There were a few houses, many of them built of sod. Not much happened during the afternoon. Ollie followed the example of Snoozer, and curled up on the bed and had a long nap. We saw a few prairie-chickens, but did not try to shoot any of them. The pony trotted contentedly behind. Just before night I rode her ahead looking for the lake. I found it to be a small one, perhaps a half-mile wide, scarcely below the level of the prairie, and generally with marshy shores, though on one side the beach was sandy and stony, with a few stunted cottonwood-trees, and here I decided we would camp. I went back and guided the Rattletrap to the spot. Soon Jack had a roaring fire going from the dry wood which Ollie had collected. I fed the horses and turned them loose, and they began eagerly on the green grass which grew on the damp soil near the lake. The pony I picketed with a long rope and a strap around one of her forward ankles, between her hoof and fetlock, as we scarcely felt like trusting her all night. Snoozer got up for his supper, and after that stretched himself by the fire and blinked at it sleepily. The rest of us did much the same. After a while Ollie said:
"I think that bed in the wagon looks pretty narrow for two. How are three going to sleep in it?"
"I don't think three are going to sleep in it," said Jack.
"Where are you going to sleep, then, Uncle Jack?"
Jack laughed. "I think," he said, "that the rancher and the cook will sleep in the wagon and let you sleep under the wagon. Nothing makes a boy grow like sleeping rolled up in a blanket under a wagon. You'll be six inches taller if you do it every night till we get back."
"Well, I don't think so," said Ollie, just a little alarmed at the prospect. "I'd prefer to sleep in the wagon. Maybe what Grandpa Oldberry said about wild animals is so. You say you like to shoot 'em, so you stay outside and do it—I don't."
At last it was arranged that Ollie and I should sleep inside and Jack under the wagon. We were surprised to find how early we were ready for bed. The long ride and the fresh air had given us an appetite for sleep. So we soon turned in, the dog staying outside with Jack.
"Good-night, Uncle Jack," called Ollie, as we put out the lantern and covered up in the narrow bed. "Look out for painters."
"WHAT'S THAT NOISE?"
I was almost asleep when Ollie shook me, and whispered, "What's that noise?"
I listened, and heard a regular, hollow, booming sound, something like the very distant discharge of cannon.
"It's the horses walking on the ground—always sounds that way in the night," I answered.
Again I was almost asleep when Ollie took hold of my arm, and said, "What's that?"
I once more listened, and recognized a peculiar creaking noise as that made by the horses cropping off the grass. I explained to Ollie, and then dropped off sound asleep. I don't know how long it was, but after some time I was again roused up by a nervous shake.
"Listen to that," whispered Ollie. "What can it be?"
I sat up cautiously and listened. It was a strange, rattling, unearthly sound which I could not account for any better than Ollie.
"It's a bear," he whispered. "I heard them make that noise at the park back home."
I was puzzled, and concluded that it must be some wild animal. I took down one of the guns, crept softly to the front end of the wagon, raised the flap, and looked out. The wind was still, and the night air met my face with a cool, damp feeling. The moon had just risen and the lake was like silver. I could see the horses lying asleep like dark mounds. But the mysterious noise kept up, and even grew louder. I grasped the gun firmly, and let myself cautiously out of the front end of the wagon. Then I climbed back in less softly and hung up the gun.
"Wh-what is it?" asked Ollie, in a faint whisper.
"It's your eloquent uncle Jack snoring," I said. "He's one of Grandpa Oldberry's sim'lar varmints."
It seemed to George that he had not been in bed an hour before he heard, in the gray glimmer of dawn, Billy's voice crying:
"Chris'mus, Marse George, Chris'mus! an' jes listen to dem niggers singin' under de winder!" Although a sound sleeper, George always waked quickly, and in an instant he recognized the Christmas melody that floated upward from the ground outside. A dozen or so of the field hands were marching around the house just as the first faint grayness of the Christmas day appeared, and singing, in their rich, sweet, untrained voices, a song with the merry refrain,
"White folks, black folks, Chris'mus am heah,
An' Chris'mus comes but oncet a year,
An' dis is Chris'mus mawnin'!"
Sounds showed that the house was stirring. Laurence Washington, as the master, had to dress and go down stairs to give the singers the treat they expected. Betty got up and dressed herself at the first sound, and, tapping at George's door, called softly, "Merry Christmas, George!" Nobody could sleep much after that, and soon after sunrise everybody was up, and "Merry Christmas" resounded through the whole house. The negroes were most vociferous, as this was their favorite holiday, and no work, except the feeding of the stock and the cutting of wood, was to be done for several days—that is, as long as the backlog on the Christmas fire remained unconsumed. The putting of this log on the fire was an annual ceremony, that George thought most amusing. The English officers thought so too, and watched it with the greatest interest. Before breakfast was served, when all the guests were assembled in the hall, Uncle Manuel, the butler, who was very tall and very black, and who wore, on great occasions, a pair of scarlet satin knee-breeches that had once belonged to Laurence Washington, appeared, and announced, with a condescending smile, that "de boys" had come with the backlog.
Amid much grinning and shoving and jostling and chuckling four stalwart negro men walked in the house carrying a huge log, which was placed at the back of the great fireplace, upon the tall iron fire-dogs. It was of unseasoned black gum, a wood hard to burn at all times, and this particular log had been well soaked in a neighboring swamp. It was the privilege of the negroes to select the backlog, and although the masters and mistresses knew perfectly well that everything was done to make it as noncombustible as possible, the plantation joke was to pretend that it was as dry as a bone and would burn like tinder.
"We fotch you a mighty fine backlorg dis time, mistis," grinned the head man. "Hit gwi' bu'n same like light-wood." At which Mrs. Washington looked grave, as she was expected to look, while a general guffaw went around among the negroes.
"I spect we ain' gwi' to have no holiday 'tall ef we has to go ter wuk as soon as dis heah lorg b'un up," chuckled another.
"'Tain' gwi' lars' mo'en fer Christmas day!" chorussed the others standing near by.
"I think I saw a black-gum log soaking in the swamp a few days ago," said Laurence, smiling at the grinning faces before him: but there was a chorus immediately:
"Naw, suh; dis lorg ain' never had a drap o' water on it, an' we-all's been dryin' it fer a whole mont'." The log was then steaming like a tea-kettle, and the negroes yah-yahed with delight at the ready acceptance of their ruse.
"Very well, then," cried Laurence Washington; "you can all have holiday until this log is burned out, and if I am not mistaken it will last the week through!"
Immediately after breakfast horses were brought out, and the great coach, and several gigs and chaises, to take a party to old Pohick Church. There was to be a service, however, on the Bellona, and the "church flag" was flying from her peak. Admiral Vernon invited George to go with him on board the ship. They went to the landing, where the captain's gig awaited them. On board the Bellona everything was as clean as hands could make it, the ship was dressed, and the men, being excused from work that day, were in their Sunday clothes and prepared for their holiday.
The service, performed by the chaplain, was held upon the gun-deck. Four hundred sailors, in spotless clothing, and each with a sprig of mistletoe in his glazed hat, were assembled, seated on capstan-bars, which made improvised benches. In front of them their officers were assembled, the captain at their head, while in front of the officers were the Admiral and his guests. Never had George seen a more beautiful and reverent service. The sailors were reminded of their homes in green England, far away, and every heart was softened by the recollection. The officers needed no reminder of their families and friends at home, and all felt drawn together in sympathy at their common separation from those dearest to them.
After the service the Admiral took George over the ship, showing him all the beauty and strength of her. The boy gazed with wonder and delight at her trim yards, her immaculate decks, and at the rows of menacing guns in her batteries. Until then he had strongly inclined to the army, but in the first flush of his new enthusiasm he longed to be a naval officer. There were several midshipmen of his own age on board, to whom the Admiral introduced him, and George yearned, boy fashion, to wear a smart uniform like theirs, and to carry a midshipman's dirk. He said little; his enthusiasms were all of that silent kind which burn the more furiously because their blaze is concealed. But the moment he reached the house, after leaving the ship, he went straight to his brother Laurence's study, and marched in with this bold announcement,
"Brother Laurence, I want to serve in the King's navy."
Laurence looked up smiling at George's earnest face, in which a fixed purpose was plainly seen.
"I should have preferred the army for you," responded Laurence. "But if a youngster will serve in the King's navy, in the King's navy he must serve."
"And will you get me my warrant?" eagerly asked George.
"The fact is," cautioned Laurence, "I have a midshipman's warrant offered me for you at this very time. Admiral Vernon has the privilege of nominating a midshipman on the Bellona, and some days ago, in speaking of your arrival, he asked me, as my old friend, if it would be agreeable to my family to appoint you in his Majesty's naval service. I told him I had not yet consulted with Madam Washington, but I had no doubt whatever that it would be highly agreeable to her, and the Admiral assured me that it would be at my service at any time."
George stood perfectly breathless with surprise. His first thought was that surely he was the most fortunate boy in the world. At that moment there was a knock at the door and Admiral Vernon entered.
"Ah, Admiral!" cried Laurence, "you see before you a very happy lad. He is overjoyed at the notion of entering the naval service."
"It would be a thousand pities to lose so fine a fellow from the King's navy," said the Admiral, smiling. George wished to thank him, but when he tried to speak he felt a choking sensation, albeit he was so happy. It was so exactly what he wanted at that very time; and how few there are who get what they want before the wish for it has departed!
SHE WAS THE STATELIEST BEAUTY OF A SHIP HE HAD EVER SEEN.
All the rest of that day George felt as if he were walking on air. He made plans for his whole life ahead, and already saw himself an admiral. He thought it would not be right to speak of this beautiful plan for him to any one until his mother knew it, and so he would give no hint to Betty, or even tell it, as he longed to do, to Billy. But when in his room in the afternoon, before the Christmas dinner, Rattler jumped upon him and licked his hands, George could not forbear whispering to him, "Good dog, your master will soon be a midshipman!" He had gone to his room to carry out his intention of reading every day something out of a useful book; but his heart was too full to read, and his book lay unopened while he sat before the fire in a happy dream, slowly passing Rattler's silky ears through his hand. From his chair he could see through his window the handsome frigate lying motionless in the stream. Some of the men were dancing on the fok'sle to the sound of a fiddle and tambour played by two of the crew. In George's eyes, infatuated as he was with the navy, she was the stateliest beauty of a ship he had ever seen, and he thought every man on her must be altogether happy.
At five o'clock there was a grand Christmas dinner. The ladies wore their gayest gowns, the officers were in full uniform, and the other gentlemen present were in all the splendor of velvet coats and breeches and ruffled shirts. There was much laughter and many toasts, and at the end of the dinner Uncle Manuel, gorgeous in his scarlet silk breeches, entered, bearing aloft, on a huge platter, a plum-pudding blazing with blue flumes, and with sprigs of mistletoe stuck in it. Afterwards, in the hall, came off the ceremony of placing the branch of mistletoe on the lantern that hung from the ceiling. Then there was great jollity and a merry scramble, for, according to the hearty custom of the time, any lady caught under the mistletoe could be kissed by any gentleman who caught her. George and William Fairfax secretly longed to act the mannish part and join in the sport, but both felt quite overcome with bashfulness at the idea, and only watched the gay doings from afar. Not so Betty, who quite assumed the young lady, and who not only treated William Fairfax as if he had been an infant, but gave herself lofty airs towards George, whom she had heretofore regarded with the greatest respect. Then, soon after dark, the coaches of the neighboring gentry drove up with the guests. In the hall the negro fiddlers were in great force, and sawed the air from eight o'clock in the evening until daylight next morning. Besides the minuet and rigadoon there were jigs and reels, and at last everybody, young and old, danced Sir Roger de Coverley, while the candles sputtered in their sockets and the chickens crowed outside. George danced all night with the greatest enjoyment, not finding any difficulty in obtaining partners, all of the ladies being willing to dance with so handsome a stripling. Among the guests who came from a distance was a remarkably pretty young girl of about George's age, Miss Martha Dandridge. With her George danced Sir Roger de Coverley, going down the middle swinging partners, and making the grand march to the music of the crashing fiddles and dancing feet. When at last it was over, and in the gray dawn the coaches and chaises rattled off, and the ball was over, George thought it was the finest ball he had ever seen in his life.
For a week gayety and jollity prevailed at Mount Vernon. There were fox-hunts, when the huntsmen assembled by daybreak, and the winding of the horns, and the hounds with tongues tuned like bells, echoed across the river and among the hills; and after a day's hard riding there would be a jolly dinner and dancing afterwards. Then there was a great party aboard of the Bellona, where the decorations were all of flags and warlike emblems. George's enthusiasm for the navy did not decrease in the least, but rather gained by being in company with so many officers, and feeling obliged to keep his delightful secret of a promised commission to himself. He became friends with the midshipmen, and in his heart he enjoyed more his visits to the cockpit, with all its discomforts, than the luxury of the Admiral's cabin and the comfort of the ward-room. He was never weary of listening to the officers[Pg 1023] telling of their adventures; and his expressive young face, with the blood coming and going like a girl's, showed his overpowering interest in what he heard. No real doubt of his mother's consent entered his mind; and if the thought occasionally crossed him that her consent must be asked and might not be given, he dismissed it, as all young and ardent natures dismiss unpleasant possibilities.
Among the quieter pleasures which he had at this time was that of making friends with little Mildred, the two-year-old daughter to which his brother and sister were so devoted. They had lost three other children; and in a time of the utmost sadness after their deaths, when Laurence Washington realized his own delicate constitution, and the chances that none of his children might live, he had made his will, giving Mount Vernon and all he had, if he should leave no children, to George. But this little one bade fair to grow up into a healthy and happy child.
Betty, who was by nature a little mother, was never more at home than when she had charge of the child, and could take as good care of her as any grown person. George, on the contrary, although his heart went out to the little girl, regarded her as a piece of china that might be broken by touching her. But Mildred took a violent fancy to him, and was never so happy as when carried about in his strong young arms, or sitting on his knee while he made rabbits out of his handkerchief and pictures out of the shadows on the wall, and was ready to do anything and to give her anything that would amuse her. He had never been thrown with a child of that age before, and regarded every instance of her baby cleverness as the most extraordinary thing in the world, to the amusement of his brother and sister.
The year before George had found William Fairfax a delightful boyish companion, but this year, with his new experiences, and the company of the young officers on the Bellona, George unconsciously neglected him. But William, who had a sweet and forgiving nature, showed no ill-humor over it, and said to himself: "Never mind; when the ship goes away, and all the visitors, George will again find me good company."
And such was the case. On the morning that the Bellona loosed her topsail, as a sign that she was about to trip her anchor, George felt utterly forlorn. He wondered how he should get through the time until he could go to Ferry Farm, and, securing his mother's consent, join the ship before she sailed from the Chesapeake. So eager was he that Laurence, in the goodness of his heart, had ordered, at his own expense, George's uniforms to be made in Alexandria, and he was given his side-arms from the stores on board the Bellona. George in fancy already saw himself Midshipman Washington. Admiral Vernon, on parting, had said some kind words to him which sank deep in his heart. "I shall look forward with pleasure to your joining, Mr. Washington," he said. "It is just such youngsters as you that we want in the navy."
On a bleak January day the Bellona went out. George watched from the shore as long as he could see her, and sighed as he turned back to the house. On his way back he was joined by William Fairfax.
"George," said William, diffidently, "I am afraid we are not as good friends as we were last year."
"Why?" asked George, in surprise. He had almost forgotten William's existence in the last few busy and exciting days, and he had felt so immeasurably older than he that companionship seemed out of the question.
"Because you do not seem to care for me any longer."
George stopped, and his heart and his conscience smote him. William was his sister's cousin and his brother's guest, and he had been neglected by both George and Betty; for Betty had grown about ten years, in her own estimation, since dancing with officers and being allowed to come to the first table. George thought this rather ridiculous of Betty; but was it not equally ridiculous of him to lord it over William, as if there were twenty years between them?
"I see how it is, William," said George, after a pause. "I dare say I have often made a fool of myself in this last week, talking to men as if I were their equal, and to boys of my own age as if I were a man. But, although you may laugh at me, I do feel a great deal older in the last two months—I suppose because I have been with men like Lord Fairfax and Lance, and then Admiral Vernon and his officers. But if you will be friends again with me I will promise not to treat you as I have done, and I acknowledge it was not very gentlemanly of me."
The house seemed strangely quiet after all the company had left, and there were no more routs and balls and romping and hunting. Snow had fallen, and George and Betty were waiting for good weather before attempting the journey back to Ferry Farm. George spoke to Betty about William, acknowledging that he had been as much to blame as she; and Betty, being of a generous nature, felt ashamed of herself, with the result that William enjoyed the latter part of the time much more than the first. But he was destined to have one more clash with George before their friendship became so firmly cemented that it lasted during the whole of their lives.
They gave him a chest full of wonderful tools when he got to be six years old,
And he made up his mind to go forth in the world and become a carpenter bold.
"I've gimlets and saws, and hammers and nails, I've jack-planes and awls," said he;
"I've rulers and screws. How can I refuse a carpenter-man for to be?
"The first thing to learn is to hammer a nail." And he got out his hammer and tacks,
And he hammered, and hammered, and hammered away till he'd used up a half-dozen packs.
He nailed up the doors, and he nailed down the floors, and he nailed 'em again and again,
And he made no mistake till he hammered a tack through the nursery window-pane.
Then he took up his saw, and he tried its teeth. "I must now learn to saw," he said;
And he sawed in two some bureau drawers, and he sawed off the legs of his bed.
And he sawed on the lock of the nursery door till the teeth of the tool grew rough,
And then he sat down and remarked to himself, "Well, I guess I have sawn enough.
"I will now try the awl and the gimlet too, and learn what different kinds
Of holes they make—for they're not alike"—and he bored on the outside blinds.
He bored six holes in the shutter slats, and then made a change again,
And tried his luck on the bureau top with the beautiful two-inch plane.
And then, poor boy! some one came in, and oh, what a fuss was raised!
They spanked that boy for trying to learn when he thought he'd be surely praised;
And his father was mad and his mother was mad, and even his sister cried,
Because he'd taken her desk apart to see what there was inside;
And the baby, too, was as wrathy as they, because for a little while
He'd used the ruler to find how wide was the dear little fellow's smile.
And that's why Bob—the poor little chap!—has changed every future plan,
And is going to be a policeman bold instead of a carpenter-man.
Carlyle Smith.
The C. and V. Railroad half encircles Riverdale on the south and west sides. For the most part it runs along a narrow shelf on the mountain-side many feet above the village, but toward the southwest is the valley of the little Jewell River, and this is crossed by a long, narrow embankment and a high bridge, where the track curves sharply northward.
A few years ago an important part of the traffic over this line consisted of long trains from the far West loaded entirely with hogs. "Earle's excursions," the boys called them, in allusion to the famous pork-packer to whom they were consigned. One afternoon—it was in midsummer—a train of thirty-eight cars and a caboose started from the summit, five miles above Riverdale. The grade is very steep, and the train soon attained a terrific speed as it thundered down the mountain.
No one can tell the cause of the accident, but just as the train struck the embankment at Riverdale it doubled up in the middle like a startled snake, and five cars were forced out of the train and went down the embankment, carrying rails, sleepers, and a foot or two of the road-bed. Fortunately none of the trainmen was on these cars, so no one was injured. But as the cars went crashing down they broke in pieces like kindling-wood. Many hogs were killed and injured, but it is certain that about four hundred large, able-bodied, hungry, half-crazy hogs were let loose upon the outskirts of the lovely village of Riverdale.
Without a moment's hesitation the invaders began their work of destruction. Near the foot of the embankment was the cozy parsonage, and the Rev. Mark Sanders was at work in his garden when the accident occurred. Startled by the crash, he stood staring at the splintering cars until one of them brought up almost against his garden fence, and a dozen screeching hogs were trying to squeeze through the gate together. Then he struck out valiantly with his sharp hoe, and thought he drove all back, and locked the gate. But when he turned about, three hungry hogs were feasting on his early potatoes, and they led him such a chase that he heartily wished that every hog in the world had been in that herd which in ancient times ran violently down a steep place into the sea and were choked.
Meanwhile the main body of the army moved toward the centre of the village, sending out foraging excursions to every garden and lawn, unmindful of shrill threats or fluttering aprons. On the bank of the Jewell River stood a little photograph saloon, and there Miss Sally Graham, for twenty years the village dressmaker, was having her picture taken. It was a critical moment. The photographer's head was underneath the green cloth behind the camera.
"Please turn your head just a trifle toward the left, and look a little more cheerful, Miss Graham," said the artist.
Miss Sally turned her head so that she looked toward the open door. She was just saying "besom" for the last time when two large hogs, one of them as black as Erebus, scrambled into the room and came directly toward her.
"Oh, horrors!" shrieked Miss Sally, jumping up and whirling wildly about in search of a way of escape. She rushed into the dark room and slammed the door, overturning a bottle of some malodorous compound. There she stood amid the horrible smells till, after much squealing, shouting, and crashing of glass, the artist bade her come forth again.
By this time the hogs began to arrive at the centre of the village. Those who saw them coming were first amused, and then amazed, and then alarmed. Several of them climbed up four steps to the piazza of Boynton's fruit-store, and began to eat a bunch of bananas and other fruit exposed for sale. Oscar Boynton's wrath was great, his arm was mighty, and his weapon was an iron poker; but all these produced no effect whatever until he hooked the end of the poker into the nostrils of the hogs, and so persuaded them to turn aside.
The situation was in truth growing serious. The hogs began to collect in large numbers on Main Street. They drove the people into the houses, especially where the men were not at home. They spread across Depot Street until they came to Prospect Street. This was known as "Ladies' Row," because so many spinsters and widows lived there. It was the street of flower gardens, and all summer long it was a glorious rivalry of violets, pansies, daisies, roses, asters, and every sweet and beautiful blossom. Into this paradise the hogs entered, and began to root up and destroy.
Toward the lower part of Main Street stood the grocery-store of Mr. Heman Hemenway, Chairman of the Board of Village Trustees. Trade being very dull, Mr. Hemenway sat dozing behind the counter dreaming of better times.
Suddenly quick footsteps tapped along the knotty floor. Mr. Hemenway sprang up and put on the expectant smile with which he greeted every customer.
It was Miss Placentia Hannum, of Ladies' Row, who stood before him. Her face was flushed, her dark eyes blazed with indignation, and her voice was pitched on a very high note as she exclaimed, "Mr. Hemenway! aren't you going to do anything?"
"Do—do—anything? What—?" stammered the chairman of the trustees.
"Don't you know?" cried Miss Placentia, with an eloquent gesture of disdain. "A whole train of hogs has run off the embankment, and they are just pouring into the village, thousands and thousands of them, and now they are on our street tearing up my beautiful flowers."
Mr. Hemenway was a man who intended to do his duty, and he went out to the street at once. He was met by a deputation of hogs of such numbers that he believed that Miss Hannum's statement was literally true. He also began to feel that here was a condition of things not provided for in his Manual for Village Officers. He saw the hogs swarming down the street. He saw the people retreating into their houses after disastrous conflict with the enemy. Yet he kept bravely on up the street as far as the hay-scales, and there he met his fate.
Two hogs saw Mr. Hemenway approaching, and they immediately gave him their entire attention. They were the humorists of the herd, and they played with Mr. Hemenway. When he went toward the right, they gently swayed in the same direction. He went toward the left, and they imitated him, smiling very widely. He stopped, and the hogs stood patiently before him.
"Whey!" cried Mr. Hemenway, waving his hand.
Apparently the hogs were startled by so harsh a word, and they fell back a few paces. Then they darted forward so suddenly that Mr. Hemenway nearly fell over his own heels, and when he recovered himself he stood with his feet far apart. This was an opportunity not to be lost. One hog ran between Mr. Hemenway's feet and upset him. He came down just in time to take a short ride on the back of the other, and then rolled off into the street. It seemed to him that a hundred hogs gathered around him in a moment.[Pg 1025] With the energy of despair he sprang to his feet, ran hatless up the steps of the harness-shop, and mounted the very lifelike wooden horse which the harness-maker kept there as a sign.
Across the street a door was cautiously opened, and the head and shoulders of Gran'sir Pease appeared.
"Heman!" he cried, in a shrill, quavering voice, "go 'n' git the ol' Fo'th o' July cahnern and shewt 'em. It used to be 'round thar under Simon Hyle's shed." But this did not seem to Hemenway a feasible plan, especially as he knew that the "cahnern" had been at the bottom of the mill-pond for three years.
A horse came rattling down the hill and across the mill bridge near the harness-shop. It was driven by Norris Wood, who had been out among the farms buying cattle for his meat market. He drove up to the harness-shop and hitched his horse. Three or four hogs stood in the way, but it seemed a very easy thing for Norris to set his great boots against them and send them sprawling along the ground. He looked so big and strong that Mr. Hemenway dismounted from the wooden horse.
"Well, Heman, what have you got here?" said Norris, widening his bushy whiskers with a beaming smile.
"Norris," said Mr. Hemenway, solemnly, "the village is overrun with hogs from a wrecked train, and I rely on you to drive 'em out. I give you full authority to do or take anything you want to."
"They've got pretty well started," said Norris, "but if I had a few good helpers I guess we could master them. Hi!" he continued, "here come the academy boys."
There were about twenty of them coming across the mill bridge. They were Riverdale Academy boys just out of school. They were on the double-quick, for they had seen the hogs, and felt sure there was fun ahead.
"'Arma virumque cano!' Come here, every one of you!" cried Norris, who was an old academy boy himself.
The boys immediately gathered around him, some of them, and Harry Burton in particular, inventing a great terror of the sniffing hogs.
"Norris! Oh, Norris!" he cried, "protect us from these wild beasts of the desert. Let me ride in safety upon your broad shoulders," and he made as if he would suit the action to the word.
"Quit your fooling," said Norris, sternly. "I want volunteers to drive these hogs out of the village. Every one who is willing to help, step out."
With a hilarious cheer the whole company stepped forward.
"Now," said Norris, "you see that pile of wood by the hay-scales? Every one of you go and get a stick."
In less than a minute every boy was armed with a stout cudgel and waiting for further orders.
Norris quickly scanned the crowd. "Julian Ross," he said, "you take six boys and stay here. Don't let a single hog get by you up the hill. Harry Burton, you take seven with you down to the bridge. Don't you let a hog pass over it into the lower village."
Julian and Harry selected their followers. "Friends, Romans, countrymen," cried Harry, "follow me!
"'Still is the story told
How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.'"
And they went down the street on the double-quick.
"All the rest of you come with me to Prospect Street," commanded Norris.
They arrived at the scene of destruction none too soon. As they ran down the street they were greeted with tearful pleadings by the ladies to save their gardens from utter ruin.
At length they outran the hogs and faced around to drive them back. The boys formed a line across the road, and beat them unmercifully with their cudgels. "Hit 'em on the snout every time," said Norris.
And now began a high and piercing symphony which mingled and harmonized with a blood-curdling melody from Main Street. Norris, like the great Cæsar, was everywhere at one time. His methods were very interesting. He had persuasive powers with his big boots which caused a hog to point to the sky with four feet at a time. He was very dexterous in seizing a hog by a hind-leg and casting it out of a flower-bed into the road. And just as an enormous hog was about to root up Miss Placentia Hannum's rose-bush, Norris calmly took the animal by the ear, and led it squealing to the street.
At last the hogs were beaten back and driven across to Main Street. There they mingled with the others slowly retreating before Julian Ross and Harry Burton and their followers. The boys were nearly exhausted, but Harry encouraged them by shouting, "Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley on!" and like historic exhortations.
The hogs were now all brought together, filling the street in a solid mass. And there they stuck in spite of every effort to induce them to move on. Gran'sir Pease advised Norris to "slarter 'em" where they stood. It was time for a stroke of Napoleonic genius or the day would be lost.
Norris unhitched his horse and jumped into the wagon. "Boys!" he cried, "hold 'em right where they are till you see me again. Go on, Bill." And he galloped away up Depot Street, and disappeared under the small railroad bridge.
Ten long minutes the boys waited and shouted and fought the obstinate hogs. Then Norris was seen coming far up Main Street. He drove down to the hogs and turned his cart around. In the wagon was a box, and out of it Norris shovelled some yellow stuff into the road. The hogs nearest to him saw, smelled, hustled, and gobbled. In an instant others followed, pushing and upsetting each other. Norris drove on and cast out more meal, and in a minute the whole rushing, squirming, squealing herd glided away like the mill-pond when the dam broke. They followed the trail of corn meal up the street, and in a short time they were all safely enclosed in Norris's cattle-yard.
Then the boys carried their sticks right shoulder shift, and came down the street singing, "When Johnny comes marching home again."
Broiled trout washed down with an ice-cold draught of spring water is not the worst supper in the world, and when you are out in the woods cozily perched on a log near a roaring camp-fire of crackling birch, with a ravenous appetite, it tastes as good as a dinner served at the Waldorf in New York. But your trout must be cooked by Bill to be enjoyed, for Bill owns no superior in that line. Bill is a hunter, not for market, but a sportsman for sport, and his delight is to guide some gentleman through the forests of Maine, or, as he terms it, his territory.
One fall he and I started up in the Moose-head Lake region, and slowly worked down over the trails, until one evening we found ourselves near the head of the Cupsuptic River, on the Rangeleys. We had fairly good sport on our way, bagging more or less game, with many a long and weary chase on a deer trail. When we struck the river it was too late to make for a large camp that lay some eleven miles below on the lake, so we put up a lean-to, and went into quarters for the night. Bill got out the lines, and in a short while he had some fine trout broiling, so that though all our provisions were exhausted, we had made a fine supper of the trout.
After supper we lighted our pipes, and throwing an extra log or two on the fire, we lounged around, recalling different adventures. It was but a short time before Bill got off on to some of his own experiences, and it was then that I relapsed into silence, and puffed my pipe with that peaceful enjoyment that comes to a lover of nature and sport. I lay admiring his magnificent physique, my admiration doubled by the knowledge of the wonderful strength that lay in his powerful muscles.
"Well, boy," said Bill at last, with a yawn, "it's gettin' kind er cold; seems to me it's er bit more than frosty. Had to crack ice down on the stream to ketch them trout. Guess it'll freeze tight by to-morrow, and with a little fall of snow we might sight a buck's tracks 'tween here and the camp below. I rather think we'd better turn in now. Wrap yourself good or you'll be stiff in the mornin'."
Raking the ashes into the fire, and banking it a little with some damp logs, we rolled up in our blankets and went to sleep.
I do not know what time it was, but it seemed to me I had no more than closed my eyes when I was suddenly awakened by the sounds of a fierce struggle, with a great amount of low choking, growling, and subdued muttering. I sprang up, forgetting my blanket, which tripped me, and nearly pitched me headlong into the fire. When I finally reached my feet and saw the cause of the row, I was more than amazed. There was Bill hugging and being hugged for dear life by a good-sized bear. It was nip and tuck, and seizing my rifle, I danced around trying to get a shot at the bear. Bill caught sight of me, and cried out in jerks: "Boy—I'll never—forgive you if you kill him. It's the first,—chance I've had to strangle—a bear, and, by gum, I'm er-goin' to strangle—this one!"
I could appreciate that sort of a desire on Bill's part well enough, but nevertheless it was dangerous work. The bear's claws had already played havoc with his clothing, and his legs were bleeding in more than one place. Back and forth they struggled, one of the bear's fore-paws around Bill's neck and the other around his waist. Bill had the bear by the throat with one hand, and with the other held his head away to stop him from biting.
Suddenly they tripped on the edge of the slope that led in a gentle descent to the stream below. I jumped forward this time, determined to put an end to it, but before I could reach them, down they went, rolling over and over the sloping ground, fighting away like mad, until, with a crash, they struck the thin ice on the stream and plunged out of sight. It was a bright moonlight night, and the hole they made in the ice looked black and ugly. I jumped down the bank, and seeing the roots of an old tree running out near the spot, I made for it. Bill came up by this time, and I was hoping that they had separated, but they were hugging and fighting as hard as ever. I crawled out on the roots and yelled to Bill to let me settle it.
"If yer tetch him, boy, I'll never forgive yer. I'm not done yet by a long shot, and I'll down the critter if it takes all night."
When Bill talked that way I know he was game to the finish and his blood was up, so I ran up the bank and got my rifle, and sitting on a log near the water, I watched the fun, altogether too serious for fun, I thought. Their struggles were fearful, and I screamed, and would certainly have fired at the bear had it not been for the fear of hitting Bill. By this time they had worked over to the roots, and then I realized what Bill was up to. He got one arm around them to brace himself, and with the other clutching the bear's throat, he slowly and by main force pushed those fearful red gaping jaws away from him. Slowly and with almost superhuman strength he pushed the head further away until finally he forced it under water. I could see the claws of the animal's fore-paw dig into Bill's shoulder. I could see his violent struggles as he strove to get his head above water, but Bill held him under. It was a frightful but a grand sight. The moon lit up the scene, and through the steam rising from the struggling pair Bill's grim-set jaws and determined face showed the true hunter in the height of his glory.
The fight grew weaker and weaker, and then all was still except the quick panting of Bill. At last with a deep sigh his chest relaxed, his hand gave up his prey, and a few bubbles showed where the bear sank. Slowly Bill made his way to where I was standing, and putting out his hand, said,
"Thank ye, boy; you had nerve to obey me, and that makes a good hunter."
He was pretty nigh exhausted and badly clawed. While I helped him to patch up his wounds temporarily I learned that the bear, evidently attracted by the trout, had sneaked into camp during the night and stumbled over Bill, who grabbed him. The next morning we fished him out of the water, and found him a large specimen and a foe well worth letting alone.
Hubert Earl.
Every patriotic American is proud of our famous White Squadron, illustrating as it does to all the navies of the world the perfection of ship-building, motive power, ordnance and personnel. Although two or three other navies have a much longer list of men-of-war in their registers, there is not a foreign power that can show, class for class, anything superior in battle-ships, cruisers, and coast-defense vessels to those which float under "Old Glory," and it is not making a rash claim when it is asserted that in a competitive exhibition the laurel wreaths would in all probability be hung upon the mast-heads of the ships that belong to Uncle Sam.
And yet how weak and lowly in comparison was the birth of our navy!—but still a navy that even in its infancy humbled almost to degradation the strength and vanity and hauteur of that of the British, that mistress of the seas, against which for more than a century the most magnificently equipped and powerful fleets in Europe had hurled themselves, only to be beaten back from its "walls of oak," crushed and shattered.
On October 13, 1775, one hundred and twenty-one years ago, or nine months before the Declaration of Independence was signed, the representatives from the thirteen colonies authorized the building of two vessels, one to be armed with 14 guns and the other with 10 guns. When completed it was designed that these ships should escape through the English fleets blockading the coast, and then prey upon the commerce of the enemy. On October 30 Congress ordered the building of two additional cruisers, one to carry 36 guns and the other 20 guns. These measures so aroused the patriotic fire and zeal of hundreds of American seamen whose vessels were locked up in idleness in our seaports, owing to the embargo, that they petitioned Congress to provide ships and put them on board, so that they[Pg 1027] might go out against the enemy's vessels that tantalizingly kept watch before the approaches to our harbors. Appreciating the spirit of the petitioners, and realizing that a possible opportunity was offered them to deal a serious blow to the supremacy of the English along our line of coast, Congress ordered, on December 13 (or just two months, to the day, following the first authorization, for ship construction), the building of thirteen vessels of war, of which five were to carry 32 guns, five 28 guns, and three 24 guns.
Work was immediately commenced on this fleet; but as the builders demanded six months' time to complete them, Congress passed a law to purchase and arm suitable merchant-ships for immediate service. It cannot fail to interest the reader to give the names of the first vessels of the American navy. Among the many merchant-ships lying idle in the Eastern and Southern ports the following fourteen were selected by a committee, and, after being purchased, were armed with the number of guns set opposite their respective names: Ships—Alfred, 24; Columbus, 24. Brigs—Lexington, 16; Cabot, 16, Reprisal, 16; Andrea Doria, 14; Hampden, 14; Providence, 12. Schooners—Wasp, 8; Fly, 8. Sloops—Hornet, 10; Independence, 10; Sachem, 10, and Mosquito, 4.
Had the guns with which these vessels were armed been of uniform and suitable calibre, the odds in favor of the English men-of-war would still have been enormous; but when it is considered that the batteries of the ships were made up of every description of ordnance, from the antiquated Dutch cannon brought over by Peter Stuyvesant, to the ridiculously small and obsolete saluting-guns that had been preserved as relics on the public greens in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and other cities, the wonder grows that with such implements, served by men green to naval warfare, and mounted within lumbering merchant-ships, the stateliest frigates of the enemy were again and again beaten and captured, and the proud white ensign of old England lowered repeatedly to the flag whose motto was "Don't tread on me!"
The difficulty encountered by Congress in equipping, officering, and manning the little American fleet in the absence of arsenals and dock-yards, and when men trained to the service were not obtainable, finds only one parallel in history, when Alfred the Sailor King fitted out and conducted a fleet against the Danes one thousand years and more ago. But if system and order were at first lacking, patriotism compensated, and the old guns were served by men whose love of liberty breathed in the shot they hurled against their foes.
On December 22, 1775, Congress appointed Ezekiel Hopkins as commodore and commander-in-chief of the navy, and the following officers, all drawn from the merchant marine of the colonies, to serve as captains: Dudley Saltonstall, Abraham Whipple, Nicholas Biddle, and J. B. Hopkins. Leading the list of first lieutenants appointed on the same day, we find the immortal name of John Paul Jones, and in succession those of Rhodes Arnold, James Stanbury, Haysted Hacker, and Jonathan Pitcher. Next, under the head of second lieutenants, the records preserved in the Navy Department in Washington show the names of Benjamin Seabury, Joseph Olney, Elisha Warner, Thomas Weaver, and James McDougal, while the three third lieutenants appointed were John Fanning, Ezekiel Burroughs, and Daniel Vaughn.
Immediately after assuming command, Commodore Hopkins sailed, with the Alfred as his flag-ship, for a descent upon the English possession known as New Providence, and was accompanied to the West Indies by the Columbus, Cabot, Andrea Doria, Providence, Wasp, Fly, and Hornet. The expedition was successful, and the ships of the little flying squadron were loaded with captured stores and one hundred cannon, which latter were afterwards mounted on the American men-of-war under construction at the time. The commodore returned north, carrying back with him the English Governor of New Providence, and several other high officials of that colony. When within view of the Long Island shore three of the leading American vessels sighted and later on engaged the English frigate Glasgow and two brigs-of-war. After a spirited contest the latter surrendered, but the former escaped by a great display of seamanship.
The entire fleet with its prizes arrived safely at New London on April-fool day, 1776. This was the first and last naval command that Commodore Hopkins enjoyed; for, not acting with sufficient energy in refitting his fleet, Congress dropped him from the naval service.
In June, 1776, a marine corps was established, and Samuel Nichols was appointed to command it, with the rank of major. The junior officers consisted of nine captains, ten first and seven second lieutenants.
At the time that the Declaration of Independence was signed the thirteen vessels ordered to be constructed during the previous year were reported finished, and Congress assigned officers to them, as well as to other ships that had been captured from the enemy. The standing of the American navy when the Liberty Bell in the City of Brotherly Love pealed out the anthem of the free on July 4, 1776, is shown in the following, and the numerals attached to the names signify the number of guns with which they were armed: Washington, 32; Virginia, 28; Boston, 24; Warren, 32; Trumbull, 28; Randolph, 32; Raleigh, 32; Congress, 28; Effingham, 28; Delaware, 24; Reprisal, 16; Montgomery, 24; Lexington, 16; Hampden, 14; Andrea Doria, 14; Providence, 28; Providence (2d), 12; Alfred, 24; Cabot, 14; Sachem, 10; Independence, 10, and Fly, 8.
To the command of some of these vessels were ordered men who proved themselves heroes in many a notable encounter, and whose names will endure as long as this great republic lasts; but the two most prominent figures in the historical group are those of John Paul Jones, promoted to the rank of captain for bravery in battle and for services rendered to his country, and Nicholas Biddle, the brave old sea-lion, who recognized no odds, but who would engage a vastly superior enemy with the same readiness and confidence that he laid his vessel alongside of a sure prize.
A few words concerning four of these vessels will be found not to be devoid of unusual interest.
The Reprisal audaciously sailed across the Atlantic, being the first American vessel to visit Europe, and commenced a wild work of capture and destruction among the British merchant-ships in the Channel, right under the noses of their great fleets of war. Being joined a little later on by the Lexington, these two vessels, assisted by several prizes that they had armed, caused such havoc that rates of insurance on all English vessels were advanced twenty-five per cent. In the year 1778 the Reprisal foundered in a gale, and only the ship's cook was saved.
The Andrea Doria received the first foreign salute ever paid to an American man-of-war. Upon visiting St. Eustatins, the Dutch Governor greeted the vessel with a grand salvo from the fort; and this courtesy proved a very costly one for him, as his nation had not recognized the United States, and he therefore paid the penalty of his politeness by being dismissed from his high office.
The Randolph, on the night of March 7, 1778, engaged the British line-of-battle-ship Yarmouth, and while the fight was being gallantly conducted by Captain Biddle against a vastly superior foe, the Randolph, blew up. Out of 310 souls on board only four seamen were left alive, and these were picked up, four days later clinging to a piece of the wreck of their old ship.
One other vessel was ordered to be built by Congress during the year 1776, and that was a line-of-battle-ship of 74 guns, the name of which was to be America. This fine vessel was constructed at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but was not completed until the end of the Revolutionary struggle. She was then fitted out and presented, in the name of the United States, to Louis XVI. of France, as a mark of appreciation and gratitude by this republic, in whose cause he had so nobly and generously assisted.
It does not come within the scope of this story to tell of the gallant actions that took place between our modest vessels and the towering ships of England, but some measure of the great honors that we fought for and gained may be appreciated when it is known that American men-of-war made over 800 prizes at sea during the struggle for independence.
o not dream it was only in olden romance
That the knight and the hero were given their chance.
Nor think for a moment that history's page
Will be blank when it tells of our own passing age.
The deed waits the doer, the hour the man,
And he is the hero who does what he can.
Jim Langan was up there at Pittston the week
When the mine walls gave way. Then with fast-blanching cheek
To that black-yawning grave's mouth rushed women and men.
Their dearest were buried there. Sheep in a pen
Not so helpless, if any yet breathing were kept
To face death in the dark, as on surely it crept.
Men stood there, wives sobbed there, naught was there to do,
Till Langan stepped boldly the huddling crowd through.
"If the boys are alive, we must reach them. I'll see!
If I find a path, you can then follow me."
Over rough rocks and ruins, o'er falling débris,
He crawled and he pushed, with the blood dripping free
From torn hands and knees. In the dark, in the dole,
Jim Langan fought on to the desperate goal.
Above him the dusky roof shuddered and shook,
A menace each inch of the black way he took;
The foul air was stifling, the night wrapped him round
As he wormed his slow progress deep under the ground.
The great pillars sagging, his thick gasping breath—
A strife of the heart against threatening death—
Jim Langan fought on—there were men pent up there
In that tomb of the mine shaft, a prey to despair—
Fought on, and fought back, for the help that must save
Those poor prisoned men from a horrible grave.
The red line of valor is still on the earth;
The true and the fearless we prize at their worth.
And, lads, never dream that the heroes are gone,
That they only loomed up in the world's early dawn,
For Homer to sing, lest the world should forget.
The valiant man leads us, is king of us yet,
Redeeming our time from its strife after pelf
With the sacrifice laid on God's altar—himself.
1.—FORWARD BREAST STROKE.
2.—FLOATING.
3.—SCULLING BACKWARDS.
4.—SCULLING FORWARDS.
5.—OVERHAND STROKE—THE REACH.
6.—OVERHAND STROKE—THE START.
Although it is preferable to have some one to teach you how to swim, it is not absolutely necessary, and any one who has failed to learn as a youngster may, by following out the instructions here given, learn how to swim and float and dive by practising in the water all by himself.
One of the most important things for the beginner to have, of course, is confidence. He must not fear the water any more than a rider should fear his horse; on the other hand, he should not be overbold or reckless and attempt too many risks. The beginner should not go to a stream where there is a current, or in sea-water where there might be an undertow. He should choose a lake or a pond or, if at the sea-side, a bay; and he should stick at first pretty closely to shallow water. Salt water being so much more buoyant than fresh water, it is much easier to learn how to swim in the sea; in fact, if a man who has absolutely no knowledge of swimming will only keep control of his head, and retain his hands under water, he need never fear of drowning should he fall overboard into salt water. It is advisable, however, when first attempting to swim, to have some one on the bank near by who could come to your assistance should anything happen.
And now for the preliminary steps. First drive a stake into the bottom of the pond where the water is from three to four feet deep. Then take hold of the stake with both hands and stretch the body straight out on the surface of the water, with the back upward, of course. I might just as well say here as anywhere that the first thing to do when going into the water is to submerge the entire body, head included. In fact, it is a very good thing for timid people to go into shallow water and put their heads under the water and open their eyes, for this very soon gives them confidence in themselves. The head should always be wet, too, because otherwise, with all the body under water and only the head in the sunlight, the blood is apt to rush upwards and eventually cause a head-ache.
FIG. 7.—DETAIL OF BREAST STROKE.
To return to the stake. The first motions to be learned are those of the legs, and they may be divided into three parts. The first motion of the legs is to draw them[Pg 1030] up, with the knees bending outward, and the feet kept as closely together as possible. The second motion is to extend the feet outward and move the legs backward, and the third motion is to draw the feet quickly together, extended as far out from the body as possible. These motions are clearly shown in Fig. 7, and they are also displayed in illustration No. 1. This photograph was taken while the arms were going back and the legs were starting to come up.
It will take the novice some time before he can master these motions absolutely, and unless he is careful he will never master them at all; and although he will learn to know how to swim, he will not swim correctly, nor will he be able to get the greatest advantage out of the labor expended. To acquire this leg motion correctly a beginner should go through this kicking action twenty or thirty times, counting one, two, three, as he does so, and keeping his mind all the time on the theory of the thing. Then he should come out of the water and rest a few minutes, and then go back again to the stake and go through the exercises again.
After the leg motion has been thoroughly mastered, the proper use of the arms must be learned. It is a common fallacy that the beginning of the stroke in swimming consists of holding the hands in front of the face palm to palm. This is the wrong way. The hands should be held flat out, thumb knuckle to thumb knuckle and forefinger to forefinger, under the chin and almost touching the breast (see Fig. 7.). As soon as the stroke is begun the palms should be turned a little outward so as to assist in moving the body forward. The hands should not be separated to any great extent until they have been pushed out almost to arm's length, and when they are brought backwards in the stroke they should not be allowed to pass much behind the line of the shoulders.
A good way to learn the arm stroke is to kneel in shallow water, or to lie across a plank in the water, and practise it. The most difficult part of the early stages of swimming is to learn how to combine the stroke of the arms with the stroke of the legs. It is absolutely necessary that the arms and legs should work in harmony, and therefore the following rules should be strictly observed:
1. When the hands are being thrust out forward, the legs should be coming together, as in the third part of the leg motion described above.
2. When the arms are straight out in front the legs should be straight out behind.
3. When the arms are passing back in the act of performing the stroke, the legs are being drawn up.
The beginner should not try to swim any long distance at first. As soon as he finds that he can keep his body floating easily on the water by means of the strokes he has learned, he should aim to perfect his form rather than aim to cover long distances. The stroke which has just been described is technically called the forward breast stroke, and although there are a great many other kinds of strokes in swimming, this is the easiest of all strokes to learn, and the one that is most generally used, except, perhaps, for racing.
One of the most common of the fancy strokes is the overhand stroke. This is performed by placing the body on the right side, with the legs held out behind perfectly straight. One leg is then brought up in front and the other is lifted up behind, and the next motion is to bring them together with a swift, scissorlike motion, exerting as much force as possible. In the mean time the right hand is moved out in front and brought down through the water as far as the left thigh, while the left hand passes out of the water from the rear forward, and is drawn back similarly through the water, thus pulling the body ahead, just as one might pull one's self along by means of a rope. The start and finish of the arm-work in this stroke are well shown in illustrations Nos. 5 and 6. It is a stroke which requires considerable practice.
But perhaps before trying to learn fancy strokes, it might be well for the beginner to learn how to float. It is, of course, much easier to float in salt water than in fresh water, and it is therefore advisable when possible to learn in sea-water. The method is simple, and any one who has perfect confidence in himself ought to be able to float the first time he tries. The first thing to do is to fill the lungs well, and then cut off the air at the curve of the larynx instead of up in the nostrils. This is done by holding the muscles of the throat as they are when performing the act of swallowing. This keeps the bulk of the air in the lungs, and consequently under water; any air held in the mouth does not give buoyancy to the body.
Fat people, of course, float much more easily than thin people, just the same as a piece of fat will float on the water, whereas a piece of lean meat will in all probability sink. In the same way men with greater lung-power will float more easily than others with a lesser lung capacity. To float, a beginner should not thrust himself backward violently. He should take a long breath, and then fall backwards in the water gently, making a sort of sculling movement with his hands, at the same time raising his arms upwards until they are stretched as far out from the shoulders as he can and slightly above the lines of the shoulder-blades. The arms (which, of course, must never be lifted out of the water) should be raised no higher than this above the head, otherwise they diminish the capacity of the lungs by pressing them in. The feet should be worked up slowly from the bottom, and the legs should be spread out. (The correct position is shown in illustration No. 2.)
The first attempts will naturally result in the beginner's head going under water for a moment at a time, every now and then; but this should not alarm or discourage him, for if he holds the air in his lungs and follows the instructions just given, the head will soon come above the surface again. Then, after the body has settled into the proper position, the floater may breathe naturally, but he should take long breaths, and when driving the air out of the lungs he should do it rapidly, and likewise inhale rapidly, holding the air in the body as long as possible.
After one has learned to float, a pleasant diversion is to learn the forward sculling stroke. This is a fancy stroke, and is of no particular service, except perhaps that it is restful. The hands should be held in the same position as in floating, but the feet should be brought together. (Illustration No. 4.) Then both hands should be worked at the wrists in a sort of semicircle—this is called the sculling motion. After a few turns of the wrist the body will take a slow forward movement, which gradually increases, and this aids materially in keeping the swimmer afloat. Nevertheless he should keep his lungs full of air, as he does when floating.
There is also a backward sculling stroke, but this is performed by lying face downward on the water. (Illustration No. 3.) The body is held rigid, the feet are pointed forward, and kept moving up and down at the ankle to keep the legs from sinking, the legs are held stiff, and the hands spread out as before, and moved in the same manner.
FIG. 8.—SWIMMING ON THE BACK.
The stroke which should perhaps first be learned after one has mastered the art of floating is that which enables one to swim on the back. The fastest and easiest way of swimming on the back is called the double over-arm, and the method is well illustrated in Fig. 8. In order to practise this the swimmer must, of course, first come to the floating position, and then he should bring his feet together and keep them moving up and down, so as to hold them near the surface of the water. The movement of the arms is a sort of windmill motion, and as they pass through the water the palms and forearms propel the body onward. This is an easy stroke to learn when one knows how to float.
These are perhaps the most important points about swimming that can be given in so brief a paper. It will take the beginner some time to master these, and after he has learned them and has become familiar with the water, he should practise diving. At an early date this Department will be devoted, in text and illustration, to the interesting subject of diving.
The Hon. Alfred Lyttelton, M.P., made a speech on the subject of athletics recently when he delivered prizes to the boys of the King's School at Warwick, England, and the London Sporting Life quotes a few of his remarks, which, I believe, are just as true concerning American sport as they are of English sport, and must consequently be of interest to our American school-boys. Mr. Lyttelton said that nobody could accuse him of saying anything against athletic games, for he is a great lover of sports; but he added that he feared there was a tendency to overdo matters, and to allow athletics to occupy a more important place in the world than they should—to make a business of them, in fact, instead of keeping them as a recreation which should make us more fitted to do our work in this world.
The speech created a good deal of comment among sportsmen abroad; and Sporting Life, a week later, devoted considerable space to editorial remarks on what Mr. Lyttelton had said. I quote a few sentences: "Few will deny the 'growing professional spirit in most of our games' decried by that famous sportsman [Mr. Lyttelton], or venture to contradict his statement that the majority of them are being reduced to a mere matter of £ s. d. by exponents galore nowadays.... But above and beyond this lamentable endeavor to reduce all things to pounds, shillings, and pence there is an excess of enthusiasm in sport equally to be decried by all.... The fact is that many devotees of sport make far too much of it by having allowed themselves to be taught that ordinary success in any branch thereof is not worth having. They do so in the spirit of the old saying that whatever you do you should do well, which, like many other old sayings, is very untrue, and very dangerous in its lack of truth. And nowhere is this more untrue than in reference to our amusements."
The editorial then goes on to give some examples, saying that to play billiards, for instance, is the amusement of a gentleman, but to play billiards pre-eminently well is hardly that. The writer argues that a man who makes it his life's work to become a successful billiard-player can hardly, in the mean time, have continued to be a gentleman in the best use of the word. As another example, the writer states that chess is perhaps, of all recreations, the one most adapted to intellectual persons, but to be pre-eminent at chess, he argues, is generally to be that and nothing else.
There is a good deal of truth in this, and it may well be said that the athletes who go in purely for record-breaking, even if they stick strictly to the amateur spirit so far as the letter of the law is concerned, devote themselves so fully to their endeavors that they have little time to cultivate the gentler arts and amenities of social life. They consort so constantly with trainers and rubbers and professional sports that they grow more or less to be like these; they talk like them, they act like them, and they begin to shun more elegant society; and while still remaining amateurs, they are unquestionably amateurs of a lower social caste. This degradation is due solely to their own conduct. There is a wide difference between a healthy and keen indulgence in sport and a passion for breaking records, putting aside any mention of the money-making feature of the question.
It would seem that Mr. Lyttelton is not the only man in England whose attention has been called to this weakness among their amateurs; for the Hon. A. J. Balfour, M.P., who was present at Stamford Bridge on the occasion of the athletic meeting of the Association of Conservative Clubs, made remarks in a similar vein when he distributed the prizes to the winners. He said that there were critics of athletics who watched the rapid growth of interest in sport with something like suspicion, not to say dislike. He asserted, however, that he did not share their views, for he had always held that the healthy interest in athletic sports was one of the most distinguishing and characteristic marks of our age, and he considered it an admirable sign of the times. Nevertheless he warned the young men who were listening to him to beware of the danger of carrying their sports too far, and he said that that point was reached when training or indulgence in sports ceased to be a pastime and became an occupation. There is fruit for considerable thought in the remarks of these two prominent English gentlemen.
The Interscholastic Tennis Tournament at Newport has been postponed until August 19, and will therefore not be treated in this Department until the issue of August 25.
R. W. Neal, Salem, Mass.—1. The price of Track Athletics in Detail has been printed conspicuously at the bottom of the second page of this Department for the past six weeks. 2. I do not know the book you mention. 3. Track Athletics in Detail is the only volume so far published in the Harper's Round Table Library. 4. Other good books on athletics are Walter Camp's Book of College Sports (Century Company), and Blaikie's How to Get Strong.
F. F. Smith, Cumberland, Md.—The articles on canoe-building appeared in the Round Table, August 13 and 20, 1895.
F. E. D., New York.—You will find the advice you seek in Blaikie's How to Get Strong (Harper and Brothers, $1); and Sound Bodies for Boys and Girls (Harper and Brothers, 40c.).
V. W. Hall, Portland, Me.—See answer to F. E. D.
C. W. Gillespie, Terre Haute, Ind.—It was assumed, in writing the article on "Hammer-throwing," that the athlete was more or less familiar with the various track-athletic events now practised, and consequently it was thought unnecessary to go into various specific details concerning the "turn" which puzzles you. In throwing the hammer you only turn once. The act is merely that of jumping about and facing the other direction. If you are confused at the start, practise this turn without a hammer. The shoes should have spikes both in the toes and the heels.
The Graduate.
"Well, that looks natural," said the old soldier, looking at a can of condensed milk on the breakfast-table in place of ordinary milk that failed on account of the storm. "It's the Gail Borden Eagle Brand we used during the war."—[Adv.]
A cream-of-tartar baking powder. Highest of all in leavening strength.—Latest United States Government Food Report.
This Department is conducted in the interest of Bicyclers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject. Our maps and tours contain many valuable data kindly supplied from the official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen. Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L.A.W., the Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership blanks and information as far as possible.
Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.
Continuing the trip from Chicago to Waukesha, we give this week the second stage of the journey, which is divided into three parts. As was stated last week, it is probably well for the rider to stop at Wheeling for dinner, rather than stay there for the night. The ride is a short one, and can be done by any one who had ridden for a season with comparative ease in the early morning hours before it grows too warm. If this is done, the rider may stop at Wheeling for dinner and for three or four hours' rest, and then in the cool of the early evening continue on as far as Lippencott's on Fox Lake, about 23 or 24 miles from Wheeling. Here is a good place to stop for the night, and the run from Lippencott's to Waukesha will not be too great for the second day. For convenience in making maps, however, we have divided this journey into three.
Leaving Wheeling, still on the Old Milwaukee Toll Road, run a little west of north four and a half miles to Halfday. At Halfday turn westward, taking the left fork, cross the railroad about two miles out of the town, and run on to Diamond Lake, four and a half miles from Halfday. Keeping straight on the main road, continue to Dean's Corners, three and a half miles from Diamond Lake. Again keep straight ahead, running into Fremont Center, keeping to the left about a mile before entering the town, and then by turning sharp to the right half a mile further on, run into the village itself. On running out of Fremont Center keep to the left at the fork across the stream, and then bear to the right up towards Fort Hill. Instead of running to Fort Hill, however, you should keep to the left about half a mile before reaching the town, and keep to the main road running up to Lippencott's between Fish Pond on the left and Wooster Lake on the right. The road is easily found, with the exception of one or two turns just before reaching Lippencott's, and these can be more easily found by making inquiries than by attempting to describe them here. Lippencott's is a pleasant place with a good hotel on Fox Lake, where it is moderately certain that you will pass a cool night and feel refreshed for your ride to Waukesha the next day.
Note.—Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford, Connecticut, in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814. Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816. Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No. 818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819, Tottenville to Trenton in No. 820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822. Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City—First Stage in No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland—First Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to Boston—Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833. Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839. Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843. Philadelphia to Washington—First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in No, 854; Albany to Fonda in No. 855; Fonda in Utica in No. 856; Utica to Syracuse in No. 857; Syracuse to Lyons in No. 858; Lyons to Rochester in No. 859; Rochester to Batavia in No. 860; Batavia to Buffalo in No. 861; Poughkeepsie to Newtown in No. 864; Newtown to Hartford in No. 865; New Haven to Hartford in No. 866; Hartford to Springfield in No. 867; Hartford to Canaan in No. 868; Canaan to Pittsfield in No. 869; Hudson to Pittsfield in No. 870. City of Chicago in No. 874. Waukesha to Oconomowoc in 875. Chicago to Wheeling in 876.
If one is a collector of antiquities, he has doubtless in his possession one of those beautifully chased and ornamented timepieces that at one period at the court of France were so much in vogue, it being the fashion to wear several of them at one time. Invariably set with jewels, they were very costly, but for usefulness in keeping time they were practically worthless. A good story is told of a nobleman who was showing two or three of his beautiful watches to a friend. Being jostled by a passer-by the friend accidentally dropped two of them on the floor. He was very profuse with his apologies for his awkwardness, to which the nobleman replied,
"Oh, pray don't mention it, my dear friend. It's the first time I ever saw them go together."
This Department is conducted in the interest of stamp and coin collectors, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on these subjects so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Stamp Department.
The new Spanish Congressional stamp has been received on letters. It is a very handsome stamp, printed in carmine, bearing the Spanish coat of arms, with the words "Congreso de los Diputados." The cancellation is a crown with ornament attached bearing the words "Congreso de los Diputados." The cancellation is the same as that hitherto used on the ordinary Spanish envelopes bearing the regular issues of stamps when mailed by a member of the Spanish legislature.
This is the time for the annual conventions of all kinds, even of stamp-collectors. The Southern Philatelic Association has already adjourned. The Sons of Philately met August 5, at Gettysburg, Pa. The American Philatelic Association will meet at Minnetonka.
The two new Japanese stamps are to be issued September 12, 1896, the second anniversary of the Emperor's leaving Tokyo to go to Hiroshima, so as to be near the seat of war between Japan and China.
The inhabitants of the small group of islands situated on the south of Iceland possess a very curious method of communication in their so-called "bottle post." When the wind blows from the south, and one of the islanders wishes to communicate with the mainland, he puts his letters into a well-corked bottle, and to insure their delivery he incloses at the same time a plug or twist of tobacco, or a cigar. The wind speedily impels the bottle to the shores of the main island, where people are usually on the lookout, who are willing to deliver the letters in return for the inclosed remuneration.
Africa is coming to the front with a multiplication of new stamps. The French in Madagascar have issued three different sets, two provisional and one regular. The British East Africa new series of fifteen denominations, and Zanzibar with fourteen denominations, have been issued. In the near future specialists in African stamps will grow common.
This reminds me of a prophecy by one of the old dealers that soon there would be albums made for each country and for each hemisphere for the advanced collector with money, and one simplified album for the use of the general collector, who with less money, but with equal enthusiasm, would get just as much enjoyment out of his modest general collection as the millionaire specialists out of their marvellous collection of varieties, etc., of one country.
W. W. Wood.—The two coins are sold by dealers at a slight increase over face.
J. M. F.—There were five varieties of the $5 red Internal Revenue, first issue, viz.: Charier Party, Conveyance, worth 15c. each; Mortgage and Probate of Will, worth 50c. each; and Manifest, worth $1.50. These prices are for perforated copies; unperforated copies are worth from $1.25 to $10. The second issue, blue and black, and the third issue, vermilion, are worth 50c. or 60c. each. Cuban stamps are not much collected, and any one can buy them in quantities, therefore there is little prospect of an advance.
W. R. Wheeler.—The $10 Charter Party, perforated, is worth 60c.; unperforated, $8; the $3 Charter, 15c., and $1.50 respectively; a pair of $2 Mortgage, unperforated, is worth $4; the $2 and $5 Probate, worth $1 and 50c. respectively.
W. R. C.—The 3c. U.S. red, 1851, is worth 35c. per hundred; the 1857, about 25c. per hundred; the 1861, about 10c. per hundred. The 1c. blue, from 1851 to 1860, are worth much more, depending on condition of the plate, etc. The U.S. Internal Revenue 2c. are not worth anything, the other 2c. Revenues are worth various prices.
F. E. Cowan.—I do not know the value of Mexican Revenue stamps. Probably some St. Louis dealer could quote prices. Hitherto they have not been collected generally, but I believe they will soon be more popular. When that time comes prices will become more stable.
G. Leonard.—I cannot repeat the long list of coins previously published in the Round Table for December 17, 1895, and January 14, 1896.
A. A. Hall.—English Revenue stamps, or rather stamped papers, have been used for several hundred years. You will doubtless recall England's attempt to force the American Colonists to use stamped paper in 1765. The law was repealed in 1766 in consequence of the disaffection and riots.
J. Schwanman.—"Gumpaps" is a nickname or term of contempt applied to stamps issued primarily to sell to collectors, especially those condemned by the Society for the Suppression of Speculative Stamps, usually called the S.S.S.S.
W. T. Williams.—No. Never paste your stamps down. Always use hinges, and buy the best hinges, as it will pay you in the end. I frequently see old collections containing stamps pasted down, with the result that almost every stamp has been damaged. Blues, greens, and some reds disappear altogether. I am told it comes from using dextrine from which the acid has not been thoroughly removed.
J. J. Singer.—In perforating postage-stamps a die plate is placed before the needles of a machine carrying hundreds of needles. As about 180,000,000 holes are punched per day, the wear on the die plate is excessive. Brass plates wear out in a day, and even steel plates are rapidly destroyed. The use of aluminium bronze has caused the die plates to last for months without renewal. Usually the parallel horizontal rows are perforated first, and the vertical rows next. Both rows have been perforated at one time, but this method has proved impracticable.
Faithful Reader.—The 1850 dime can be bought of the dealers for 20c. They are still in circulation.
M. C. Haldeman, Thompsontown, Pa., wishes to exchange stamps and philatelic literature. Also wants samples of amateur papers.
V. M.—The 1851 1c. U.S. is worth $2 unused, 25c. used. But there are two varieties (from the early impressions) which are worth much more. Do not cut any pairs or strips of any unperforated stamps.
Philatus.
Established Dorchester, Mass., 1780.
Always ask for Walter Baker & Co.'s
Made at
It bears their Trade Mark
"La Belle Chocolatiere" on every can.
to agents selling stamps from my 50% approval sheets. Send at once for circular and price-list giving full information.
100 all dif. Venezuela, Bolivia, etc., only 10c., 200 all dif. Hayti, Hawaii, etc., only 50c. Ag'ts w't'd at 50% com. List FREE! C. A. Stegmann, 5941 Cote Brilliante Ave., St. Louis, Mo
10 stamps and large list FREE!
STAMPS on Approval! 50% disct. List free.
It is a Collection which no one who loves music should fail to own; it should find a place in every home. Never before, it may truthfully be said, has a song book been published at once so cheap, so good, and so complete.—Colorado Springs Gazette.
This Song Collection is one of the most notable enterprises of the kind attempted by any publisher. The brief sketches and histories of the leading productions in the work add greatly to the value of the series.—Troy Times.
Sold Everywhere. Price, 50 cents; Cloth, $1.00. Full contents, with Specimen Pages mailed, without cost, on application to
When in Florence we started for the Egyptian Museum one morning at ten, and got there in about twenty minutes. I was disappointed when I first looked at the chariot. As I examined it I saw how wonderfully it was made. There was no metal in it, and the only substances besides wood were leather and fossil bone. There are very few pieces of wood in the chariot, as you will see in the picture. The collar is like a wishbone with the point down. The tip is round instead of flat, and is of fossil bone. The ends of the yoke are finished with the same bone, and also the heads of the wooden spikes that hold the wheels on the axles.
THE THEBAN CHARIOT.
The pole is about the same length as an average carriage-pole. The yoke is about four feet long, and the wheels the same height. The place where the driver and warrior stood is made of leather, plaited like a split-bottomed chair, and this platform is semicircular. The yoke and pole are held together by a bone-headed spike. The spokes, pole, and hubs were originally covered with birch bark. The authorities say that from the quality of the wood and the absence of metal, it may be presumed that this chariot, formerly belonging to some warrior of the north, had been taken to Egypt as one of the spoils of war over 3300 years ago.
I have seen a photograph of a Roman chariot. It was the same as this, but filled in with bronze, and thirty times as heavy. The pieces of leather which go from the breast-work of the platform to the pole have been put there recently. There is a bow, that was found with the chariot, leaning against it. It used to be covered with leather, and is about five feet long.
John B. Cantley.
Woodburn Sands, Bletchly, England.
In the church of St. Alexander, St. Petersburg, are the remains of a Russian general, Hannibal. A guide once said to a traveller, "There lies a Cannibal." This startling remark was all due to the fact that the Russian alphabet is H-less.
When Thomas was compiling one of his first almanacs his clerk asked him what forecast he should enter opposite a certain week in July.
"Thunder, hail, and snow," promptly replied Thomas—and, lo! the prediction proved to be true! Thomas's almanac was thereafter considered well-nigh infallible.
Some weeks ago a letter reached us, signed by what appeared a responsible name, and dated at Kingman, Arizona, telling us of the death of Lady Florence E. Cowan. As Miss Cowan lives at Kingman, we believed the statement, and as she had contributed to the Table many delightful morsels, which thousands had enjoyed, we made a minute of the news. A letter from Miss Cowan expresses her natural surprise, and gives us and the Table the glad tidings that the information of "S.Z.B." was incorrect.
Spinosa, after studying assiduously for hours, would amuse himself by setting spiders to fighting. His laughter was said to have been positively alarming on the occasion of especially exciting combats. Socrates loved to play with children, and Tycho Brahé to polish spectacle glasses. D'Andilly, a translator of Josephus, spent his leisure in cultivating trees, while Barclay, author of the Argenis, was as devoted to his flowers as Celia Thaxter. Balzac collected crayon portraits, and the Abbé de Maroles, prints. Politian was never so happy as with his lute. The learned monk Petavius would gravely whirl his chair for five minutes at the end of every second hour of theological research, while Dr. Samuel Clarke was an expert chair and table jumper. Swift was often seen running up and down the steps of the deanery. Shelley's fondness for sailing paper boats is well known, but few know that he once folded a fifty-pound bank-note and sent it bobbing down the current of the Serpentine. But all will be glad to know that the shallop was finally moored in safety lower down the river. This launching somehow reminds us of the first stanza of Lear's Owl and Pussy Cat.
Geoffrey Cartwright.
A person once wrote this anagram of the name "Napoleon Bonaparte": "No, appear not on Elba."
When it was rumored that the Duke of Wellington intended marrying a rich heiress, Angelina Burdett Coutts, this anagram appeared:
"The Duke must in his second childhood be,
Since in his doting age he turns to A B C."
Orion Belton.
Pray find, without much tribulation,
Full many a neat ejaculation:
The Jack1 that flies at vessel's prow;
Before it all good Jack Tars bow;
The Jack2 that on a darksome night
May well inspire one's soul with fright;
The Jack3 that rears its massive trunk
O'er flowers that of the brook have drunk;
The Jack4 whom ev'ry butcher greets
With offers of all lean-fleshed meats;
The Jack5 whom sober-minded people shun,
So great his size he fills a tun!
The Jack6 who makes the strong and hale
Before its very name turn pale;
And now I'll tell you of one Jack—
The Jack who has the happy knack
Of making sunshine out of shade—
The dearest Jack that e'er was made!
Prote A. Jay.
First is a state that is surely in debt;
Second, a stone that in truth is a door;
Third, an odd gem which dilates in a pet;
Fourth is a stone that may mean a horse poor.
Plesiosaurus.
The stone (1) that will capture the "mackerel-guide";
The stone (2) which might have the term "measures" applied;
The stone (3) that "O, Partner!" cries out with esprit;
The stone (4) that may grow 'mid the tall fleurs-de-lis;
The stone (5) that means "steward" in Persian, 'tis said;
And, lastly, the stone (6) in which gas burns o'erhead.
Eason C. Arlington.
In the following jumble find these mythological personages, Greek and Roman: nine female and five male divinities, two giants, two heroes, a legendary king, a monster, a Greek maiden metamorphosed into a white heifer, the most beautiful of all mortals, and the mother of a well-known god and goddess:
The miner vacantly began to leer—ostentation at last! He cater to a maniac? Hill escaped; an oven used to mar Smith's arbor. Eastwardly the coach ironically accompanied Jan. "Usually I owe; he bears genuine grief amid astounding trials, surpassing any Medes." The ice restored her; attentive Lucas tore the vest at the hem; the shy mender let oats fly, while the poacher messed his porridge—the color I only conjectured to be bice.
Southe Arlington.
Are you interested in music and natural history? Inez M. Brush, Chelsea, Iowa, wants to correspond with you if you are. If you live in Baltimore, P. Dettelbach, 1905 Druid Hill Avenue, wants you to join the Monumental City Chapter. Corresponding members are also received. William J. Smith,—No badges are now in stock. When more are prepared, notice will be given in these columns. We know of no active Chapter in Detroit near you. It is better to form one among your own friends than to join one whose members you have no acquaintance with.
"Disputants,"—Austria is on a gold and Russia on a silver monetary basis. "Amateur Newspaper,"—There are several methods by which writing is cheaply duplicated. None are perfect—that is, as perfect as type-printing, and none can, unless done far better than the average amateur is able to do, deceive the recipient to the extent of making him think it an original letter. For Harper's Magazine, and for prices apply to your bookseller. Directions go with the apparatus.
Henry F. Brown, a Massachusetts Knight, who won a Round Table Illustration prize, asks if the late Horace Bradley is the same person who judged his picture: "for," he writes, "I find 'H. B.' on the back of it." We cannot say with absolute certainty, but it is probable that it is. Mr. Bradley, who was one of the most obliging of men, passed judgment upon much work sent in by Round Table members. Pressed with responsibilities, he often took time to look through a pile of members' drawings, giving a word of criticism here or of commendation there. In half a dozen instances he wrote letters to members of artistic promise, giving them helpful advice. You should prize your drawing with its initials "H. B." highly.
Eugene B. Benton, who says he hopes one day to enter the navy, asks what became of the old vessels of the Revolutionary navy. There were about forty of them, and they had different fates. Two, the America and the Ariel, were presented to France. The famous Bonhomme Richard was sunk in 1779, and the Washington, Independence, and Montgomery in 1778. The Saratoga was lost at sea, and the Lexington was captured by the British in the English Channel, in 1778. You are in error in thinking the Constitution was in the war of the Revolution. It was not launched until 1797. It was in service, with some lapses, until December, 1881, when it was consigned to "Rotten Row," in the Brooklyn Navy-yard. The earliest built of our new navy, or White Squadron, was the Chicago, in 1886. Previous to 1862 enlisted men in the navy were granted a "spirit ration." In July of that year Congress passed a law abolishing it, and enacted that "hereafter no distilled spirituous liquors shall be admitted on board of vessels of war, except as medical stores." Read Admiral Gherardi's article on the navy, in Harper's Round Table for June 30 last. It can be had for five cents from the publishers, and it authoritatively answers all of your questions about entering the navy, the pay, etc.
Many letters come to the editor of this column asking advice in regard to the purchase of a camera, style, price, etc., and a short talk on the subject may not come amiss to the members of the club.
There are so many makes of cameras, each with a seemingly equal claim to merit, that the would-be purchaser—unless he has had some experience in photography—is often at a loss what sort of an instrument to select. To simplify the description we will divide the cameras into four classes: 1. The tiny snap-shot. 2. The hand camera. 3. The hand and view camera combined. 4. The view camera.
If one has had no previous experience in taking pictures, and simply wishes to make pictorial reminders of his summer outings, the tiny snap-shot-camera, which makes pictures about the size of a silver dollar, is a most satisfactory investment. This camera carries a spool of film long enough for twelve pictures, which is easily and quickly changed for fresh film. The lens has what is called a universal focus, so that there is no focussing. All that one has to do to make a picture is to point the camera at the object and press the shutter spring. The result is sometimes very good and sometimes very amusing, according to the skill with which the instrument is managed. Some of these miniature pictures are perfect in detail, and such pictures may be enlarged four or five times their diameter with slight expense. Even if one owns a larger camera one of these pocket-cameras is a desirable addition to one's outfit. This snap-shot camera costs from $3 to $5.
No. 2. The hand camera may be bought anywhere from $8 to $50. The size of the picture made varies from the small 3¼ by 4¼ to the 5 by 7. The camera which takes a 4 by 5 picture is the most convenient and the most satisfactory size. These cameras are made with an interchangeable arrangement, so that one may use either plates or films. For general work the plates are less trouble to handle, and the fact that one can carry only eight to ten plates in the camera leads one to be more careful in making pictures. Films are more convenient to carry on a journey, for the weight of film enough for one hundred pictures is not equal to eight plates. A good 4 by 5 hand camera may be bought for $12.
No. 3. The hand and view camera combined is one of the best cameras for all-round work. A 4 by 5 camera fitted with double swing-back, rising and falling front, and a rapid rectilinear lens may be bought for $20. The object of the swing-back is to adjust the plate so that it may be parallel with the object to be photographed.
No. 4. The view camera is one made specially for out-of-door work, and is the style used by professionals who make a specialty of landscape views. The camera and lens are bought separately, and one may have several lenses for the same camera. Most of the view cameras fold up compactly, so that a 5 by 8 camera, three double plate-holders, two or three lenses, and a focussing-cloth may be carried in a case about twelve inches square and five and a half inches wide.
A wise young woman understands
That Ivory Soap is best to use
For outing flannels, sunburned hands,
Light summer gowns and tennis shoes.
Copyright, 1896, by The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.
has earned more money for boys than all other presses in the market. Boys, don't idle away your time when you can buy a self-inking printing-press, type, and complete outfit for $5.00. Write for particulars, there is money in it for you.
Sample cards and circulars describing the latest and greatest educational game. Fascinating, entertaining, and highly instructive.
We wish to introduce our Teas. Sell 30 lbs. and we will give you a Fairy Tricycle; sell 25 lbs. for a Solid Silver Watch and Chain; 50 lbs. for a Gold Watch and Chain; 75 lbs. for a Bicycle; 10 lbs. for a Gold Ring. Write for catalog and order sheet Dept. I
Compiled by the Editor of "Interscholastic Sport" in Harper's Round Table. Illustrated from Instantaneous Photographs. 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. In "Harper's Round Table Library."
A good book to put into the hands of the athletically inclined. It is capitally illustrated with instantaneous photographs, and is full of expert and sound advice and instruction.—Outlook, N. Y.
Captain King has in large degree the rare faculty of placing in the mental vision of the reader a clearly limned picture of the scenes described.—Newark Advertiser.
Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.
And Stories of Army Life. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.
Illustrated by R. F. Zogbaum. Post 8vo, Cloth. $1.00.
A Story of the War. Illustrated by Gilbert Gaul. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.
Said Tommy Tadpole to his Ma,
"I wish I were a frog!
Then I could make a great big noise,
And sit upon a log!"
"You'll find, my dear," his mother said,
"More things than noise and log
Complete the sum of daily life
When you've become a frog."
"Bobbie," said Tom, "let you and I go into business."
"What business?" asked Bobbie.
"Oh, I don't care," said Tom. "I'll be senior partner, and you be head clerk and attend the business."
"Hoh," said Wilbur, when Wallie wanted to swap an American two-cent stamp for a silver shilling, "you're pretty mumpy, I think."
"Mumpy?" asked Wallie. "What's mumpy?"
"When your cheek gets big," said Wilbur.
"Papa," said Arthur, "I read somewhere that people became what they ate."
"So it is said, my son."
"Then why don't cannibals become missionaries, papa?"
"Did you see how that bull tossed his head?" asked Mollie.
"No," said Allie. "I saw him shake it. He didn't toss it."
"Yes, he did," said Mollie.
"Where did he toss it to?" asked Allie. "I didn't see it land anywhere."
"Billie," said little Tommie, "won't you come and play with me?"
"You're too little, Tommie," said Billie. "I couldn't play anything with you."
"I'll be anything, Billie," pleaded Tommie. "I'll roll myself up into a ball, and maybe you'll have a splendid time bouncing me about."
It was a very blustery day. The breeze from the sea was so strong that it blew in one or two panes of glass, and brought down the curtains with a clatter to the floor.
"I see now," said little Harry, "why they call windies windies."
"What a splendid jumper your little dog is, Sammie," said Mr. Hicks.
"Well, he ought to be," said Sammie. "He swallowed a rubber ball last week."
Floods in lowland countries have their humorous side as well as their tragic ones. A gentleman recently returned from the West relates a little experience he had with a swollen river in Missouri. The country had been a veritable swamp for some days, and after travelling through it on horseback for a week doing business here and there, he says he arrived at the bank of the river. There was no way to cross it except by swimming, so, dismounting, he tied his clothes to the horse, and drove him into the river, swimming after him. Reaching the other side, he dressed and continued on his way. Before going twenty feet, however, he came to the forks of the road, and not knowing the correct direction he wanted to go, he looked around for a sign. There was none, but just across the river, near the spot he had entered to swim across, he saw a board nailed on a tree. Well, there was nothing to do but to get in and swim across again, as undoubtedly that was the sign containing the directions. He swam across, and after climbing up the bank he read the following notice:
"Five dollars fine for crossing this bridge faster than a walk."
He says that under the circumstances the sarcasm of that sign put him in bad humor for the rest of the day.
In the rush and crush of business in the general post-office the other day an Irishman's answer was heard that is worth repeating. It was at the general-delivery window, and the Irishman was poor, and a typical son of the sod. He had applied for a letter.
"Letter? All right, sir. What name?"
The Irishman gave his name, but the clerk, not catching it, asked,
"How do you spell it?"
"Spell it!" answered the Irishman. "Shure, if a foine smart clerk loike you can't spell it, how d'ye think a poor man loike me can?"
There was a man in our town
Who was so wondrous wise
That nobody dared speak to him;
And so he winked his eyes,
And said, "I don't know anything,
But all these people here
Are so afraid, they dare not speak,
And call me sage and seer;
"But, oh, if some one should forget,
And speak to me some day,
I really haven't an idea
Of what I then should say!"
And so this sage pretended that
His temper was most vile,
And people, when they met him,
Turned and ran away a mile.
And so it is unto this day—
He's magnified in size,
So that though he knows nothing,
All the town folks think him wise.
J. K. B.
"What are you going to be when you are a man, Jack?" asked Uncle George.
"A man," said Jack.
End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, August 18, 1896, by Various
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