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

A HOME-RUN IN INDIANA.

BY GARRETT NEWKIRK.

The men of the block-house fort had eaten breakfast by candle-light, for an early start to their work upon the various clearings. The long, rough table would be reset later for the women and children. They were a band of settlers in the wilderness, who had arrived from Virginia the preceding autumn barely in time to build one house for the shelter of all. Before another summer should be over each family would possess a dwelling of its own, and the beginning of a farm great with the promise of future orchards and fields of grain.

The severity of the winter had departed, March was bringing many days of brightness, with songs from the earlier birds of spring. It was now the hour of dawn, and, far to the east, above where rolled the broad Ohio, the sky was rosy with the sun's bright greeting. Across the Big Blue River to the west were clouds of morning mist, which made the higher hills beyond appear like wooded islands in a rolling sea.

John Martin stood near the block-house, with his long rifle on his arm and his axe in hand, ready to start for the home clearing. He was twenty-five years old, of medium height and excellent form. There was not his equal in the settlement for activity and strength.

By his side stood his wife, a girlish-looking woman yet in her "teens," with her hands clasped upon his shoulder. Her eyes were looking earnestly into his, and there was anxiety in her voice as she said:

"I hope, John, you and Stephen are not growing careless[Pg 1182] about watching because no Indians have been seen for many weeks. You know one can never tell when they may come, 'like a thief in the night.' Do you keep one on guard while the other works, as you used to?"

"Well, no, we haven't lately, to tell the truth, Mary," he replied; "it seems like such a waste of time when there's so much to do. We've cut away the undergrowth for a good distance round to give us a clear view, and we both work and watch the best we can. I've heard the Indians were entirely out of powder and lead this spring, and they will not probably go on the war-path till they get some. Don't you worry, dear; I don't believe there's any danger now. Come on, Stephen," he called, "let's be off; it's been daylight half an hour; you can 'most see the sun."

The youth addressed was standing with their mother, a few steps apart, and they had been conversing in low tones. He was only fifteen, her "baby," and the subject of her special tenderness and care; for he was the only one of her children who had no memory of his father, a brave soldier of the Revolution, who had come home from Yorktown but to spend a year and die.

Though a gray-haired woman of more than fifty years, she was still vigorous, and there was rich color in her cheeks. She had thrown a shawl over her head and shoulders, and come out as usual "to see the boys off."

"Aren't you going to take your rifle with you, son?" she asked of Stephen, as he turned to go.

"No, mother; I think not to-day. The fact is, I've carried the gun back and forth all winter and never had the least use for it, and it's powerful heavy, especially at night after a hard day's work. I reckon I'm getting lazy," he added, with an attempt to smile.

The mother sighed, knowing well that "laziness" in this case meant weariness; that the lad was doing more than he ought, from a boy's ambition to do a man's work.

"All right," she said, gently; "perhaps it's just as well, though I've half a notion to go along and stand guard myself. Take good care of this boy," she said to John. "I'm afraid he's overworking; you're both so ambitious, just like your father."

"Yes, mother," John replied, cheerily, "but it's hard to hold him back; you see he takes after father and mother both."

At this they all laughed, and the brothers walked away, followed by the gaze of loving eyes till their forms had disappeared among the trees.

At the home clearing the morning passed as usual, with the work of felling trees and piling brush. At noon the two ate their "dinner" of cold johnny-cake and dried venison by the smouldering coals of a brush-heap, whereon they also boiled a pot of water and made "corn coffee."

"We can always work better," John had said, "for a little something hot;" and they sweetened the "coffee" with maple-sugar made by mother and Mary from sap of trees growing near the fort.

After half an hour's rest they cut down a tall tree, which fell northward, as Stephen said, "pointing to the fort." They had trimmed away the limbs, and Stephen was "topping" the tree—that is, cutting off the small end of the trunk to go with the brush for burning. John was measuring off the "cuts," when a large buck sprang into the clearing from the south, and paused with head erect, looking backward.

To John this seemed a joyful opportunity. The men of the settlement had taken little time for hunting during recent weeks, and meat was getting scarce. Very quietly, but quickly, he crept along the log to where his rifle stood leaning against the stump, while Stephen had as quickly dropped from sight behind the brush. The left shoulder of the deer was fairly presented at a distance of only fifty yards, and almost instantly he gave a bound forward and fell dead, shot through the heart.

Laying down the weapon John started to run to the buck, passing near Stephen and saying, "Load the gun, and I'll—" But the look and attitude of his brother made him pause. He was gazing intently, not toward the deer, but in the direction from which it had come. John turned and beheld a startling sight. Stealthily approaching along a little ravine, not far away, were a dozen or more savages in war-paint and feathers.

John was a man of quick decision and resolute action. All the meaning of the situation flashed upon his mind. They were but two, and outnumbered six or eight to one; they had but one gun, that empty, fifty feet distant toward the foe. But the way was open to the fort, across the clearing and through the woods. Had he been alone, he would have sprung to the path in a moment and gained a good start on the savages. But Stephen had the unfortunate habit of hesitating in emergencies. Whenever startled or surprised he seemed powerless to act, and would stand as one dazed. John had to go to him, therefore, take him by the shoulders, turn him about, and say,

"Run to the fort!" pushing with the word to get him started. Once going, however, he ran like a frightened doe; so hard, indeed, that without the restraint and guidance of his brother he would have been exhausted early in the race.

The Indians, of course, on finding their approach discovered, sprang nimbly to the pursuit, but they had at first to run up hill, and when they came to the tree the foremost stopped to examine the gun and pouches, and a dispute arose over their possession. This was quickly settled by the chief, but every moment gained was precious to the fugitives.

Any company of men in danger must needs have a captain, and John was born for a commander, whether of two or fifty. He set the pace which he believed Stephen could keep to the end, and said:

"Don't look back; I will keep watch on the Indians for us both. We must not follow our usual path too closely. If the way is clear we must cut short wherever we can."

John had taken note as they ran of several important facts. Only two or three of the Indians carried rifles, and they were not among the foremost. He believed that, in accordance with the report he had heard, the guns were empty.

The Indian who had secured the white man's rifle had stopped to load it, and was now far in the rear. It was the evident purpose of the leaders to run their victims down and kill them with tomahawk and knife; then, if possible, they would surprise the fort, massacre the inmates, and carry away the ammunition there to be found.

The reason for their confidence soon became apparent. Stephen, notwithstanding his brother's advice, could not avoid now and then turning his head for a backward glance, and he it was who first recognized in the foremost runner a famous Indian chief named Bigfoot, known as the bravest warrior and swiftest runner of the Wyandotte tribe. It was reported, also, that he had three brothers, nearly equal to himself in swiftness, who usually went with him on his expeditions.

There had not been a doubt in the mind of John about his own ability to outrun the Indians. The question from the first had been how to save Stephen, and this new discovery made the situation desperate. The boy could run very swiftly for a short distance, but he lacked the endurance of a fully developed man. In spite of his brother's encouragement his steps began to flag. Bigfoot was easily gaining upon them, and three others were not far behind him. Soon he came so near that John feared he might, by a quick rush, be able to throw his tomahawk with deadly effect. He said to Stephen,

"Jump behind the big tree we are coming near, but keep on running."

Dropping behind a pace or two, he followed Stephen's movement in line with the tree. The Indian, fearing an assault, halted for a moment, and by this they gained several rods. The ruse was repeated two or three times, and they were now half-way to the fort.

Here Stephen seemed to be wellnigh exhausted and ready to despair. He said to John,

"Run ahead and save yourself. I'm a goner, anyway."

But the other replied:

"I'll not leave you. Don't give up. Keep up your heart and we'll beat them yet."

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Bigfoot, feeling sure of his prey, had slackened his pace for the others to overtake him, and the four together were coming on rapidly. John now determined on the only plan which might possibly save them both. He said to Stephen:

"We must separate. As we pass the big hickory, do you bear to the right while I go to the left. Bigfoot will follow me, and you can outrun the others. When you strike the clearing, yell to warn the women. I'll do the same. Go it, now, and do your best!"

This plan gave the boy new hope, for Bigfoot had been his especial terror. As he thought, too, of his mother and sisters, and their danger, he sprang forward from the big hickory and ran bravely.

The savages paused a moment, and then, as John had foretold, the big Indian took the left course, followed by the swiftest of the others.

Then began the real test between the two runners, red and white, neither of whom had ever before found his match. For a time John turned his head frequently, keeping watch upon his pursuers, and he soon learned that the distance between them, little by little, was shortening. The Indian was gaining because he did not look back; his eye was steadily on the white man. John Martin thought:

"I must not turn my head, but look steadily forward, and trust my ears to measure the space between us. If I find that he is nearing me, I will stop and fight; my little knife against his long one and the hatchet."

Now the space does not grow less, and to the Indian, who had expected an easy victory, this is maddening. John hears him muttering curses in his own language, and they sound musical. Then he calls in broken English,

"White man, stop talk; me no kill."

His only purpose is to secure a moment's pause; but to all appearance the other hears not. The Indian leaps and bounds in his rage, but nothing can he gain. The long quick steps of the white man have the steady movement of an eagle's wing; they flag not, nor does he turn his head till he has leaped the fence and given the promised yell. Almost on the instant he hears the whiz of a bullet and the crack of Mary's rifle. The ball grazes a tree behind which the Indian has suddenly skulked, really dodging a shot truly aimed. Then, with a cry of baffled rage, he springs into the forest and is seen no more.

When Stephen left his brother's side, he felt that he was put upon his mettle as never in his life before. He had recovered his "second wind," the swiftest of the Indians had gone the other way, and he had great hope that he could win the race. He must win, for if John should fail, who but himself could warn the people of the fort. Left alone, he suddenly became cool, calculating, and self-reliant. Before him was a bit of thicket. He turned suddenly behind this, as though seeking to hide along a ravine which bore away to the right, and as quickly again resumed his course. The Indians were deceived, and turned, as they supposed, to cut him off, and by this he gained considerably. Then, in plain sight, he took a curved path, knowing that across the shorter way were many trailing vines and low shrubs. In these the foremost savage became entangled, and lost his position in the race. And now the lad had only to make a supreme effort, the clearing was in sight; he heard his brother's voice, and the report of his sister's rifle. All was well, and he would have gone unscathed, but in leaping the fence he tripped and fell headlong. As he rose and started forward, the foremost Indian threw a tomahawk, the blade of which cut his shoulder, while the handle struck his head, stunning him, and he fell again.

The savage, eager to secure a scalp and recover his weapon, sprang over the fence, unaware of the risk he was taking, for by this time John had given the point of his brother's approach, and the brave mother was on the watch. The Indian's feet had but touched the open ground when she drew a bead upon him, and as he paused to draw his scalping-knife the rifle sent its messenger to his breast. He fell at Stephen's feet, mortally wounded, and died in a few moments.

The mother began reloading her piece. "We may need another bullet," she said, as she rammed one "home." "Help the boy in, and I'll keep an eye on the woods."

But no other foe appeared, and Stephen, whose wounds though bleeding and painful were not dangerous, soon was resting on a couch before the fire.

Notwithstanding the excitement he had passed through, he immediately fell asleep from utter exhaustion. When at sunset he awoke and saw his mother by his side he placed a hand in hers, and there was a world of love and admiration in his eyes.

In the mean time the sound of guns had brought the men quickly to the fort. John, whose blood was hot, wished to organize a party at once and pursue the Indians, but the older and more prudent objected. The mother said, "No, that is just what they will expect you to do. They will lead you a long and useless chase, or else they will wait for you in ambush. We have no lives to spare, and nothing to avenge. We're Christians and not savages, and we've every reason to-night to be thankful we're alive. I want you to bury the one I shot to save my boy, his scalp on his head and his weapons with him. Bury him in a corner of the clearing and put up a bit of slab to mark the spot."

Some frowned at this, but it was done as she had said.

Before long the story of this burial in some way reached the savages, and was told in many wigwams.

Years afterward an aged squaw came to the fort and asked in broken English to be shown the Indian's grave, and when she saw it she bowed herself thereon and wept.

THE BISHOP'S DILEMMA.

The late Bishop of Argyle and the Isles, in Scotland, Dr. Mackarness, was a very large and heavy man, weighing at least 275 pounds.

On one occasion, accompanied by his chaplain, Mr. Chinnery Haldane, he was making his way through the mountains to confirm some children in a far-away village.

The carriage, drawn by strong and agile mountain ponies, slowly ascending through a rocky pass, was suddenly brought to a standstill by a fallen tree. The Highland driver did everything in his power to get by the obstacle, but finally had to go for assistance. The Bishop and his chaplain strolled on.

Now the chaplain wanted to be made a rural dean, and he thought this an excellent opportunity to try the Bishop on the subject. The weather was fine, the view delightful, the Bishop apparently in a good temper. Why not broach this subject so near to his heart? The Bishop heard his request, but instead of answering him, stopped and called attention to the effect of the sun on the distant mountains. Further hints were met in the same way.

The village was now in sight, but an unlooked-for obstacle presented itself. The little stream, crossed usually by a picturesque bridge, had been so swollen by the rains that the bridge appeared like an island in the middle.

Here was a quandary. It might be several hours before the carriage arrived, and night was coming on.

"What are we to do?" said the Bishop.

"My lord," replied the chaplain, "if you will get on my back I will carry you to the bridge."

The Bishop demurred, spoke of his weight, and the undignified appearance he would present. But the chaplain was strong, and finally persuaded him. When fairly in the middle he came to a full stop.

"Are you tired, Haldane?" said the Bishop.

"No, my lord, I am not tired; but I wish to speak to you again about that rural deanery."

"But, my dear fellow," cried the Bishop, in alarm, "this is no place to talk; wait till we get to the other side."

"On the contrary, my lord, I think this is an excellent place to talk, for if you refuse me I shall drop you."

The Bishop tried to temporize; but the chaplain was immovable.

"The rural deanery or down you go," was the fiat, and reluctantly the Bishop gave the chaplain his promise.

His kept his promise, too, and after the death of Dr. Mackarness that same chaplain and rural dean became his successor, and is now Bishop of Argyle and the Isles.

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THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

HALLOWEEN FAGOTS.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

A heavy farm wagon was lumbering along, raising clouds of dust, as the children, each with a bag suspended from his or her arm, hailed the driver for a lift. They were so tired, for they had been scouring the woods for hours, each striving to see whose bag would be the heaviest when they set their faces homeward; and now, as the yellow gold of the afternoon sunset was fast deepening into night, and there was yet many a weary mile between these Thornton woods and their supper, for which everybody had over and again testified that he was "just starving," they begged for a ride.

The driver was a middle-aged man, somewhat crippled and bent with toil. His shoulders were round, his chest hollow, his hair a mixture of brown and gray; but his big honest blue eyes shone with a kindly light, that softened the harsh skin as he called "Whoa!" and the children hurriedly climbed, some over the wheels, and others by the back and front—any way to get in—and a moment later the indulgent if homely man had a wagon-load of pleasant company.

"Well done, gals and boys; many's the time I wuz jist as spry, but I haven't done it for nigh unto twenty year." And he pointed to the large knots on his hands that showed the effect of rheumatism. But his misfortunes had not soured him, for he was anxious to learn all about the happy day. And they all had a turn in telling him.

And thus it was that he soon learned the nutting party had been planned from away back, back as far as last October, and that a gayer set of young people he had never seen in all his life than they were when they met, luncheon in hand, at the cross-roads that morning. They had taken their luncheon, they explained, because they wanted to make a full day of it this time.

What a day! What a tramp! What bags of nuts! The boys had climbed trees like the veriest of nimble squirrels; ran along the branches too, and shook the ripe beauties down, while the girls were anything but quiet underneath; and now, simply because it was night, and they were so tired and hungry, they had to go home. Otherwise they would have liked the day to last a week at the very least, so that they could have a longer run, watch out later for the rabbits, woodpeckers, and squirrels, and try and find bigger bouquets of red berries and autumn leaves.

It was even confided to this man, before the last one got out of the wagon—for he indulgently stopped at the nearest points for all—that Robert and Sophie McLaren, who sat near the driver's seat, were to give a fagot party on All-Halloween, to which they were all invited, and that some of the nuts were to be saved for that particular occasion.

A week later one of the boys, who was studying art, walked along the same road. He had been sketching the distant woods, and again met the driver of the comfortable though heavy farm wagon. This time the man's keen far-sightedness saw him first, and having recognized one of "the jolly young'uns," as in telling his wife of his adventure he explained was "a fittin' name for 'em," he whipped up his horses the sooner to hail the boy, hoping for companionship. And he was not disappointed, for the drawing materials had grown heavier with each step. And thus it was that the benevolent if curious man heard all about the fagot party.

The boy commenced by explaining the meaning of the word fagot, a bundle of twigs; and there were just as many twigs as there were girls and boys, "the idea being that we should each draw a twig from the bundle as our names were called. And they were all called by the hostess, according to the letters of the alphabet. For instance, my name begins with A; therefore I had to draw the first twig. Having drawn the twig, I put it on the open coal fire, and at once commenced to tell a story. As long as the twig lasted I had to talk; but when it was burned up I had to stop; and as it burned very fast towards the end, I wound up in a jiffy. As soon as I was through, the next name was called, and that person did exactly as I did, only told a different story of course."

The story part of the explanation seemed rather mystifying, so the boy said, "I'll tell you the story I told, and then perhaps you'll understand. The title was 'The Professor.' Place, a boy's room in college. Time, an hour before recitation.

"Duty is a grim taskmaster, and sometimes I don't fancy obeying him. This was one of the times. I thought, what's the use of algebra, anyway?—lots of people have lived and died without even knowing there is such a study; so, in the hour allowed for preparation of multiplying 2a+5c by a-c, and all the rest of the rubbish, I decided to close the window-shutters, draw down the shades, light the candles—in fact, make believe it was night, and have in all the fellows for an out-and-out spread. With this idea I had made preparation; the mince pie was on the table, pumpkin pie ditto, a big pitcher of milk, some apples, bananas, and hickory nuts; when all of a sudden, just as I was expecting the boys to file quietly in, who should I hear tip-toeing along the hall but the Professor? My hair almost stood on end, wondering what his next move would be, so sure I was that he was sniffing these questionable odors. I had but a second to wonder, however, for the door-knob turned and we stood face to face. He did not look at all surprised. I drew a long breath. Neither of us spoke. He seemed, I thought, to take a certain sort of delight in watching me. The longer he watched, the more uncomfortable I felt. I thought if there was any way of getting out of this! The dreary hopelessness of my situation was appalling. Every second seemed an hour, for the cool steel-colored eyes never lifted; they seemed to read me through and through.

"After what seemed to me to be an eternity of time he slowly asked, 'Where are the boys?' And back of him, through the open doorway, I saw them stand. They had all come together, hoping in this way the better to escape detection; their feet had silently fallen all at the one time, for they had practised marching in unison.

"After lingering for my answer he teasingly turned[Pg 1185] towards them, for they were so petrified at the sight of the Professor they stood irresolute, and he, quite conscious of the situation, then changed into a smiling host, and welcomed them to the feast. He made us all sit down and eat until the pie was entirely gone. I never made so uncomfortable a meal. I thought I would choke; the food stuck in my throat, and the silence, the torturing silence, was agonizing. I tell you, none of us fellows ever forgot that meal; it was the heaviest punishment we ever endured.

"When we were finished, our host's manner changed. He was again the Professor. In clear-cut sarcastic words he stated that in five minutes he would be in the algebra room, and would expect particularly well prepared papers.

"The remembrance of that feast thrills me yet. Oh, how we recoiled before him!" and the boy seemed to tremble and shrink while he talked. "Yes, that feast will keenly and uncomfortably thrill me always."

The boy having ended, looked gayly up at the driver, and was surprised to see how pained he looked. The man had believed every word, and could scarcely understand what was meant when he was told that the story was all imagination, that it never really happened, but was only made up to tell while his twig burned.

However, the man soon heartily laughed, and then asked, "Wha'd ye play next?" And so interested was he in hearing the merry games that he did his best to delay his horses so as not to miss too many of them.

The first that the boy explained was "The Fortunate Apple." On several pieces of wood, thin as paper, write in ink or paint girls' names. Use only first names, and, after including all the girls to be invited, make up others. Slip each name into an apple. This set will do for the boys; make similar ones for the girls. Fill three portable tubs with water, and set an even number of apples floating in each tub. Fasten the arms of three boys securely back, and cover them entirely with water-proof cloaks. Lead each boy to a tub and ask him to repeat distinctly,

"Witches and wizards and birds of the air,
Goblins and brownies, all lend me your care,
Now to choose wisely for once and for all,
And ever your names in praise loudly I'll call."

Then each boy must put his head down and try to catch in his teeth an apple. In it he'll find the name of one of the girls present, and she will be his fate. If the name is a strange one, there will even then be teasing enough for him. After the boys have all tried the game, then it is time for the girls.

Lead a girl up to a tub and blindfold her; lead her around while she repeats the rhyme, and with the words "loudly I call," she must bend down and try to catch in one hand an apple, or, if she prefers, she may try to spear an apple with a fork. If the latter way, only one drop of the fork will be allowed. If it sticks far enough in an apple not to fall altogether, her fate is sure.

Another game was called "The Three T's," or "The Tumbler Test."

Fill three tumblers with water. One must hold blue water, such as the laundress uses for clothes, another must hold soapy water, and another clear water, while still another must be empty. These tumblers should stand on a table directly before the individual who is to be blindfolded. After he is blindfolded, change the position of the glasses, placing one where the other one stood, and so on. Then instruct the party to dip his fingers into one of the tumblers. Having felt around, his fingers are dipped into clear water, and thus he learns that he is to marry a beautiful rich girl. Had he dipped into the soapy water, it would have meant that he would marry a poor widow; if in the blue water, he would be a noted author; if in the empty glass, he would die a bachelor. This game is played in the same way with the girls, only, of course, changing the sex, as, example, marrying a rich, handsome man.

As the boy was now very near home, he had only time to explain one more game, called "The Walnut's Fortune."

A quantity of walnuts had been carefully opened in half, and inside each one was slipped a narrow piece of paper which predicted the future. The nuts were kept from opening by having a small elastic slipped over each. The boys' walnuts were put in one basket and the girls' in another, and the girls' basket was first offered. As each girl held her hand over the basket she repeated,

"Steady, good fairy, I am wary;
Pray let my hand make no mistake;
I would only the right nut take."

Then, having put her hand down, she lifted up a nut, removed the elastic, and taking out the paper, read her future aloud. Example: "You will travel around the world. At the age of twenty-three you will sing before two thousand people." And thus the future was predicted in similar style for all the players.

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But the boy was at his destination, and therefore his new friend and himself had to part company, not before the driver said, however, "I'll come along arter you some day, fer I can't git over feelin' glad to see you ag'in; no knowin' what you'll hev ter tell nex' time."

A FINE OLD CHAP.

I like this kind old sunny soul,
Whom nothing can annoy;
His pleasant smile is e'er the same,
To fill my heart with joy.

I like his quaint, ungainly shape;
I like his big round face.
Although he's clumsy through and through,
To me he's full of grace.

Indeed, he's sweet enough to eat—
Feet, elbows, legs, and head—
This very dear old gentleman,
Who's made of gingerbread.

R. K. Munkittrick.

IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER VI.

lizabeth, in the days of Miss Rice's rule, had often thought that the most desirable thing in the world would be to go to school. She had often watched girls in the street hurrying along with books under their arms as the clock was about to strike nine, and they always looked so happy, and appeared to have so much to say to one another. That, to Elizabeth, was particularly delightful, for she had a friendly nature, although her lonely life had made her shy with other children.

And now she was to go to school herself. The summer was over, the Misses Herrick had returned to town, and arrangements had been made for entering Elizabeth at Mrs. Arnold's school. This decision had cost Miss Herrick some thought. It must be a good school educationally which she chose for her niece, but it must also be aristocratic. To Miss Herrick's mind, suitable acquaintances were more to be desired than "higher education."

Mrs. Arnold's school, however, apparently combined these two necessary qualifications; and on the morning after her twelfth birthday Elizabeth Herrick began her school life.

It was a very awful ordeal at first. She had never before encountered so many staring eyes, and when any one chanced to speak to her, it seemed as if she should sink through the floor.

The other girls appeared to know one another very well, and had much to say after the summer's absence. Elizabeth wondered when there would be time for lessons if the scholars all talked so incessantly, but she soon found that it was only on the first day of school that so much liberty was allowed. The girl who had the desk next to hers enlightened her on this point, as well as on various others.

"You are a new girl, aren't you?" she remarked.

"Yes," said Elizabeth; "are you?"

"Oh dear no! I have been here a year." Elizabeth looked at her with increased respect. She was a tall girl, with bright brown eyes, and curly hair which hung about her face in a dark mass. "I am almost fourteen," she continued; "at least, I am thirteen and a half. How old are you?"

"I was twelve yesterday."

"And my name is Patsy Wayne Loring—that is, it is really Martha, but Martha is such a hateful name I never want to tell it, and I have always been called Patsy. What is yours?"

"Elizabeth Herrick."

"Elizabeth! What a terribly long name! What do they call you?"

"They call me Elizabeth," returned her neighbor.

"Goody! I wouldn't let them if I were you. I should be called Bessie, or Betty, or Beth, or Elsie. There are lots of nicknames for Elizabeth. I think Elsie is a lovely name. But there is Miss Garner! She is very strict."

"Doesn't Mrs. Arnold sit in this room?"

"Oh no. This is the Intermediate, and Miss Garner has charge of this. Mrs. Arnold is in the Senior, and we hardly ever see her, except when we have been especially bad or especially good, and then we are sent in to her. I have never been in on the good list. But once, when I fixed a jack-in-the-box in Miss Garner's desk so that it popped up at her when she opened the desk, the old thing found me out, and sent me down to Mrs. Arnold. It was such fun to see her jump! I nearly died laughing."

Elizabeth looked at her new friend with wonder. Would she ever dare to do anything so scandalous? And was that what girls did at school?

"That is the new drawing and painting teacher," continued her neighbor; "her name is Mrs. Brown. She is awfully nice, the girls say."

"I wish I could take lessons; I love to draw."

"Why don't you? Perhaps you can't afford it. It is extra, and that is the reason I don't."

"I don't believe that is the reason. My aunt does not want me to. She never will let me draw at home."

"How very funny! But there is Miss Garner ringing the bell, so we shall have to stop talking. I shall tell you some more at recess."

WHEN SCHOOL WAS OVER A MAID WAS WAITING TO TAKE ELIZABETH HOME.

When school was over a maid was awaiting Elizabeth to accompany her home. Her new friend walked with her part of the way, but her destination was much nearer the school than was Elizabeth's, and she soon bade her good-by.

"I like you ever so much," were her parting words, "and I am sure we are going to be intimate friends. Come early to-morrow, and we shall have time to talk a little before school begins. Good-by!"

Elizabeth went home feeling that at last she was like other girls. She had a friend of her own. She could scarcely eat her luncheon she was so excited, and she longed for dinner-time, that she might recount her experiences to her aunts. They were not at home this afternoon.

She looked at her new books, and in a short time had studied her lessons for the next day. "It is too good to be true, Julius," she whispered to the cat, who sat purring in the window; "I have an intimate friend at last."

Fortunately no one dined there that night, so Elizabeth was to come to the table, and there were actually a few minutes in the library before dinner was announced in which she could be with her aunts.

"School is lovely, Aunt Caroline," said she, "and I have a friend already."

"Indeed! What is her name?"

"Patsy Loring."

"Loring? That is not a Philadelphia name; but of course she must be quite desirable, or she would not be at Mrs. Arnold's school."

"Her real name is Martha Wayne Loring, but she is always called— Why, what is the matter, Aunt Caroline?"

Miss Herrick's face wore the same look which Elizabeth had seen there once or twice before.

"Martha Wayne?" she murmured.

"Why, yes, Aunt Caroline; but she is called Patsy. I was going to tell you—"

"Rebecca," said Miss Herrick, in a weak voice, "do you suppose—"

"I think it is highly probable," said Miss Rebecca, briskly. "Martha Wayne married a Loring, and went to Boston to live."

"Patsy said they used to live in Boston," put in Elizabeth; "but when her father died, they came here."

"Of course it is the same," said Miss Herrick. "Of all things, to have her come into our lives again. I always thought that it was partly owing to Martha Wayne's influence that—"

She stopped abruptly.

[Pg 1187]

"But, Aunt Caroline, what do you mean? Do you know Patsy? Please tell me!"

"I cannot tell you. Do not ask me."

"Oh dear, another mystery!" exclaimed Elizabeth, petulantly. "I do hate secrets, and there are so many in this house! There is the closed room, and my father staying away, and now when I go to school, and everything seems nice and pleasant, and I have a friend at last, you go and make a mystery about her."

"Be quiet, Elizabeth. I cannot bear it! Rebecca, what do you think? Shall the child continue to go there? Will it do for her to be thrown with Martha Wayne's daughter?"

For a moment Elizabeth was speechless with indignation. Then, before her aunt Rebecca could reply, she started from her chair.

"Aunt Caroline," she cried, stamping her foot, "you are a horrid old thing! I will go there to school. I will be friends with Patsy! You won't let me have a thing like other girls! I wish my father would come home and take me away from here!" And she ran crying from the room.

"Her frightful temper again," exclaimed Miss Herrick; "and the doctor said she must not be excited! What shall we do, Rebecca?"

"You are very foolish to allow yourself to be so agitated. The child must go to school, and we cannot prevent her making friends. I wish Edward would come home and take her off our hands. But as for keeping her from Martha Wayne's daughter, or, in fact, from any one who knew Mildred—"

"Rebecca! How often have I asked you never to mention that name? I must go now and pacify Elizabeth, or she will make herself ill."

Miss Herrick's face looked drawn and old as she left the room. It was some time before Elizabeth could be quieted, but when she went to school the next morning it was with the permission to see as much of Patsy Loring as she wished.

The two girls were soon fast friends. Patsy came once or twice to Fourth Street, but they liked better to meet in her own little house, where the rooms were small, and the carpets and furniture were not particularly new, but where the sun shone brightly in at the windows, and where there was plenty of fun and merrymaking all day long.

"It is all so open here!" said Elizabeth one day.

"What do you mean, my dear?" asked Mrs. Loring, who was sewing by the table, while Patsy arranged her paper dolls. It was a rainy afternoon, and therefore the dolls were in demand.

"Oh, you have no shut-up rooms and secrets. Our house is full of skeletons. It is hateful."

"E-liz-a-beth!" exclaimed Patsy. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Well, how would you like to have a room in the house with a padlock on it that you never could go into, and have Aunt Caroline hush you up every time you asked about it? I have been there, though," and she nodded her head mysteriously.

Patsy left her paper dolls and drew nearer.

"Have you really? Do tell me about it," she said, while Mrs. Loring listened attentively.

"I stole the key and went in. Of course I ought not to have done it, but it was a whole year ago, and I was such a little thing I didn't know any better. I was only eleven then, you know. I went a good many times, until Aunt Caroline found me out. It is such a pretty room. If I only knew whom it belonged to! Mrs. Loring, I wonder if you know?" turning suddenly to Patsy's mother. "You look just as Aunt Caroline does when I speak of that room. What is there about that room that makes every one look so queer?"

"Why should you think that I know anything about it?" asked Mrs. Loring, recovering herself.

"Because I think Aunt Caroline used to know you, for she was so excited—at least, she didn't seem to like—well, please excuse me for saying it, but Aunt Caroline was so surprised to hear I knew Patsy, and at first she said— I don't believe I can tell you."

Elizabeth came to a full stop. She was too honest to extricate herself from the difficulty, and too polite to state the truth.

"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Loring, quietly, "I knew your aunts when I was a girl, it is true. But I cannot tell you about the room. Your aunt does not wish you to know, Elizabeth, and therefore you should not try to find out."

"I know I shouldn't, but it is so interesting. But I don't care so much about it, now that I have Patsy."

When Elizabeth went home that afternoon the old house looked grim and deserted. The aunts were out, as usual. She studied her lessons, and then sat down with a book by the front window. The rain had ceased, but the clouds were still thick and dark, and the room, handsomely furnished though it was, looked gloomier even than was its wont. It reminded her of the day, a whole year ago, when she wrote the letter to her lather—the letter which he had never answered.

Elizabeth's book fell from her hand and she leaned her head drearily against the window-pane. A whole year, and still he had not come.

Her attention was suddenly attracted by a figure on the sidewalk. It stood still for a moment, and then approached the steps. It was a boy in an overcoat, with the collar turned up about his ears, and a hat drawn closely down over his face. There was something familiar about that part of the face which could be seen, and almost immediately Elizabeth recognized him. It was Valentine.

He came up the steps and motioned to her to open the door.

"They are out, aren't they?" he asked, in a whisper.

"Why, Val, where did you come from?" exclaimed Elizabeth, but he interrupted her.

"Hush! Don't talk so loud. Are they out?"

"You mean Aunt Caroline and Aunt Rebecca? Yes, they are. But come in, Val. Don't stand out there. What is the matter? Have you come to stay?"

"I can't tell you now," he said, coming into the hall. "I am afraid they will come home and find me. I want you to hide me."

"Val! How can I, and why do you want to hide?"

"I tell you, never mind now. I will tell you some other time. You must hide me."

"But where?"

"In the locked-up room."

Elizabeth was speechless. She could only look at him.

"Come," exclaimed Valentine, impatiently, "don't stand there staring. Your eyes look as if they were going to pop out of your head. Let us hurry!"

"But, Val, I can't hide you there. I have been forbidden to go near that room, and I don't believe I can get the key now. Aunt Caroline keeps it in her desk, and her desk is nearly always locked."

"You must hide me there," said Valentine, decidedly, "and we can't stand here, or I shall be caught."

He ran up stairs, two steps at a time, and Elizabeth was obliged to follow him, though sorely against her will. What could it all mean? Why had he come, and why must he not be seen?

He went to the room which he had occupied when he was there a year ago.

"I will wait here," he said, "while you go and try to find the key, and if you can't find it, we will pick the lock."

"But why must you hide, Val? Why don't you just stay downstairs and tell Aunt Caroline you have come to make us a visit? She won't mind. She is not nearly as strict as she used to be, but she would mind dreadfully if she were to find you in the locked room."

"She won't find me there; that is, not if you have any sense. Of course if you spoil it all, that is a different thing. I wish you were Marjorie. She would have understood in a minute. But she will never be here again to help me—"

A lump came into Val's throat as he said this, and he was silent for a moment. Then he said,

"Well, are you going?"

"Yes."

The allusion to Marjorie was too much for Elizabeth.[Pg 1188] She went down to her aunt's room and walked to the desk. She would at least do this for Val. Then she would tell him that she could not open the desk, and that he must give up the idea.

But what did she see? She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The key of the desk was in the lock!

She stood there irresolute. Her conscience told her that she should not open it. Her aunt had left the key by an oversight, and she should not take advantage of it. On the other hand, Val was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. Apparently it was most important that he should be hidden; and then—his mention of Marjorie. He had said that Marjorie would have done it; that she would have helped him. This decided the question in Elizabeth's mind. She would try to atone to Val if she could for the loss of his cousin, and perhaps it would have the effect of making him care for her, his sister.

She opened the desk, and easily finding the little Chinese cabinet, she took out the keys, closed the desk again, and ran up stairs.

It was a whole year since she had entered the closed room. She had not been there since she and Val locked the door after the departure of the Brady girls, and now together they were opening it again.

"The first thing," said he, "is to give me something to eat. I am as hungry as a hunter. And then I will tell you why I came."

Elizabeth ran down to the pantry. There were crackers to be found there, and some fresh cake, and there was fruit on the sideboard in the dining-room. She filled two plates, and thus laden she hastened up the stairs again. Val had opened the blinds and drawn a chair to the window, and had made himself completely at home.

"I am mighty glad to get here," he remarked, "and it was the greatest piece of luck to have you come to the window. I did not know how I was going to get in, for it is very important that no one but you should know that I am here. I hung around the corner till I thought I saw the aunts' carriage drive off, and then you came and sat at the window."

"But, Val, why can't you be seen, and how long are you going to stay? I am sure I cannot hide you long, and I don't know what Aunt Caroline will say when she finds it out. I really think she feels worse about this room than she ever did."

"Leave it all to me, and do just as I say," returned Valentine, loftily. "If you don't go and make a mull of it, she'll never know. And now I will tell you why I am here, only first you must promise, on your word of honor, that you won't give me away."

"I promise—at least I think I do," said Elizabeth, slowly. "But wait a minute, Val. I wish you would let me tell Patsy."

"Who is Patsy?"

"She is my friend—my intimate friend—and she is just lovely, Val. She would never tell, and we have promised to tell each other everything. Do let me."

"No, you can't; not a word. Girls always have to tell each other such a lot. Now if you want to know how I happened to get here you must promise not to say a word to her. Will you?"

"Very well," returned Elizabeth, regretfully. "I won't tell her. But, Val!"

"What is it?"

"I have not promised not to tell Aunt Caroline."

"Aunt Caroline! Why, she is the person of all others that I don't want to have know it. What on earth do you mean, Elizabeth?"

The little girl was standing by the dressing-table. For a moment she did not speak, and she slowly turned over, one by one, the pile of unopened letters which had been lying there so long.

"If I promise not to tell, are you going to explain why you came and all about it?" she asked.

"Yes—every word."

"Oh, I do want to know so much! And if I tell Aunt Caroline you are here, what will you do?"

"I sha'n't explain a word of it, and I will never have another thing to do with you. I shall always think you are the meanest girl in creation, and so you will be. I shall just wish you were not my sister. Oh, jiminy! why aren't you Marjorie? She would have helped me out."

[to be continued.]

[Pg 1189]

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER XVII.

Very splendid was the ball at the palace that night, and very splendid to George's provincial eyes were the assemblies in the great Apollo Room at the Raleigh, where the wits and beaux and belles of the colonial court assembled. Sir John Peyton was not the only dandy to be met with there, although by far the most entertaining. There were many handsome and imposing matrons, but George saw none that his mother could not outshine in dignity and grace; and many beautiful girls, but none more charming than Betty. As communication with his home was easy and frequent, he could write long descriptive letters to Ferry Farm, as well as to Mount Vernon. Betty became so infatuated with George's accounts of the fine people and gay doings at Williamsburg that she wrote George: "I wish, dear George, you would not write me any more about the routs and assemblies at Williamsburg, for your poor sister's head is so full of junkets and capers and the like that she attends to her duties very ill, and drops stitches in her knitting, which brings her many reproofs, and plays nothing but jigs on the harpsichord, instead of those noble compositions of Mr. Handel of which our mother is so fond."

George laughed when he read this. He know, no matter how much Betty's little head might be filled with gayeties, she never forgot to do her whole duty, and had always time for a kind act or an affectionate word to others. But there were more than balls and routs and Governor's levees in this visit. George had the opportunity of knowing men prominent in colonial matters—statesmen, scholars, lawyers, men of affairs; and Lord Fairfax, ever on the alert for his favorite's advancement, lost no chance of bringing him to the attention of those in power.

Among the persons they met were many officers of the Governor's suite, as well as those attached to the ships at Yorktown. George's passion for a military life had never died or even languished; but by the exertion of a powerful will he had kept it in abeyance until the times were ripe. Already were Governor Dinwiddie and his council preparing a scheme of defence for the frontier, and Lord Fairfax, with other leading men in the colony, were invited to meet the Governor and council to discuss these affairs. After attending one of these meetings, the Earl, on coming back to his lodgings, said:

"George, after our conference broke up I talked with the Governor concerning you and your future, and he promised me, if the plan is carried out of dividing the colony into districts, with an Inspector-General with the rank of Major for each, that you shall have a commission—that is, if you have not given up your wish for a military life."

As Lord Fairfax spoke a deep red dyed George's face.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "I never have given up, I never can give up, my wish for a military life; and although I did not accept the warrant I was given in the navy, it almost broke my heart. But fighting for my country is another thing; and if the Governor calls on me for my services it would certainly be my duty to respond—and I shall."

After four delightful weeks in Williamsburg they returned to Mount Vernon; and George, following his plan for two years past, divided his time between Mount Vernon and Ferry Farm until April, when he again started for Greenway Court, where Lord Fairfax had preceded him. Again he started for the frontier with Gist and Davidson, and again he repeated the experiences of the former year almost without the slightest variation. But on his return in September to Greenway Court a melancholy letter from Laurence Washington awaited him. The doctors had declared a sea-voyage the only thing that would restore Laurence's health; and passage for Barbadoes had been engaged in the Sprightly Jane, a commodious merchantman sailing between Alexandria and the West Indies. Laurence[Pg 1190] wrote, saying that George must accompany him, otherwise he would not go, to suffer and die, perhaps, among strangers.

Two hours after receiving this letter George was on his way to Mount Vernon. The Earl, ever kind, assured him that Gist and Davidson, both highly intelligent men, could give him all the information necessary, together with George's papers, and, furnished with the best horse in the stables at Greenway Court, George set out with a heavy heart. He travelled night and day, and reached Mount Vernon a week before the very earliest day that he was expected. His brother's pale and emaciated countenance, his sister's anxiety, cut George to the heart. All the preparations for sailing were made, and the Sprightly Jane only waited a fair wind to trip her anchor. George took time to spend one day at Ferry Farm. Madam Washington was a woman of great fortitude, except in one particular—she trembled at the idea of danger to this best-beloved son; but she made no objection to the voyage, which she saw that George considered not only his duty but his pleasure to make to oblige the best of brothers. But Betty had fortitude even in parting with him. As George rode back through the night to Mount Vernon he could not recall a single instance in connection with himself in which Betty had considered herself or her love for him or the solace of his society; always, her first and only thought was for his credit.

"Dear Betty," thought George, as his horse took the road steadily through the darkness, "I believe you would inspire the veriest poltroon that walks with courage to do his duty."

And Betty was so very pretty and winning and coquettish, and had troops of young gentlemen to admire her, at whom George scowled darkly, and thought Betty entirely too young for such things. But Betty thought differently, and rated George soundly for his overbearing ways in that respect. For she was not the least afraid of him, and could talk him down with the greatest spirit and emphasis at any time, George being a little in awe of Betty's nimble tongue.

Late in September Laurence Washington, with George and his faithful body-servant Peter, sailed for Barbadoes. The voyage lasted five weeks, and was very tedious. It did more to cure George of his still smouldering passion for a sea life than he had thought possible. To a young man accustomed to the boundless forests the confinement was irksome. He was used to pursue his plans regardless of weather, and the lying motionless for days in a dead and depressing calm chafed him inexpressibly. Laurence, who bore patiently all the discomforts and delays of their position, could not forbear a wan smile when George, coming down one day to his cabin, burst forth:

"Brother, you were right to prefer the army to the navy for me. At least, let me be where if I walk ten miles I shall be ten miles advanced on my way. I have walked ten miles around this vessel, and I am just where I started."

On a beautiful autumn morning, under a dazzling sun, they landed at Barbadoes. The Governor of the island, hearing that the sick gentleman had once been an officer in the British army, immediately called at their temporary lodgings and offered every kindness in his power. He advised Laurence to take a house in the country near the sea, where the air was good. That afternoon they drove out to the house recommended by the Governor, and in a few days were comfortably established there.

At first Laurence improved much. He received every attention, and took pleasure in the society of the officers of the garrison, who found two polished and educated strangers a great resource in their monotonous lives. So anxious was one of them—Colonel Clarke—to have them to dinner that he very unwisely invited them, without mentioning that a member of his family was just recovering from the small-pox.

They knew nothing of it until their return home, when both of them were naturally indignant; and George had reason to be, for within nine days he was seized with a well-marked case of the terrible disease. In anticipation of it, he had made every arrangement, and, having engaged an old Barbadian negro, who had had small-pox, for a nurse he shut himself up to fight the disease.

His powerful constitution triumphed over it, and in three weeks he was well. But never in all his life did he forget the sufferings of those dreadful weeks. Utterly unused to illness, he endured agonies of restlessness, and was like a caged lion in his wrath and furious impatience. The old Barbadian, who had nursed many small-pox patients, made him laugh, while in one of his worst moods, by saying, gravely:

"Barbadian nuss small-pox folks forty year. 'Ain't neber see no patient so bad like Massa Washington."

A fear haunted him that sometimes made him smile grimly, but, nevertheless, gave him some anxious moments. The idea of being horribly disfigured for life was bitter to him. He saw no one but the old Barbadian, and felt afraid to ask him; and as he said nothing about the marks of the disease, there was room to suspect they were bad. George had been able to sit up several days before he dared to look in the glass. At last one day, nerving himself, he walked steadily to the mirror and looked at himself, expecting to see a vision of horror. To his amazement and deep relief, there was not a single permanent mark. His skin was red, his eyes were hollow and sunken, and he was not by any means the handsome young man who had landed on the island four weeks before, but he was unmarked. He felt a deep thankfulness in his heart when he was thoroughly recovered, though he was distressed to find that his brother grew daily weaker.

Christmas amid waving palmettoes and under a tropical sky was dreary to the two brothers, and soon after it became plain that the climate was doing Laurence no good. One night, calling George to him, he said:

"George, I have determined to leave this island and, with Peter, go to Bermuda. But I am homesick and heartsick for those I love, therefore I have determined to send you back to the colony for your sister Anne, to bring her to me. If I am compelled to be an exile, I will, at least, have the comfort of her society, and I do not think it right, at your age, to keep you forever tied to a sick man's chair."

George answered, with tears in his eyes, "Whatever you wish, brother, shall be done."

It was found that a vessel was sailing for the Potomac in January, and on her, with a heart heavier than when he came, George embarked the same day that his brother sailed for Bermuda.

Storms instead of calms delayed this return voyage, and it was late in February before George reached Mount Vernon. He tried to make the best of Laurence's condition in describing it to his sister, but Mrs. Washington, with a sad smile, stopped him.

"I know all that your kind heart, George, would make you say; but I know also that my husband is very, very ill, and when I go to him now it will be never to leave him again."

The Sprightly Jane was to make another voyage in March, and it was intended that George and his sister should sail on her; but she was delayed below Mount Vernon for two weeks, waiting for a wind. One morning late in March, George, looking out of the window on rising to see if there were any chance of getting off that day, felt a strong wind from the northwest; but as soon as his eyes fell on the river he saw a frigate at anchor that had evidently come in during the night. And while watching her he saw the Captain's gig shove off with two figures in it that wonderfully resembled his brother Laurence and his faithful Peter. George jumped into his clothes, and ran down stairs and to the shore to make certain, and there in the boat, half supported by his servant, lay Laurence, pale and ill beyond description, but with a happy light in his weary, suffering eyes. In a few minutes Mrs. Washington came flying down, and, with clasped hands and tears streaming down her cheeks, awaited her husband on the end of the little wharf. The negroes flocked after her, and shouts and cries resounded of, "Howdy, Marse Laurence! Bless de Lord, you done come! Hi! yonder is dat ar Peter! Lordy, Peter!"

This joyous welcome, the presence of faces dear and[Pg 1191] familiar, the sight of home, was almost too much happiness for the poor invalid. George literally carried Laurence in his strong young arms up to the house, while his wife clung to his hand, the old black mammy hung over him, blessing "de Lam'" for letting him return to them, and the negroes yah-yahed with delight.

"I could not stay away any longer," said Laurence, "and when the ship came to Bermuda, and the kind Captain saw how hard it was for me to stay, to die among strangers, he invited me to return with him as his guest. I thought that you, Anne, and George might already have started for Bermuda, but, thanks to the good God, I find you here."

All those who loved Laurence Washington saw that day that his end was near, and within three months, with the calmness of the Christian soldier, he gave up his life.

One gloomy September day, just a year from the time he had set forth with his brother on that dreary voyage, George realized that at last he was master of Mount Vernon, and the realization was among the most painful moments of his life. He returned to the place from Belvoir, the home of his sister's father, where he had left her. In vain he had pleaded with her to continue at Mount Vernon, for Laurence in his will had given it to her during her lifetime. But, gentle and submissive in all else, Anne Washington would not and could not return to the home of her brief married happiness and the spot connected with the long series of crushing griefs that had befallen her.

To all of George's pleadings she had answered:

"No, George. Anywhere on earth to me is better than Mount Vernon. I understand what you feel and have not spoken—that you do not wish to appear to be master while I am living. But you must. I have no fear that you will not give me my share and more of what comes from the estate; but I would give it all up rather than go back. My father's house is the least painful place to me now."

There was no moving her, and at last she was permitted to have her own way.

The servants all crowded around him, and the old mammy, who was promoted to be housekeeper, wanted him to take the rooms that had once been his brother's; but George would not, and had his belongings placed in the little room overlooking the river which had been his from his boyhood. This much disgusted Billy, who thought the master of Mount Vernon quite too modest. He spent the autumn there, varied by occasional visits to Ferry Farm and his sister at Belvoir. He worked hard, for he regarded himself as merely his sister's steward, and he determined never to make her regret either his brother's or her own generosity to him. He never thought Mount Vernon could be so dreary to him. William Fairfax, who was then graduated from William and Mary College, came over to see him often, but George had not the heart to return even William's visits, so it was all on one side. His mother and Betty came to visit him, but Madam Washington had upon her hands three growing lads, the eldest a tall youth of seventeen, and with the vast cares and responsibilities of the mistress of a plantation in those days, she could not be absent for long. The only time in which there was any real brightness was once when Betty came over and staid a whole month with him. George's affections, like his passions, were rooted in the fibre of his being, and he felt his brother's death with a depth of sorrow that only those who knew him well could understand.

At Christmas he gave all the negroes their usual privileges and presents, but closed the house and went to Ferry Farm. In the holiday-time his coming gave the greatest joy, and the cloud upon him began to lift a little.

Meanwhile he had received his commission as Major and Inspector-General of the forces in his district from Governor Dinwiddie, and he entered with enthusiasm into his work. He attended the general musters diligently at Alexandria, and used all his influence in promoting enlistments in the militia. He was then nineteen years old—the youngest Major in the colonial service.

He was in constant receipt of letters from Lord Fairfax giving him news of affairs on the frontier, which were assuming a menacing aspect. In one of these letters Lord Fairfax wrote: "The policy of the English has always been to keep on friendly terms with the Six Nations, and the good-will of these great and powerful tribes is essential in the coming conflict. But they have been tampered with by the French, and the great chief lately sent me this message: 'Where are the Indian lands, anyway? For the French claim all on one side of the Ohio and the English claim all on the other.' By which you will see, my dear George, that in diplomacy, as in war, you will find these chiefs no fools. Our honorable Governor means well, but I think he will wait until a few men, and perhaps women, are scalped before taking any decisive measures. I need not say I long to see you. Let not another year pass without your coming to Greenway Court."

All during the summer George kept up an active correspondence with the Earl, who had special means of finding out the truth. In the early autumn he received a very pressing message from the Governor, requiring his presence at Williamsburg. George set off immediately, with Billy, as usual, in charge of his saddle-bags. These sudden journeys, in which George could ride tirelessly night and day, very much disgusted Billy, who, as a man, was quite as fond of his ease as when a boy, but he was obliged to start on short notice.

They arrived at Williamsburg in the evening, and George immediately sent Billy to the palace with a letter notifying the Governor of his arrival. In a very little while a letter came back from Governor Dinwiddie asking Major Washington's presence at the palace at his very earliest convenience.

George had held his commission as Major for more than a year, and at twenty-one military titles have a captivating sound. So Major Washington, as soon as he had got his supper, changed his travelling-suit, and, preceded by Billy with a lantern, picked his way through the muddy streets to the palace. Then the door opened, and Major Washington was announced.

George's appearance, always striking, was more so from the handsome mourning-suit he still wore, although his brother had been dead more than a year. It showed off his blond beauty wonderfully well. His features had become more marked as he grew older, and although his face lacked the regular beauty of his father's, who had been thought the handsomest man of his time, there was a piercing expression, an indescribable look of dignity and intelligence, in George's countenance, which marked him in every company.

The Governor, who was a fussy but well-meaning man, began, as soon as the formal greetings were over: "Major Washington, I have work in hand for you. I am told by my Lord Fairfax and others that you are the fittest person in the colony for the expedition I have in hand. It requires the discretion of an old man, but it also requires the hardiness and strength of a young man; and you see, therefore, what a burden I lay upon you."

George's face turned quite pale at these words. "Sir," he stammered, "you ask more of me than I can do. I will give all my time and all my mind to my country, but I am afraid, sir—I am very much afraid—that you are putting me in a position that I am not capable of filling."

"HERE ARE YOUR INSTRUCTIONS."

"We must trust some one, Major Washington, and I sent not for you until I and my council had fully determined what to do. Here are your instructions. You will see that you are directed to set out with a suitable escort at once for the Ohio River, and convene all the chiefs you can at Logstown. You are to find out exactly how they stand towards us. You are then to take such a route as you think judicious to the nearest French post, deliver a letter from me, sealed with the great seal of the colony, to the French commandant, and demand an answer in the name of his Britannic Majesty. You are to find out everything possible in regard to the number of French forts, their armament, troops, commissariat, and where they are situated; and upon the information you bring will depend to a great degree whether there shall be war between England and France. When will you be ready to depart?"

"To-morrow morning, sir," answered George.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 1192]

BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN.

BY JAMES BARNES.

The first Thomas Macdonough was a Major in the Continental army, and his three sons also possessed desires for entering the service of their country. The oldest had been a midshipman under Commodore Truxton, but being wounded in the action between the Constellation and L'Insurgent, he had to retire from the navy, owing to the amputation of his leg. But his younger brother, Thomas Macdonough, Jun., succeeded him, and he has rendered his name and that of Lake Champlain inseparable; but his fearlessness and bravery were shown on many occasions long before he was ordered to the Lakes.

In 1806 he was First Lieutenant of the Siren, a little sloop-of-war in the Mediterranean service. On one occasion when Captain Smith, the commander of the Siren, had gone on shore, young Lieutenant Macdonough saw a boat from a British frigate lying in the harbor row up to an American brig a short distance off, and afterwards put out again with one more man in her than she had originally. This looked suspicious, and Macdonough sent to the brig to ascertain the reason, with the result that he found that an American had been impressed by the English Captain's orders. Macdonough quietly lowered his own boat, and put after the heavy cutter, which he soon overhauled. Although he had but four men with him, he took the man out of the cutter and brought him on board the Siren. When the English Captain heard, or rather saw, what had occurred—it was right under the bow of his frigate that the affair took place—he waxed wroth, and, calling away his gig, he rowed to the Siren to demand an explanation.

The following account of the incident is quoted from the life of Macdonough in Frost's Naval Biography:

"The Englishman desired to know how Macdonough dared to take a man from one of his Majesty's boats. The Lieutenant, with great politeness, asked him down into the cabin; this he refused, at the same time repeating the same demand, with abundance of threats. The Englishman threw out some threats that he would take the man by force, and said he would haul the frigate alongside the Siren for that purpose. To this Macdonough replied that he supposed his ship could sink the Siren, but as long as she could swim he should keep the man. The English Captain said to Macdonough:

"'You are a very young man, and a very indiscreet young man. Suppose I had been in the boat—what would you have done?'

"'I would have taken the man or lost my life.'

"'What, sir! would you attempt to stop me, if I were now to attempt to impress men from that brig?'

"'I would; and to convince yourself I would, you have only to make the attempt.'

"On this the Englishman went on board his ship, and shortly afterwards was seen bearing down in her in the direction of the American vessel. Macdonough ordered his boat manned and armed, got into her himself, and was in readiness for pursuit. The Englishman took a circuit around the American brig, and returned again to the frigate. When Captain Smith came on board he justified the conduct of Macdonough, and declared his intention to protect the American seaman."

Although Macdonough was very young, and his rank but that of a Lieutenant, people who knew him were not surprised to hear that he had been appointed to take command of the little squadron on Lake Champlain. These vessels were built of green pine, and almost without exception constructed in a hurried fashion. They had to be of light draught, and yet, odd to relate, their general model was the same as that of ships that were expected to meet storms and high seas.

Macdonough was just the man for the place; as in the case of Perry, he had a superb self-reliance, and was eager to meet the enemy.

Lake Champlain and the country that surrounds it were considered of great importance by the English, and, descending from Canada, large bodies of troops poured into New York State. But the American government had, long before the war was fairly started, recognized the advantage of keeping the water communications on the northern frontier. The English began to build vessels on the upper part of the lake, and the small force of ships belonging to the Americans was increased as fast as possible. It was a race to see which could prepare the better fleet in the shorter space of time.

In the fall of the year 1814 the English had one fair-sized frigate, the Confiance, mounting 39 guns; a brig, the Linnet; a sloop, Chubb, and the sloop Finch; besides which they possessed thirteen large galleys aggregating 18 guns. In all, therefore, the English fleet mounted 95 guns. The Americans had the Saratoga, sloop-of-war, 26 guns; the Eagle, 20; the Ticonderoga, 17; the Preble, 7; and ten galleys carrying 16 guns; their total armament was nine guns less than the British.

By the first week in September Sir George Prevost had organized his forces, and started at the head of fourteen thousand men to the southward. It was his intention to dislodge General Macomb, who was stationed at Plattsburg, where considerable fortifications had been erected. A great deal of the militia force had been drawn down the State to the city of New York, owing to the fears then entertained that the British intended to make an attack upon the city from their fleet. It was Sir George's plan to destroy forever the power of the Americans upon the lake, and for that reason it was necessary to capture the naval force which had been for some time under the command of Macdonough. The English leader arranged a plan with Captain Downie, who was at the head of the squadron, that simultaneous attacks should be made by water and land. At eight o'clock on the morning of September 11 news was brought to Lieutenant Macdonough that the enemy was approaching. As his own vessels were in a good position to repel the attack, he decided to remain at anchor, and await the onslaught in a line formation. In about an hour the enemy had come within gunshot distance, and formed a line of his own parallel with that of the Americans. There was little or no breeze, and consequently small chance for manœuvring. The Confiance evidently claimed the honor of exchanging broadsides with the Saratoga. The Linnet stopped opposite the Eagle, and the galleys rowed in and began to fire at the Ticonderoga and the Preble.

THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN.—"SARATOGA" RAKING "CONFIANCE."

Macdonough wrote such a clear and concise account of the action that it is best to quote from it:

".... The whole force on both sides became engaged, the Saratoga suffering much from the heavy fire of the Confiance. I could perceive at the same time, however, that our fire was very destructive to her. The Ticonderoga, Lieutenant-Commandant Cassin, gallantly sustained her full share of the action. At half past ten the Eagle, not being able to bring her guns to bear, cut her cable, and anchored in a more eligible position, between my ship and the Ticonderoga, where she very much annoyed the enemy, but unfortunately leaving me exposed to a galling fire from the enemy's brig.

"Our guns on the starboard side being nearly all dismounted or unmanageable, a stern anchor was let go, the bower-cable cut, and the ship winded with a fresh broadside on the enemy's ship, which soon after surrendered. Our broadside was then sprung to bear on the brig, which struck about fifteen minutes afterwards. The sloop which was opposed to the Eagle had struck some time before, and drifted down the line. The sloop which was with their galleys had also struck. Three of their galleys are said to be sunk; the others pulled off. Our galleys were about obeying with alacrity the signal to follow them, when all the vessels were reported to me to be in a sinking state. It then became necessary to annul the signal to the galleys, and order their men to the pumps. I could only look at the enemy's galleys going off in a shattered condition; for there was not a mast in either squadron that could stand to make sail on. The lower rigging, being nearly all shot away, hung down as though it had just been placed over the mastheads.

"The Saratoga had fifty-nine round shot in her hull; the Confiance one hundred and five. The enemy's shot passed[Pg 1193]
[Pg 1194] principally just over our heads, as there were not twenty whole hammocks in the nettings at the close of the action, which lasted, without intermission, two hours and twenty minutes.

"The absence and sickness of Lieutenant Raymond Perry left me without the assistance of that able officer. Much ought fairly to be attributed to him for his great care and attention in disciplining the ship's crew, as her First Lieutenant. His place was filled by a gallant young officer, Lieutenant Peter Gamble, who, I regret to inform you, was killed early in the action."

The English had begun the action as if they never doubted the result being to their advantage, and before taking up their positions in the line parallel to Macdonough's Downie had sailed upon the waiting fleet bows on; thus most of his vessels had been severely raked before they were able to return the fire. As soon as Sir George Prevost saw the results of the action out on the water, he gave up all idea of conquest, and began the retreat that left New York free to breathe again. The frontier was saved. The hills and the shores of the lake had been crowded with multitudes of farmers, and the two armies encamped on shore had stopped their own preparations and fighting to watch.

Sir George Prevost had bombarded the American forts from the opposite side of the river Saranac, and a brigade endeavored to ford the river with the intention of attacking the rear of General Macomb's position. However, they got lost in the woods, and were recalled by a mounted messenger just in time to hear the cheers and shouts of victory arise from all about them.

In the battle the Saratoga had twenty-eight men killed and twenty-nine wounded, more than a quarter of her entire crew; the Eagle lost thirteen killed and twenty wounded; the Ticonderoga, six killed and six wounded; the Preble, two killed; and the galleys, three killed and three wounded. The Saratoga was hulled fifty-five times, and had caught on fire twice from the hot shot fired by the Confiance. The latter vessel was reported to have lost forty-one killed outright and eighty-three wounded. In all, the British loss was eighty-four killed and one hundred and ten wounded.

Macdonough received substantial testimonials of gratitude from the country at large, the Legislature of New York giving him one thousand acres of land, and the State of Vermont two hundred. Besides this, the corporations of Albany and New York city made him the present of a valuable lot, and from his old command in the Mediterranean he received a handsome presentation sword.

An English journalist travelling through the United States relates a humorous incident in his experience out West. He was journeying overland on horseback, and one day, after a long spell of desolate travel, he espied a house on the prairie. He rode up to the doorway and accosted the only person around, a long gentleman in boots, these boots seemingly trying to reach the sky, they were perched so high above the owner's head. They came slowly down at the salutation.

"Howdy do, stranger? Glad ter see yer. This is Boonville," and with a sweeping gesture he compassed a landscape of grass and wooden stakes. "There's Broadway runnin' down 'tween them stakes, and there's Chicago Avenue, St. Louis Avenue, St. Paul Avenue, and all them are streets staked off'n it. On the lookout for a buildin' site?"

"No," replied the journalist; "I'm just travelling for pleasure, not for investment."

"That's my luck, stranger. Here's this town been er-runnin' full blast with all the offices filled, and I can't get a citizen."

"Where's the Mayor?"

"I'm the Mayor."

"Where are the police, judges, and that sort of thing?"

"I'm all that. Yer see, stranger, I'm everything. I elects myself to all offices; but it's mighty poor payin' ones I'm er-holdin'."

"How do you manage to get along, then?"

"Don't, stranger; that's the puzzle. Yer see, there's only fifty cents in the town treasury, and I've been payin' my rent and taxes with it, and collecting my salary as Mayor and all my other offices from it so long and it's been handled so much that the town books won't balance any more. Yer see, I can't find anything to balance the books with fur the wear of the silver off that coin, and I'm out that much. Now, stranger, if yer not goin' ter invest, and want ter boom the town er little, yer might make up that deficit in the treasury, so's I kin balance them books, and make things square for the next Mayor."

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

IX.

The next day was Sunday, so we did not leave the White River camp till Monday morning. We found Chadron (pronounced Shadron) an extremely lively town in which all of the citizens wore big hats and immense jingling Mexican spurs. We had the big hats, but to be in fashion and not to attract attention we also got jingling spurs.

"I shall wear 'em all night," said Jack, as he strapped his on. "Only dudes take off their spurs when they go to bed, and I'm no dude."

Our next objective point was Rapid City. It was a beautiful morning when we turned to the north. The sand had disappeared, and the soil was more like asphalt pavement.

"The farmers fire their seed into the ground with six-shooters," said a man we fell in with on the road. "Very expensive for powder."

"The soil's what you call gumbo, isn't it?" I said to him.

"Yes. Works better when it's wet. One man can stick a spade into it then. Takes two to pull it out, though."

It was not long before we passed the Dakota line, marked by a post and a pile of tin cans. Shortly before noon Ollie made a discovery.

"What are those little animals?" he cried. "Oh, I know—prairie-dogs!"

There was a whole town of them right beside the road, with every dog sitting on top of the mound that marked his home, and uttering his shrill little bark, and marking each bark by a peculiar little jerk of his tail.

"How do you know they are prairie-dogs?" asked Jack.

"They had some of them in the park at home," said Ollie. "But last fall they all went down in their burrows for the winter, and in the spring they didn't come up. Folks said they must have frozen to death."

"Nonsense," said Jack. "They got turned around somehow, and in the spring dug down instead of digging up. They may come out in China yet if they have good luck."

"I can't hardly swallow that," replied Ollie. "But, anyhow, these seem to be all right."

There must have been three or four hundred of them, and not for a moment did one of them stop barking till Snoozer jumped out of the wagon and charged them, when, with one last bark, each one of them shot down his hole so quick that it was almost impossible to see him move.

"Now that's just about the sort of game that Snoozer likes," exclaimed Jack. "If they were badgers, or even woodchucks, you couldn't drive him at them."

"I don't think there is much danger of his getting any of them," said Ollie.

We called Snoozer back, and soon one of the little animals cautiously put up his head, saw that the coast was clear, gave one bark, and all the rest came up, and the concert began as if nothing had happened.

"I suppose that was the mayor of the town that peeped up first," said Ollie.

"Yes, or the chief of police," answered Jack.

We camped that night by the bed of a dry creek, and watered the horses at a settler's house half a mile away.

"That's the most beautiful place for a stream I ever saw," observed Jack. "If a man had a creek and no bed for it to run in, he'd be awfully glad to get that."

Tho next day was distinctly a prairie-dog day. We[Pg 1195] passed dozens of their towns, and were seldom out of hearing of their peculiar chirp.

"I wonder," said Ollie, "if the bark makes the tail go, or does the tail set off the bark."

"Oh, neither," returned Jack. "They simply check off the barks with their tails. There's a National Prairie-Dog Barking Contest going on, and they are seeing who can yelp the most in a week. They keep count with their tails."

At the little town of Oelrichs we saw a number of Indians, since we were again near the reservation. One little girl nine or ten years old must have been the daughter of an important personage, since she was dressed in most gorgeous clothes, all covered with beads and colored porcupine-quill-work. And at last Ollie saw an Indian wearing feathers. Three eagle feathers stuck straight up in his hair. He was standing outside of a log house looking in the window. By-and-by a young lady came to the door of the house, and as we were nearer than anybody else, she motioned us to come over.

"I wish," she said, "that you'd please go around and ask Big Bear to go away. He keeps looking in the window and bothering the scholars."

We stepped around the corner, and Jack said, "See here, neighbor Big Bear, you're impeding the cause of education."

The Indian looked at him stolidly but did not move.

"TEACHER SAYS VAMOOSE."

"Teacher says vamoose—heap bother pappooses," said Jack.

The Indian grunted and walked away.

"Nothing like understanding the language," boasted Jack, as we went back to the wagon.

At noon we camped beside a stream, but thirty feet above it. There was a clay bank almost as hard as stone rising perpendicularly from the water's edge. With a pail and rope we drew up all the water we needed. In the afternoon we got our first sight of the Black Hills, like clouds low on the northern horizon. About the same time we struck into the old Sidney trail, which, before the railroad had reached nearer points, was used in carrying freight to the hills in wagons. In some places it was half a mile wide and consisted of a score or more of tracks worn into deep ruts. There was a herd of several thousand Texas cattle crossing the trail in charge of a dozen men, and we waited and watched them go by. Ollie had never seen such a display of horns before.

Shortly after this we came upon the first sage-bush which we had seen. It was queer gray stuff, shaped like miniature trees, and had the appearance of being able to get along with very little rain.

Toward night we found ourselves winding down among the hills to the Cheyenne River. They were strange-looking hills, most of them utterly barren on their sides, which were nearly perpendicular, the hard soil standing almost as firm as rock. They were ribbed and seamed by the rain—in fact, they were not hills at all, properly speaking, but small bluffs left by the washing out of the ravines by the rain and melting snows. Just as the sun was sinking among the distant hills we came to the river. It was shallow, only four or five yards wide, and we easily forded it and camped on the other side. The full moon was just rising over the eastern hills. There was not a sound to be heard except the gentle murmur of the stream and the faint rustle of the leaves on a few cottonwood trees. There was plenty of driftwood all around, and after supper we built up the largest camp-fire we had ever had. The flame leaped up above the wagon-top, and drifted away in a column of sparks and smoke, while the three horses stood in the background with their heads close together munching their hay, and the four of us (counting Snoozer) lay on the ground and blinked at the fire.

"This is what I call the proper thing," remarked Jack, after some time, as he rolled over on his blanket and looked at the great round moon.

"Yes," I said, "this will do well enough. But it would be pretty cool here if it wasn't for that fire."

"Yes, the nights are getting colder, that's certain. I was just wondering if that cover will withstand snow as well as it does rain?"

"Why," said Ollie, "do you think it's going to snow?"

"Not to-night," returned Jack. "But it may before we get out of the mountains. The snow comes pretty early up there sometimes. I think I'll get inside and share the bed with the rancher after this, and you and Snoozer can curl up in the front end of the wagon-box. It would be a joke if we got snowed in somewhere, and had to live in the Rattletrap till spring."

"I wouldn't care if we could keep warm," said Ollie. "I like living in it better than in any house I ever saw."

"I'm afraid it would get a little monotonous along in March," laughed Jack. "Though I think myself it's a pretty good place to live. Stationary houses begin to seem tame. I hope the trip won't spoil us all, and make vagabonds of us for the rest of our lives."

We were reluctant to leave this camp the next morning, but knew that we must be moving on. It was but a few miles to the town of Buffalo Gap, and we passed through it before noon.

"There are more varmints," cried Ollie, as we were driving through the town. They were in a cage in front of a store, and we stopped to see them.

"What are they?" one of us asked the man who seemed to own them.

"Bob-cats," he answered, promptly.

"Must be a Buffalo Gap name for wild-cats," said Jack, as we drove on, "because that's what they are."

Ollie had gone into a store to buy some cans of fruit, and when he came out he looked much bewildered.

"KEEP IT, SONNY; I HAVEN'T GOT ANY CHICKENS."

"I think," he said, "that that man must be crazy, or something. There were thirty cents coming to me in change. He tossed out a quarter and said, 'Two bits,' and then a dime and said, 'Short bit—thank you,' and closed up the drawer and started off. I didn't want more than was coming to me, so I handed out a nickel and said, 'There, that makes it right.' The man looked at it, laughed, and pushed it back, and said, 'Keep it, sonny; I haven't got any chickens.' Now, I'd like to know what it all meant."

We both laughed, and when Jack recovered his composure he said:

"It means simply that we're getting out into the mining country, where no coin less than a dime circulates. He didn't happen to have three dimes, so the best he could do was to give you either twenty-five or thirty-five cents, and he was letting you have the benefit of the situation by making it thirty-five. A bit is twelve and a half cents, and a short bit ten cents. A two-bit piece is a quarter."

"Yes; but what about his not keeping chickens?"

"Oh, that was simply his humorous way of saying that all coins under a dime are fit only for chicken feed."

We camped that night beside the trail near a little log store. "What you want to do," said the man in charge, "is to take your horses down there behind them trees to park 'em for the night. Good feed down there."

"'To park,'" said Jack, in a low voice. "New and interesting verb. He means turn 'em out to grass. We mustn't appear green." Then he said to the man:

"Yes, we reckoned we'd park 'em down there to-night."

The next day was the coldest we had experienced, and[Pg 1196] we were glad to walk to keep warm. We were getting among the smaller of the hills, with their tops covered with the peculiarly dark pine-trees which give the whole range its name. We camped at night under a high bank which afforded some protection from the chilly east wind. Now that we were all sleeping in the wagon there was no room in it to store the sacks of horse feed which we had, and we knew that if we put them outside that Old Blacky would eat them up before morning.

"There's nothing to do," said Jack, "but to carry them around up on that bank and hang them down with ropes. Leave 'em about twelve feet from the bottom and ten feet from the top, and I don't think the Pet can get them."

We accordingly did so, and went to bed with the old scoundrel standing and looking up at the bags wistfully, though he had just had all that any horse needed for supper. But in the morning we found that he had clambered up high enough to get hold of the bottom of one of the sacks and pull it down and devour fully half of it. He was, as Jack said, "the worst horse that ever looked through a collar."

THE RATTLETRAP IN THE STORM.

But the weather in the morning gave us more concern than did the foraging of the ancient Blacky. It was even colder than the night before, and the raw east wind was rawer, and with it all there was a drizzling rain. It was not a hard rain, but one of the kind that comes down in small clinging drops and blows in your face in a fine spray. Jack got breakfast in the wagon, and we ate the hot cakes and warmed-over grouse with a good relish. Then he loaded in what was left of the horse feed, and started.

It was impossible to keep warm even by walking, but we plodded on and made the best of it. The road was hilly and stony; but by noon we had got beyond the rain, and for the rest of the way it was dry even if cold. The hills among which we were winding grew constantly higher, and the quantity of pine timber upon their summits greater. Just as dusk was beginning to creep down we came around one which might fairly have been called a small mountain, and saw Rapid City spread out before us, the largest town we had seen since leaving Yankton. We skirted around it, and came to camp under another hill and near a big stone quarry a half-mile west of town. There was a mill-race just below us, and plenty of water. We fed the horses and had supper. There was a road not much over a hundred yards in front of our camp, along which, through the darkness, we could hear teams and wagons passing.

"I wonder where it goes to?" said Ollie.

"I think it's the great Deadwood trail over which all the supplies are drawn to the mines by mule or horse or ox teams," said Jack. "There's no railroad, you know, and everything has to go by wagon—goods and supplies in, and a great deal of ore out. Let's go over and see."

The moon was not yet risen and the sky was covered with clouds, so it was extremely dark. We took along our lantern, but it did not make much impression on the darkness. When we reached the road we found that everywhere we stepped we went over our shoe-tops in the soft dust. We heard a deep strange creaking noise mixed with what sounded like reports of a pistol around the bend in the trail. Soon we could make out what seemed to be a long herd of cattle winding toward us, with what might have been a circus tent swaying about behind them.

"What's coming?" we asked of a boy who was going by.

"Old Henderson," he replied.

"What's he got?"

"Just his outfit."

"But what are all the cattle?"

"His team."

"Not one team?"

"Yes; eleven yoke."

"Twenty-two oxen in one team?"

"Yes; and four wagons."

The head yoke of oxen was now opposite to us, swaying about from side to side and switching their tails in the air, but still pressing forward at the rate of perhaps a mile and a half or two miles an hour. Far back along the procession we could dimly see a man walking in the dust beside the last yoke, swinging a long whip which cracked in the air like a rifle. Behind rolled and swayed the four great canvas-topped wagons, tied behind one another. We watched the strange procession go by. There was only one man, without doubt Henderson, grizzled and seemingly sixty years old. The wagon wheels were almost as tall as he was, and the tires were four inches wide. The last wagon disappeared up the trail in the dust and darkness.

"Well," said Jack, "I think when I start out driving at this time of night with twenty-two guileless oxen and four ten-ton wagons that I'll want to get somewhere pretty badly."

Then we went back to the Rattletrap.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 1197]

OFFICERS OF THE NATIONAL INTERSCHOLASTIC AMATEUR ATHLETIC ASSOCIATION.

C. BURTON COTTING, President.

HUGH JACKSON, Vice-President.

J. DEAN TILFORD, Secretary.

GEORGE P. SMITH, Treasurer.

The papers on the science of football written by Mr. W. H. Lewis, of the Harvard Football Team of 1893, which have appeared in the last four issues of this Department, have attracted such general interest among the football-players of the schools that it has seemed advisable, inasmuch as the active football season is not yet in full swing, to add a brief supplementary paper on "Training," from the pen of the same authority. The advice given here is the result of the best experience, and any coach or captain who follows it implicitly may confidently look forward to the best results.

Any correct system of training for a team comprises three separate and distinct elements—the physical, mental, and moral. An eleven should be physically fit to play a hard, fast, and aggressive game from start to finish; and it should be mentally fit in the sense that it thoroughly knows its own game from beginning to end. Every man should know every play, and his place in every play. After being able to play the game both physically and mentally, the next and final thing is to play it. This brings us to the third element—the moral. By that term is meant the spirit of the eleven.

It is not our purpose to deal with the subject of diet. In passing it may, however, be said that the proper diet for a man training is any plain, wholesome, nourishing food. Highly seasoned foods, sweets, and all alcoholic stimulants should be avoided. The value of from eight to ten hours of good, sound, refreshing sleep cannot be overestimated. In general, one broad, comprehensive rule may be laid down with regard to training for athletic contests, and that is this: All training must be adequate to the demands of the particular kind of contest to be entered into. For light athletic contests, light training; for heavy contests, heavy training. The same training requisite for baseball would not be sufficient for rowing; nor can training for track athletics be at all adequate for football. Different sports make different demands upon the physical man. And the training for each must be adapted to meet the demands of each.

Football is the most vigorous and hearty of all our athletic sports. When properly played, it is also the most exhausting. It requires the quickness and speed of the sprinter, the endurance of the cross-country runner, the strength and power of a first-class wrestler; in fact, when critically analyzed, football seems to be a sort of composite of many sports. As to the proper style of training for an eleven, perhaps no two persons have exactly the same ideas. But, in general, there may be said to be two schools, the old and the new, or the old style and the new system. The old school is one of Herculean labors and Spartan discipline. The idea of the old school is physical development and bodily discipline. The idea of the new school seems to be that sport is simply a recreation. Work as little as possible seems to be the new creed. Periods of rest are emphasized rather than periods of work. The aim of the new system is to train the men for the final match, to bring them to the highest physical condition by the end of the season, which sounds rational enough. And if there is only a single important match to be played, the system is without doubt best adapted to that end. But the theory proceeds from the wrong premises altogether. Every one knows that an eleven plays at least two important matches before the end of the season, when the demands are just as great as in the final game. The two systems may lie fairly well illustrated by the accompanying diagram, for the idea of which the writer is indebted to Mr. W. C. Forbes.

CHART OF RELATIVE CONDITIONS IN TRAINING.

Line A E represents the new school, which aims at the highest physical condition at point E. Line A B represents the old school, which aims at good physical condition at the end of the second or third week of training, and to take the team to E in the same condition.

Take two elevens: No. 1 will use the old system, No. 2 the new system. Let the two teams play a match. At the point marked October 1 the physical condition will be decidedly in favor of No. 1, and, besides, No. 1 will know more football, having played more. The difference in physical condition will be the line C G. Let them play November 11: the difference in physical condition will be D F. Suppose that No. 2 wins at point E, November 21, which is extremely unlikely: No. 1 will have two victories to No. 2's one. If the object be to win only the final match, it seems that the old system will be far better, as the No. 1 eleven must know more football, having played more, and will be in just as good condition. It has been urged against the old system that it is impossible to carry eleven men from A to E in good condition; that the team, as a whole, will come to the final game overtrained. The individual may go below the line occasionally, but the team as a whole must be better, because the weaker individuals who are unfitted for the game will be eliminated early, before the team is made up. The team training on line A E, the new system, is just as likely to be undertrained, and lose half of its best men before an important match is finished.

A team trained under the new system will play with considerable life and dash while it lasts, but the team trained under the old system stays, and comes in the winner. Let us notice some fallacies of the new system. As an argument for less work, the case of athletic teams is often cited, where men train very little, and still play very good games. Any reasoning by analogy from such cases is absolutely misleading. Men who play on athletic teams are for the most part matured men, many of whom have played on college teams for years. They would naturally have a strength and endurance and knowledge of the game which the youngsters in the schools must acquire by hard work and faithful, conscientious training. The boys must acquire what the men already have; therefore a different and more rigorous system of training is necessary.

The new system believes that an ignorant undertrained man is better than an experienced overtrained one. Comparisons are often made with the training of crews, prize-fighters,[Pg 1198] etc. But in such cases the training is for only a single contest, while in football the training must be for several important matches. Not every practice is a trial, as is urged, but only the lesser matches once or twice a week are properly trials; and surely in but few sports can any strong objection exist to such trials.

Another objection to the old style urged by the new style is the likelihood of injuries when men are played so much. That is true and not true. In the long-run there must be fewer injuries. The amount and kind of work a team should do will perhaps be best considered under mental training. The problem in training is really how to do the work necessary to learn the game without impairing the physical condition.

By mental training is simply meant the process of learning this game. One broad rule may be laid down for learning the game, and that is to play it. There may be different methods of teaching men how to play; hardly any two coaches or captains will begin the season in just the same way. But each captain should have some plan, schedule, or method of teaching. The football season covers a period of about eight weeks. The game must be taught within that time. Now football is divided, as has been said in a preceding paper, into the Individual and the Team. The first half of the season, the first four weeks, should be devoted primarily to the individual, teaching him the fundamentals, and how to play his own position. Assuming that the season begins about the middle of September, this work would carry the team until the second week in October; the balance of the season would be devoted primarily to the team, although it is often impossible to pick the team before the end of the third week in October. After this point in the season the individual coaching should be done during the intervals or let-ups in the practice, or before or after practice. During the period that should be given to the team the graduates come around, and the tendency is to neglect the team for the individual. The bulk of individual coaching should be done in that part of the season in which it should naturally come. So much in general. Now a few suggestions to the captain, in settling his work for the season, may not be altogether out of place.

First day out, the squad upon going upon the field should form a circle, and pass the ball around. The captain and coach should notice each man, and see that he can make the simple straight-arm pass correctly, and catch the ball properly. Next, let the men line up in pairs, forwards with forwards and backs with backs, and try a half-dozen mutual scratch starts. The purpose of this exercise is to make the men quick on their feet, and to secure quickness and agility. That done, line the men up, and have them fall upon the ball. Having them in line instead of in a circle, the captain and coach can see that each man is taught how to do it correctly. Take a moving ball first—a ball moving from the player. Next try a ball moving towards the player from the front. The practice on the first day should be short, lasting not more than half an hour, and ending with a good brisk run of a distance of a mile and a half.

The second day's practice should last about three-quarters of an hour, consisting of catching and passing, falling on the ball, scratch starts, two-mile run for the forwards, ten minutes' kicking for the full-back, and catching for the half-backs, with the centre man to snap the ball and quarter to pass to the man kicking.

On the third day practise one hour—falling on the ball, passing and catching, sprinting starts, two-and-a-half-mile run for forwards, kicking and catching for backs, centre men snapping the ball and quarter passing, two-mile run for the backs.

Fourth day. Practise starting with the ball. The centre man to snap the ball back for squads. There should be a good, sharp, hard sprint for fifteen yards. The aim is to train the eye so as to divine where the ball is going, so as to be able to beat it. Catching punted balls by forwards and backs. Arrange these in squads, and have the kicking backs punt to them. Begin with the end of the line, and have each man catch a punt in turn. They should be taught how to do this properly. Falling on the ball, one or two of all the different kinds of balls, and the dead ball from a dive in addition. Forwards should be lined up opposite one another and taught the theory of blocking. The centre man should snap the ball, and one side rush through while the other blocks, and vice versa. While the forwards are doing this, the backs may be kicking and catching. A short run for the whole squad of about two miles.

Work of this general description should be kept up for about ten days. In this time the captain should arrange to get in some work on the fundamentals each day. It will be impossible to take them all up in one day, but some can be taken up one day and some another. They are easily forgotten if not brushed up occasionally.

The first three weeks in October should be largely devoted to position-playing—picking the team. The captain should do all the experimenting within that period. Much straight football may be learned in the mean time. In that period, and that alone, should the coach be allowed to stop the play to coach the individual. "Wait a minute," can be allowed then, but not later. The team should have two practice matches a week. These should make no difference in the ordinary practice, except perhaps when a pretty strong team is to be played there should be a slight let-up in the practice the day before, or no actual play at all. On those days there should be plenty of practice at signals. All practice matches after the third week in October should be of the usual length, two half-hours. The practice game with the second eleven should not vary much as to the time of play from the matches. Two twenty-five or one thirty and one twenty minute half are not bad.

Toward the end of October the team should begin preparations for the final matches, which generally come off the last of that month, and little beyond mid-November. Team-play then has the field. The team should begin to learn its repertoire of plays, signals, etc. It should be taught the theory and practice of offensive and defensive team-work. In the odd moments the individual should have all the expert coaching possible. The fundamentals must be recurred to occasionally, but team-work now holds the boards. It is the most difficult to obtain, and requires constant and untiring practice.

The captain should be just as careful not to underwork his men as not to overwork them. If an individual is overtrained or off his feet, give him rest, but for the team hard work and plenty of it should be the rule. There is nothing that helps a man or a team more in the hour of supreme test or conflict than the consciousness of having done his or its work faithfully and well.

From what has been said of physical training it can be immediately seen that football is not a lazy man's game. It is needless to say that it is not a coward's game. If a man is afraid of over-exertion or of getting hurt, he had better[Pg 1199] play marbles. A player may have strength in abundance, but without sand it profiteth him nothing. High moral courage and unconquerable spirit are the prime requisites of a good football-player. By moral training, as has been said, is meant the mental state, the spirit of the eleven. The spirit of the eleven has to do with the execution, and the execution is everything. Formation counts for little. It is not the play, but the stuff that is put into it that makes it succeed. Without this spirit a team may know all that it is possible to know of the game, and may be in perfect physical condition, but cannot hope to win. It is one thing to know how to fight; it is another to be able to fight; but greater than either or both is the fighting spirit.

The whole team, each and every man on it, should enter a contest or match imbued with a just sense of the responsibility resting upon him as the chosen representative of his school or college. He owes to her the very best and all that there is in him. Her honor, her athletic prestige, are at stake, and she demands nothing more nor less of her sons than that they be retrieved or maintained. Hence the team should go upon the field with a do or die spirit, with a determination to win at all hazards.

The portraits which appear at the head of these columns are those of the officers of the National Interscholastic Athletic Association, who were elected after the first annual field-meeting last June. C. B. Cotting, the president, is a member of the Newton High-School, and an officer of the New England Association. Hugh Jackson, the vice-president, comes from the Iowa Association, and is a student of the Cedar Rapids High-School. J. D. Tilford, the secretary, has for several years been identified with the New York I.S.A.A. as a competent official, and attends the De La Salle Institute. G. P. Smith, the treasurer, represents the new association in New Jersey, of which he is president; he attends the Plainfield High-School.

At a recent meeting of the Connecticut Football Association several changes were made in the constitution. Is was decided that nobody should be allowed to take part in any games under the management of the League who had not been registered at his school before October 1. Furthermore, it was decided that no student taking a post-graduate course should be allowed to play on any team. There was some discussion about establishing an age limit, but so much opposition developed that the plan had to be abandoned.

The schedule of games for this fall's championship season was arranged, and the first contests will be held October 31. In the Northern Division, Hartford Public High-School will play New Britain High-School at Hartford, and Norwich Free Academy will play the Connecticut Literary Institute at Norwich. On the same day, in the Southern Division, Meriden High-School will play Hillhouse High at Meriden, and Bridgeport High will play Waterbury High at Bridgeport.

The Bridgeport team will no doubt be very strong again this fall—Smith, centre, Wheeler, guard, Goddart, quarter-back, Deforest, half-back, and Delaney, tackle, being in school again. The Hartford team is expected to develop into a strong eleven as the season grows older, but it was defeated, 22-0, by Williston in its opening game a week ago. The Meriden High-School has the strongest eleven the school has ever seen. New Britain will be very strong, having the full eleven men of last year back in school again this fall. Hillhouse, Norwich, Waterbury, and the Connecticut Literary Institute are all weak.

The Englewood High-School, of the Cook County League, played a game against the Chicago University eleven on September 23, and held the 'varsity men down to twelve points. The school team played an excellent game, and showed some fine defensive work. The University made a goal in the first half after twelve minutes of hard play, and they got another by a fluke just before time was called. In the second half the University men were unable to make any headway against the Englewood lads, and time was called with the ball in the middle of the field and in Englewood's possession.

Other games of interest that have recently been played in the Cook County League were Hyde Park H.-S. against West Aurora H.-S., in which the former won, 4-0. The teams were pretty evenly matched, and Pingree of Hyde Park made the winning touch-down by a run of thirty yards, having secured the ball on a muff by the other side. The North Division team played an eleven of graduates, and defeated them, 12-0, but a few days later, on the return game, the graduates came out ahead by the same score.

John Freter, Yonkers, New York.—If the ball, being kicked, passes the line of scrimmage and is not stopped by an opponent, any one of the kicking side can pick it up and run with it, providing he is on side. Of course, to be on side he must either have been behind the ball when it was kicked, or he must have kicked it himself, or he must have been put on side by the kicker.

J. D. Williams.—You will find just the information you want in the chapter on "The Middle Distances," in Track Athletics in Detail.

"TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL."—Illustrated.—8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

The Graduate.

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

The first instalment of the advance sheets of the 1897 catalogue has been forwarded to those persons who pay $5 for the same. Used U.S. stamps have remained stationary in many instances, with small advances in others; but unused U.S. have been greatly advanced. I quote a few instances, giving the 1896 prices first, the 1897 prices after. These prices refer, however, to unused stamps in mint condition, evenly centred, original gum, no perforations missing, etc. A slight falling off in any of these conditions reduces the value from twenty-five per cent. to fifty per cent.

1847 issue—5c., $5 to $7.50. 1851 issue—1c., ordinary type, 35c. to 50c.; 5c., ordinary type, $3.50 to $5; 10c., $1.25 to $3; 12c., $1.75 to $3; 24c., $6 to $7.50; 30c., $7.50 to $12; 90c., $22.50 to $27.50. 1862 issue—15c., $2.50 to $7.50. 1868 issue (grilled, 11 by 13)—1c., $5 to $6.50; 2c., $1.50 to $2.50; 3c., 40c. to $1; 10c., $3.50 to $6; 12c., $3 to $5; 15c., $20 to $25; grilled, 9 by 13, 2c., 75c. to $1.25; 3c., 25c. to 75c.; 5c., $10 to $12; 10c. and 12c., $3 to $5; 15c., $4 to $7.50; 24c., $12.50 to $15; 30c., $10 to $15; 90c., $35 to $50. 1869 issue—1c., $1 to $1.50; 2c., 60c. to $1.25; 3c., 25c. to $1; 6c., $3 to $4; 10c., $4 to $7; 12c., $2 to $5; 15c., $6 to $7.50; 24c., $16.50 to $20; 30c., $15 to $20; 90c., $35 to $40. 1870 issue, grilled, have advanced an average of one hundred per cent. The same issue, not grilled, printed by the American Bank-Note Company, 1c., 40c. to 50c.; 3c., 25c. to 40c.; 5c., 75c. to $1.50; 6c., 75c. to $2; 10c., 60c. to $1; 15c., reduced from 75c. to 50c.; 30c. remains $2; 90c., increased from $4 to $7.50. 1882 issue—5c., Garfield, 20c. to 50c.; 3c., re-engraved, 10c. to 15c.; 6c., re-engraved, 75c. to $1.50; 10c., re-engraved, 40c. to 50c. 1893 Columbian issue has been reduced an average of twenty per cent.

A. T. Adams.—There is no U.S. or Colonial cent of 1739. Your coin is probably an English penny worth 2c.

Philatus.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

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

Royal Baking Powder Co., New York.

JOSEPH GILLOTT'S

STEEL PENS

Nos. 303, 404, 170, 604 E.F., 601 E.F.

And other styles to suit all hands.

THE MOST PERFECT OF PENS.

[Pg 1200]

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

There is an important feature of bicycling which comes, or should come, to the attention of every rider about this time of the year; that is, the question of a thorough overhauling of the wheel itself. This is of the greatest importance, and should be done whether the bicycle appears to be in good running order or not. For example, you have been riding a wheel in the country, or near the sea-shore, and though you have kept the wheel in good running order, the spokes are a little rusty, and the bearings must be more or less filled with dust and sand. The rust on the spokes not only looks badly, but tends to weaken the wheel. A little grit mixed in with the oil and the balls of the bearings is quite enough to wear the bearings themselves as well as the balls, and in a short time render the wheel practically useless, unless an entirely new set of bearings is put in. Even if you have not been in the country, the fact that you have used the wheel a little each day, and only wiped off the outside of the machine and reoiled the bearings occasionally, is enough to prove that the machine should be taken apart before you begin the fall and winter season. This particular time, however, of the year applies rather to those people who are returning from the country with their bicycles, and who are likely to use them to some extent during the fall. But it is a good time for any one. If you are somewhat of a mechanic yourself, you can take the wheel apart and do the cleaning yourself; and in this connection the article on "The Care of the Wheel," published in Harper's Round Table for March 31, should be read before taking the wheel apart, and kept near by while the work is being done.

An extra caution, however, should be given to all those who take their bicycles apart—and that is, take the utmost care of the little balls; for if one of these, for instance, is lost from one side of the front wheel-bearings, the wheel may run easily enough for a time, but the strain on the others and on the walls of the bearing will soon wear both. If any of these do happen to lose themselves (and it is very probable that they will), the wisest plan is to go at once to the maker of your bicycle and purchase enough extra balls to make up the required number. To a great many people, however, the cheapest method for overhauling bicycles is to take them to the manufacturer and request him to go over every part of the wheel—clean it, polish it, and replace any weak point, straighten any bent cranks, supply nuts that are gone, and in every way renovate the wheel—which, by-the-way, he can do far better than any amateur. If the wheel is not yet a year old, the average manufacturer will do this without charge, but in any case a few dollars is all that a maker requires. The point of this renovation is evident. If the wheel is thus examined twice a year—in the fall and the spring—any little irregularity which may be wearing away vital parts of the machine can and will be corrected; whereas many a fault in a bicycle is not perceptible to the average rider until the injury has actually been done, when an entirely new part is necessary; and the larger the number of replaced or new parts, the less stable and firm is the bicycle. It therefore pays to have this renovation done twice a year, whether the wheel appears to need it or not.

An Irishman took his watch to a jeweller's to have it repaired. The jeweller, after examining it, said the mending would amount to eight dollars, and he asked if the man was willing to pay that much.

"Sure," answered Pat, "if you're willing to take the watch in part payment."

A FEW DON'TS FOR BICYCLE BEGINNERS.

I.—Don't pay any attention to people who tell you that the best bicycle path for beginners can be made out of fifty or sixty mattresses set end to end and running in a circle. It may be pleasanter, when taking a header, to land on a mattress than on a macadamized road, but it is a curious fact in bicycling that the softest road is the hardest to ride on.

II.—Don't try to make a century run within two days of your first lesson. If, however, you are too ambitious to follow this rule, purchase a high-gear cyclometer which will register a mile for every ten feet you travel. And, speaking of cyclometers, don't forget that people who call them cycloramas are apt to be set down as wanting in intelligence.

III.—Don't think, if you are learning to ride on the sea-shore, that because your wheels have rubber tires on they won't get wet if the waves dash up over them. The worst mistake any one ever made in bicycling was that of the small boy who thought the rubber tires were put on the wheels to keep them dry, just as rubber overshoes were put on his feet to keep them from getting wet.

IV.—Don't try coasting down joggly hills. Get out of your father's library the copy of Dr. Holmes's poem which tells of the wonderful "one-hoss shay," which suddenly went completely to pieces one day. What has happened to a one-horse chaise might very easily happen to a bicycle, particularly on a joggly hill. Nothing will loosen bolts and screws more quickly than joggles, and if it should happen some morning that while you were coasting down a hill full of thank-you-marms your wheel should suddenly come apart in every bolt and bar, you would go sailing through the air like a cannon-ball just from the cannon's mouth, and alighting finally on the ground, while not at all difficult, might prove painful. Be careful, then, to keep your feet on the pedals while going down a hill of this character.

V.—Don't try fancy riding until you have studied the art of bicycling for at least a week. One young man who ignored this rule, and tried to ride his wheel side-saddle-wise at the end of his third lesson, left a goodly half of his left ear on the road-side as a result, while a small youth of our acquaintance, who tried to ride backwards on the afternoon of his fourth day of study, got into a dispute with a picket-fence, which tore his clothes, and made the back of his neck look as if seven hundred mosquitoes had lunched there.

VI.—Don't be absent-minded when riding. One of the rules of good playing in the game of golf is, "keep your eye on the ball." An equally good rule in riding your wheel is, "keep your mind on the wheel." The writer of these hints, while riding in the mountains during his first year of wheeling, got thinking of something else, and the first thing he knew, instead of being out wheeling, he was in swimming in a very cold and wet mountain lake.

VII.—Don't forget the rule of the road. This is a very old rule, but it cannot be too often repeated. Not more than two weeks ago the writer saw a young woman out riding on her wheel who had forgotten the rule of the road, and she was met by another young woman who was absent-minded in violation of our rule numbered six. They met very forcibly, and the result was that both of them not only had to buy new wheels, but the spring bonnets of both of them were irretrievably ruined.

VIII.—Don't mount with a jump, but slip lightly into the saddle. A gentleman weighing two hundred and twenty-three pounds leaped into the saddle of his wheel one day not long ago, and as a result the upper bar was bent into the shape of a hair-pin, the hind wheel was changed in its shape to that of an oval, and the pneumatic tire of the front wheel burst with such force that for a moment the gentleman thought somebody had fired a gun at him.

[Pg 1201]

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

TONING OF SILVER PRINTS.

The color of the silver print when it is taken from the printing-frame is not very pleasing, and if it is fixed in this state it assumes a yellowish-brown or bricky hue which is quite inartistic. To change this color to a more agreeable shade it must be subjected to the chemical treatment called toning—a process which the early photographers called "coloring."

The theory of toning is that one metal is substituted for another, and in the toning of silver prints with gold the gold is substituted for the silver. Silver and gold have a great affinity for each other, and in the toning of the silver prints the gold is deposited on the print somewhat after the manner of plating metals.

It is a well-known fact that finely divided gold is of many shades of color, from a rich red to a deep blue. The combination of the red of the silver subchloride in the print with the deep blue of the gold gives beautiful purplish, sepia, and black tones.

The gold for toning is first made into chloride of gold. This chloride of gold is dissolved in water, and then the solution is rendered neutral by adding acetate or bicarbonate of soda.

"Gold is reduced to a metallic state from a neutral or alkaline solution." This toning-bath, therefore, contains a deposit of metallic gold, which is ready to be precipitated by any reducing agent with which it may be brought in contact. Now the action of light on the paper coated with the silver salts has changed the salts into a gold-reducing agent. When the silver print is placed in the gold toning-bath, this sub-salts of silver immediately decomposes the gold salt, and attracts the gold to itself, and it is deposited in a fine powder on the unfixed print, changing the reddish color to brown or black. The unaltered silver chloride on the paper—the portion of the print which has not been exposed to the light—contains no reducing power, so the white portions of the print remain unchanged.

The chemical action of the alkali on the chloride of gold is to separate the chlorine from the gold. The alkali unites with the chlorine, and sets it free from the gold. It forms with the hydrogen in the water a new chemical combination called sodium-trichlor-acetate and hydrochloric acid. The former is harmless to the print, but if there is not enough of the alkali in the solution to neutralize (render harmless) the hydrochloric acid, or, in other words, to liberate and absorb all the chlorine, the chlorine immediately reattacks the silver and stops the action of the gold. The result is a weak flat print. If the prints do not tone, the bath is too acid, and more of the alkali must be added. In order to test a bath to find out whether it is neutral, take a piece of blue litmus-paper and dip it in the bath; if it is acid it will turn the paper red. Add more of the alkali, until enough has been added to turn the paper which has been turned red back to its original blue color. A piece of red litmus-paper when dipped in the toning-bath will turn blue if the bath is too alkaline, but if the bath is neutral the paper will remain red.

Every silver print toned with gold contains four parts of silver to one of gold, the quantity of both being very small. One grain of gold will tone a sheet of paper.

There is a great deal of waste in the silver used in photography, there being thirty-three times as much silver used as remains after the picture is finished.

Silver prints may be toned with platinum, and this method is often used as a substitute for gold toning, the tones obtained being very pleasing in color, and quite as permanent as the gold tones.

Sir Knight John H. Chamberlain, 6 Franklin Avenue, Dayton, O., asks why films are given a glycerine bath, and if the bath can be dispensed with; what will remove the spot of glycerine from a negative caused by the glycerine flowing to the edge and partly drying. Sir John says he is a regular reader of the Camera Club column, and would like to form a Chapter, and asks those of our amateurs who are interested in the plan to please send him their names. The reason for using a glycerine bath is to prevent the film from curling when it is dry. The bath can be dispensed with, but the film rolls up so tightly that it is hard to make it stay flat while placing it in the printing-frame. Use ½ oz. of glycerine to 16 oz. of water, and there will be no trouble with the film being sticky. A little alcohol applied gently with a soft cloth or brush will remove the glycerine from the negative.

Sir Knight James Maynard, Jun., asks if the bottle containing the sensitizing-solution for plain salted paper should be wrapped in non-actinic paper; what camera, lens, plate, and developer Max Miner used for the picture "Sweeping a Sliding-place"; what is the price of Whatman's paper. The sensitizing solution should be wrapped in non-actinic paper, or else kept in a dark place. Max Miner writes as follows in regard to the picture "Sweeping a Sliding-place": "The camera which I used is the Universal, made by the Rochester Optical Co.; the lens is a Morrison R. R., 8½-inch focus, designed for a 6½ by 8½ plate. The camera was a 5 by 7. The plates which I have always used are made by the Blake Dry-plate Co., North Adams, Mass. They are rapid, and always give uniformly good results. I have the best success in developing with pyro, potash, or soda, though I like the eikonogen two-solution developer nearly as well. I never have trouble with pyro stains, as I use an alum bath before fixing. The paper used is lithium, toned and fixed in a separate bath." A large sheet of Whatman's paper may be bought for fifteen cents.

Sir Knight John Mills asks how to make a picture in a pin-hole camera without using plates—if some kind of paper cannot be used. The formula for preparing paper for negatives is too long to be given in the column space devoted to answers to queries. The process will be described later in the columns of the Camera Club. If you have access to a public library, consult a cyclopædia of photography, which will give a formula for making paper negatives. Try a piece of bromade-paper, making an exposure of about fifteen seconds, if in a bright sunshine.

Sir Knight Hubbard Marsh asks what makes the solio prints stick to the glass when they are squeegeed to it for burnishing; a preparation for coating the glass for burnishing; and a good toning-bath. The reason why prints stick to the glass is because the film is soluble, and is apt to soften in warm weather. A very glossy surface can be imparted to prints by washing the glass or ferrotype plate to remove all grease and dirt, then pour on a few drops of a solution made of 1 oz. of benzine and 10 grs. of paraffine. Rub dry with a clean cloth and polish with a piece of chamois or soft cloth. For toning-solution formula see No. 825.

E. H. C. asks if, in photographic contests where no pictures are accepted under 4 by 5, pictures taken on a 4-by-5 plate, and the prints trimmed so as to come a little under this size, would be accepted. Yes, if not trimmed too much.

There is a good story told of the well-known actor Frédéric Lemaitre. One of his weak points was his pride, and he expected the attachés of the theatre in which he played to show as great interest in his performance on the fiftieth night as the audience who were seeing him for the first time. For some time, to his infinite rage and disgust, one of the musicians had been in the habit of taking out a newspaper and perusing its contents during one of his best scenes, when his acting would hold the audience spellbound. He finally forbade this man to read his paper during the performance. The musician refused to submit to the demand, and Lemaitre, when he heard of the refusal, grew mad with rage, and stormed around in great manner. The offender happened to cross the stage while Lemaitre was in his bad humor, and the actor, catching sight of him, cried out, in angry tones:

"You, sir; is it you who has the audacity to read in my great scene, especially when I have forbidden it?"

"I!" mildly replied the musician. "What a mistake you are making! Monsieur, you have been misinformed: I am in the habit of going to sleep during that scene."

SICKNESS AMONG CHILDREN

is prevalent at all seasons of the year, but can be avoided largely when they are properly cared for. Infant Health is the title of a valuable pamphlet accessible to all who will send address to the New York Condensed Milk Company, N. Y. City.—[Adv.]

If you wish to earn a bicycle the advertisement of W. G. Baker, of Springfield, Mass., which appears on page 1203, will interest you. His store in Springfield is noted for the fine teas, spices, and baking powder which it sends out both by express and freight to all parts of the United States. A boy by going about among his friends and selling a mixed order of 75 lbs. can secure a good boy's bicycle, or a woman by selling 175 lbs. can secure a lady's high-grade wheel. If you feel interested write for catalogue and full particulars, which will be sent on application.—[Adv.]

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Postage Stamps, &c.

STAMPS

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100, all dif., & fine STAMP ALBUM, only 10c.; 200, all dif., Hayti, Hawaii, etc., only 50c. Agents wanted at 50 per cent. com. List FREE! C. A. Stegmann, 5941 Cote Brilliant Ave., St. Louis, Mo.

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AN old collection of 525 stamps for sale for $3.

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COLONIAL POSTAGE STAMPS. 22 varieties, 10 cents, post free. Address HENRY P. DAY, Peoria, Illinois.

4c.

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STAMPS

10 stamps and large list FREE!

L. Dover & Co., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.

PLAYS

Dialogues, Speakers for School, Club and Parlor. Catalogue free.

T. S. DENISON, Publisher, Chicago, Ill.

[Pg 1202]

About Naval Schools.

Bert Cunnington, who lives in Arkansas, Reed Kohl, a New York city member, and Fred P. Jackson, who lives in a Baltimore suburb, ask about St. Mary's school-ship and naval apprentices. All get the various naval schools well confused. That they do so is no great wonder, since the provisions governing them are new, and have recently been changed. We will try to make these naval matters clear. In the first place, the United States Naval Academy, at Annapolis, is a school where men are trained to become officers in our navy. Indeed, entrance to the academy is at the same time entrance to our navy—naval cadet, and so on up, without leaving the United States service at graduation.

Entrance to this academy is had only through members of Congress—through the member from your district, Mr. Jackson. Representatives Baker, Rusk, and Cowen represent Baltimore.

Only one cadet from each district may be at the academy at a time. You must wait for a vacancy. Residents of other districts must address their member of Congress, or the Secretary of the Navy, Washington, who will give information about vacancies. The President of the United States has ten appointments—not annually, but may keep ten cadets at the academy. These cadetships are usually assigned to sons of naval officers. The Annapolis Academy was removed to Newport, R. I., for a time during the civil war. That is why, possibly, you get the naval apprenticeship school at Newport and the naval academy confused.

Naval apprenticeships have nothing whatever to do with the Annapolis Academy. They are enlistments for young men above fifteen and not above eighteen years of age, who may remain in the navy till they are twenty-one. These boys must have the full consent of parents or guardians, be of good character—for apprenticeships are not to reform bad characters—be sound of body, and be able to read and write English. Having been sworn in, they are sent on board naval vessels, where they are given the elements of a common-school education and taught naval seamanship. That is, they knot, splice, hitch, and bend rope; sew canvas; head, reef, and furl sail; learn the use of the various gear in standing and running rigging; become acquainted with the terms for the different parts of the ship; practise military tactics, broadside exercise, rifle drill; and learn how to fire the great guns, to row, and to swim.

Apprentices are enlisted as "third-class boys," and receive $9.50 a month. There is no condition from what part of the United Slates they come. They receive their board free. Their clothing is provided by the paymaster of the ship to which they are assigned and charged against their pay. There is a possible promotion to $11.50 a month. These apprentices never become line-officers, but may rise only to warrant-officer, gunner, or boat-swain. Warrant-officers are retired at sixty-two, as are other officers, and receive thereafter a fair proportion of their duty pay as an annuity. Apprenticeship recruiting stations are at New York, Philadelphia, and San Francisco. Address "Recruiting Station for Naval Apprentices, Navy-yard," and add the city and State.

Wholly distinct from either of the foregoing are the various school-ships. These are not owned by the national government, but by cities, and are under the control of the boards of education. The Saratoga is located at Philadelphia, and the St. Mary's at New York. Address "Executive Committee, Nautical School." To join the St. Mary's applicants must be residents of the city of New York. They must also be of good character, and between sixteen and twenty years of age; $30 is required as an entrance fee, and a large number of personal necessities, as clothing, thread, needles, etc. The course covers two years of two terms each, with two summer cruises. The St. Mary's spends part of the year at the foot of Twenty-eighth Street, East River, New York, a part in Long Island Sound, and the cruises are usually to the coast of Europe and Mediterranean ports.

Rules governing the Saratoga are similar to those governing the St. Mary's. Graduates of these nautical schools look about them for positions just as do graduates of other schools. The New York Board of Education say: "The passage of the 'Postal Subsidy Bill,' requiring all vessels receiving such subsidy to be officered by Americans, and to carry a cadet for each 1000 tons burden, enables graduates of this school to obtain a situation upon graduation, where the education obtained at this school will be of great advantage to them. Graduates of this school, with few exceptions, are competent to navigate a vessel, understanding thoroughly dead-reckoning, and how to find the latitude and longitude by the sun, moon, planets, or stars; they are also taught the duties of seamen, they have practice in handling a sailing vessel, in steering, heaving the lead, in handling boats, both under oars and sails, the rule of the road, and in fact everything that may assist in their advancement in the profession they have chosen."

A Distinct Difference.

The following story is told of the late Professor S——, the great teacher of German at the University of Pennsylvania, and a man of much hard and blunt sense. A man having a son whom he had reared in a most superficial way called on the professor, whom he knew slightly, and asked how much it would cost to give his son an education. The professor, looking intently at the son, who accompanied his father, and who was attired in uncomfortably big cuffs, high collar, and gave forth an aroma of up-to-date perfume, blandly observed:

"I can't say. But you can send him through college for about $2000."

Cruel, but Facetious.

When employees are discharged from the service of a firm or company they generally receive from such employers brief letters stating when employment is to cease. But the head of a great theatrical concern once took a quite different course in discharging his actors and singers. His season had been unprofitable, but he took a little of his remaining money and paid the way of his entire troupe to West Point. The members of said troupe were Europeans. After luncheon he arose, and in the blandest manner possible said:

"Ladies and Gentlemen,—Mark the beauties of America, the greatest, grandest, and most wonderful country in the world. Behold the noble Hudson before us; observe these magnificent mountains; consider everything well. For, by my word, you will never see them again at the expense of Messrs. Blank and Company."

Of course sorrow closed the day's outing, but the actors and singers had no alternative than to engage steamer passages to Europe—which they did.

Through Historic Country on a Bike.

One cool, sunny day in the beginning of this month we took a fifty-one-mile bicycle trip out of the city. At the start our road lay along the extreme west of the city, and soon the new Harlem Ship-canal came into view. We halted on the bridge which spans it to watch a diver at work—quite a novel sight; then went on toward Yonkers. Yonkers passed, we took the open road for Dobbs Ferry. At the latter place we were informed that our road, Broadway, was first opened in 1844 under the name of Edgar's Lane.

Back of the road, under tall shady trees, stands Washington's headquarters. A monument in front relates that here the French allies under Rochambeau first joined our General and his forces; also that here Washington planned the Yorktown campaign which successfully terminated the Revolution; and that directly opposite, on the river, an English sloop fired seventeen guns in honor of Washington—the first official acknowledgment of our nation on the part of the mother-country.

From Dobbs Ferry to Irvington the road is lined with handsome suburban residences, and leads through a pretty bit of country. Four miles more, and Tarrytown is reached. In Tarrytown we saw a monument over the spot where Major André was captured in 1780. The shaft of the monument was dedicated in 1853. One side bears a relief picture in bronze of the capture; while another side has carved on it a eulogy of the three brave citizens of Westchester County who rescued their country from "imminent peril." The remainder of the stone, which is capped by a heroic figure of a Revolutionary soldier, was erected in 1880 by the Society of the Sons of the Revolution.

Directly north of Tarrytown there is a bridge. Crossing it, a sharp turn of the road brought us to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. We spent some time examining the inscriptions on some of the stones. The lower portion of the cemetery is evidently the oldest, for here repose the ashes of many who died at the close of the last century and the beginning of this. Sleepy Hollow lies on a hill. At the top, in the centre of the family plot, is buried the "American Goldsmith," whose pen made the region where he now rests famous. His grave is simplicity itself, the headstone which covers it bearing merely the inscription, "Washington Irving, born April 3, 1783, died November 28, 1859."

Simon Theodore Stern.
New York City.

Questions and Answers.

Music.—The only place to which we can refer you is the United States Marine Recruiting-office, 109 West Street, New York. That office wants boys from fourteen to sixteen to learn music. Apply for conditions. "Gold Fever" asks about gold-prospecting, especially in Alaska. The occupation has many risks, and only the hardiest of persons, not alone in body, but in determination and cheerfulness, ought to undertake it. The Alaskan field is well to the north—in the Yukon country, which is near the arctic circle. It is cold there. But perhaps the worst discomfort is mosquitoes. An odd pest for that climate, yes. But they abound there as they do in few other regions. A recent prospector says, "When a man goes up one of the creeks he must envelop his head in a mosquito-frame of cheese-cloth—their bills go through netting like a knife through tissue-paper—must wear gloves, and tie his trousers and shirt sleeves closely about his ankles and wrists." Mining is a lottery, and the young man ought to think not twice only, but a dozen times before undertaking it.

George J. Smith asks.—"Will you kindly tell me the names of artists who teach pen-drawing and illustrating? When does the annual contest for prizes begin?" Many artists take students, if such students possess native talent. They require students to come to their studios, though some of them have classes at art-schools. Apply to Irving R. Wiles, Charles Broughton, or Clifford Carleton. Their addresses may be had in the directory. Of course they charge for lesson-giving. And we do not say that these gentlemen will now take pupils. Why not join the classes at the Art Students' League? Round Table contests are announced, usually late in October. See one of the issues of this paper for them. It is not likely there will be an illustration contest unless there proves to be a good prize story to make a picture for. In almost no other way, save that of giving all contestants the same thing to illustrate, can conditions fair to all be made. Full information will be published in the Table later.

Frank S. Teal.—We know of no place to procure the Table button or pin save through this office, and we have none in stock. David A. Hill.—So great has been the growth of the Good Will institution that a building suitable to house its industrial school should cost, on the ground of present and future need, $10,000 at least. This sum is quite beyond the power of the Table to give. When, three years ago, the Good Will work began, the size of the Institution did not demand a building costing one-half that sum. The Table thought to raise $3000. It raised about $1600, when the situation developed as above outlined—a situation in which all of us, as friends of Good Will Farm and its work in behalf of poor boys, greatly rejoice. The money raised by the Table is to be, by vote of the founders, turned over to the trustees of Good Will, to be invested in a Round Table Fund, and the income used to help such boys as the trustees think most deserving of aid.

[Pg 1203]

Another Mother and Man.

The truth of the adage about the hand that rules the world being the one that rocks the cradle is again exemplified, but this time not in the world of statesmanship, but in that of science. Nikola Tesla, who ranks with Edison in electrical invention, was, as a boy in Montenegro, full of mischief, and also under the guidance of a remarkable woman—his mother. He once went by himself to a chapel in the hills back of his native town, and managed to get himself locked in it at night. A search was made for him, but there was no clew until, clear and sharp on the night air, rang out the tones of the chapel bell. Nikola was cold, nervous, and hungry when found.

On another occasion, when up to some boyish pranks, his mother suddenly appeared on the scene. He was so startled that he fell into a kettle of fresh milk, spoiling the milk and his clothes at the same time.

Like many other men who have become famous along one line of usefulness, young Tesla was started in life at another line. His father wanted him educated for the Church, but his mother encouraged his scientific tastes, and finally had her way. She was a woman of unusual ability, force of character, and ingenuity. This last characteristic was developed in her embroidery, which was of artistic and original designs, and made her famous all through the part of Montenegro in which she lived. To his mother's love and influence Tesla attributes much of his manhood's success.

Natural-History Bit from West Australia.

Some time ago you asked for descriptions of wild flowers and fruits: I live in West Australia, so far north that we have flowers in our yard every month in the year. This past winter, during July especially, we had very cold weather for this part of Australia, yet our sarsaparilla grew well. It is of a lovely deep purple, and its flowers sometimes wholly cover a stiff stem eighteen inches long. In summer we have a flower called kangaroo's claw. It grows slowly, and has only one flower. Its slender stem looks like red plush. The flower resembles a man's hand held out to shake with you. The "fingers" are green, and, odd to say, there is always a pale green spot at the tips, that look like finger-nails.

We have a queer tree. It has pale green leaves, with prickly under leaves, and a cream flower that smells like Daphne. But the oddest thing about it is the fruit, which looks like luscious pears, but which is nothing but wood. Not a few people here send the fruit to their friends living in England, who use it to fool people with. The latter, if they do not know the fruit, can easily be induced to sit down with knife and plate to eat it. There is also here a Zamia palm. It looks like a huge pineapple, with a top like a close fern. The sprouts shoot up through the centre like two smaller pineapples. When the palm is opened one can scrape off from the inside very delicate wool, which country folks often use for beds in place of feathers. Cattle sometimes get hold of the wool and eat it, and it is most injurious to them. If the mails permitted, I would like to send you some of this wool.

Alicia Shaw.
Preston.

That Electric-light Outfit.

Mr. H. C. Durston was interested, as doubtless many others were, in "A Small Electric-light Outfit," and he writes, "Can you tell me if, by increasing the size or number of battery cells, I can get power enough to run a ten-candle-power lamp?" Increase the number, not the size. Yes. "Where can I get the small lamp mentioned, and what is its life?" Apply to the Standard Electric Lamp Company, 248 West Twenty-third Street, New York. Following are the claimed life: ½-candle power, one watt, no life guaranteed; ½-candle power, two watt, 100 to 200 hours; ½-candle power, three watt, 600 hours; and ½-candle power, four watt, indefinitely.

There is only one soap that is kept by all grocers, that is Ivory Soap.

The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.

EARN A BICYCLE!

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

W. G. BAKER, Springfield, Mass.

HARPER'S CATALOGUE

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

A NEW BOOK BY

KIRK MONROE

RICK DALE. A Story of the Northwest Coast, Illustrated by W. A. Rogers. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

A story of the adventures of two boys thrown by circumstances into the company of Indians, smugglers, and northwestern loggers. They have many thrilling escapes from such unpleasant companions, and the story is full of important information concerning our northwestern States.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Snow-Shoes and Sledges.—The Fur-Seal's Tooth.—Raftmates.—Canoemates.—Campmates.—Dorymates. Each one volume. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

Wakulla.—The Flamingo Feather.—Derrick Sterling.—Chrystal, Jack & Co., and Delta Bixby. Illustrated. Square 16mo, Cloth, $1.00 each.

NEW EDITION OF

CAMP'S AMERICAN

FOOTBALL

AMERICAN FOOTBALL. By Walter Camp. New and Enlarged Edition. 16mo, Cloth, $1.25.

The progress of the sport of football in this country, and a corresponding growth of inquiry as to the methods adopted by experienced teams, have prompted the publication of an enlarged edition of this book. Should any of the suggestions herein contained conduce to the further popularity of the game, the object of the writer will be attained.—Author's Preface.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York

[Pg 1204]

THE EDUCATED PIG AND THE PLUM-TREE.

A little pink pig with a curly tail once lived with his brothers and sisters behind a great red barn. He was brighter than the rest, and soon learned that of the apples brought to their pen the yellow ones were sweet, the red ones hard and pithy, and the green ones so sour that they made him squeal.

One day a travelling showman passed that way, and was so pleased with the pig that he invited him to join his menagerie. A beautiful sky-blue cage with gold trimmings was placed at his disposal, and he pricked up his ears and tossed his head with pride as he strutted behind the gilded bars, and thought of his brothers and sisters squealing and scrambling over their trough of swill. But a hideous hyena lived in the cage next to his, and snarled and yowled till poor piggy was in a perfect chill from fright. On the other side an idiotic five-footed calf blaated from morning till night. Indeed, one could not blame the poor thing, for he had to stand very straight and still, or his many feet would get themselves so tangled he could never tell which ones to use first if he wanted to go to the right or to the left.

But piggy's life was not a happy one. He longed for the open barn-yard and his bed of fresh sweet hay. He studied hard and learned his lessons well, but the wiser he grew the more he felt that a circus was no place for a pig to live. So, at the very first chance, under the tent slipped piggy, and across the fields he trotted as fast as he could go. Along a dusty country road he went till a most delicious odor of ripe June apples tickled his nostrils. Under and over and between the cruel barbed wires he tried in vain to squeeze his plump little body.

But soon he spied a spreading plum-tree right in the middle of his path. Its branches hung heavy with ripe yellow fruit, and eagerly he rooted in the tall wet grass. But was ever such a thoughtless tree? Not a plum had it dropped in the night for hungry, homeless pigs. Sweeter smelled the fruit and hungrier grew the pig. His little bias eyes blinked with tears as he looked up at the luscious yellow load. Softly he rubbed himself against the trunk and asked so gently, so humbly, for just a taste, that nothing but a hard-hearted scaly barked tree could have refused. But never a leaf stirred. Every plum clung selfishly to its twig, and piggy could have cried with vexation. Surely plums were made for pigs! Why could he not have his share? Angrily he flung himself at the base of the tree, but he was not as heavy as before he became a circus pig, and nothing was hurt but his back. This was too much. Was he to be lamed and bruised by a scrubby old tree just because he admired its fruit? In a rage he took a running start, and struck the tree head first a fearful blow. But, blinded, he staggered back, and nothing but stars came floating down. Hurt, angry, he threw himself upon the ground. Sharp keen darts of hunger stabbed him in the side. He drooped his ears, and thought to himself of what use were his training and education if he were now more helpless than the monkeys of the show or the squirrels of the forest? He looked at his bony little hoofs and wished they were claws; at his short stiff legs, and remembered the nimble little barn-yard kitties. Sorrowfully he glanced at the tree. An ugly gnarly knot grinned at him like a hideous face. Its ear and mouth seemed twisted into one. A thought came to the pig, and creeping close to the side of the tree, he said softly to himself, "I wonder if this orchard belongs to yonder farm?" The tree kept very still. "For," said the pig, "it seems a shame, but I heard the farmer say to the hired man, 'John, go over to-morrow and cut down that scrubby old plum-tree in the path. It is no good; chop it up for fire-wood. The plums are not fit for a pig to eat.'" A mighty fear seized the tree as it heard the dreadful words. It quivered and shook in every limb, and plums pelted poor piggy till he squealed and squirmed with the pain. In vain he dodged and cried "Enough!" but the plums continued to fall till nothing was left on the tree but the joke.

Governess. "Now, if I should take ten apples and put them in the basket, and then take three more, and then five more, and put them in—what would that be?"

Madge. "Addition!"

Governess. "Well, if I should give Madge eight apples, and Tom six apples, and Jack two apples—what would that be?"

Jack. "That would not be fair!"

OVERHEARD IN THE COUNTRY.

"Bzzz!—bzzz!—bzzz!" said the Bee.

"Hoh!" said the Ant. "Bzzz! What a queer combination! It doesn't spell anything."

"Well, who said it did?" retorted the Bee. "I never pretended to be a Spelling Bee."

WILLIE'S GAME.

"Willie, you mustn't mock people when they speak. It's very impolite."

"I didn't mean to be impolite, mamma. I was just playing I was the echo."