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Title: Harper's Round Table, November 24, 1896

Author: Various

Release date: July 24, 2019 [eBook #59976]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, NOVEMBER 24, 1896 ***




Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

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

       *       *       *       *       *

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.

VOL. XVIII.--NO. 891. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration]

A STORY OF THE RUSSIAN FAMINE.

BY OCTAVE THANET.


The Editor of the ROUND TABLE has asked me to relate some incident of my
life which may be of interest to its readers. Will they permit me to
tell them that episode in my life which gives me, when I recall it, the
greatest pleasure?

It is the old story of the pebble and the ever-widening circle in the
water.

Do you remember how all through the autumn of 1893 there appeared in
corners of newspapers, in telegraphic columns, then in editorial
"briefs," sinister allusions to the total failure of the Russian crops
and the menace of a famine? Do you remember how the dreary paragraphs
expanded; how the menace became ghastly reality; how we grew to find,
every morning, as we sat down to our bountiful American breakfasts,
woful tales how men and women were dying of starvation fever, and little
children turned wailing away from the horrible bread of weeds and
refuse? I read as others read. And I read also of the titanic efforts of
the Russian government and the wonderful generosity of the Russian
people in that year of disaster. I experienced the momentary shudder of
pity and horror that such tales excite, and, like other people, I
thought "Somebody ought to do something"; and then pushed the hideous
picture into the background of my mind.

One night Mr. Arthur M. Judy, the pastor of the Unitarian Church in
Davenport, dined with us. The talk drifted to the famine in Russia. I
told how a friend who had passed through Russia in August described the
look of the ruined wheat-fields and the sadness already settling over
the villages.

"We ought to do something for those people," said he. "They came to our
rescue during the civil war; they have always been friendly with us; we
ought not to stand by idle now. We ought to do something, right here in
Iowa."

We all agreed that it would be a good thing, but there was no definite
plan proposed. Only later in the evening, as my mother, my sister, and I
sat together before the fire, we talked of those starving people until
it was uncomfortable. I found it hard to push the pictures of agony and
death and piteous self-sacrifice into the background of my mind.

You perceive that the pebble had been thrown into the water.

Sunday, not long afterwards, we were having a little family dinner
party, our own and my two brothers' families, and my elder brother's
wife spoke of the famine. She is of English-Irish descent, and much of
her life has been spent across the water. She has met many Russians, and
she surprised us all by the intensity of her realization of the horrors
of famine. Yet possibly it is not so strange. Early in the century her
ancestors mortgaged their estates to fight the great Irish famine.

"It is horrible!" cried she; "and we sit here, while they are dying,
eating and drinking. We talk of somebody doing something! Why don't _we_
do something?"

"That's right," said my younger brother, cheerfully turning on me.
"Sissy, why don't _you_ do something?"

"I will," I answered, meekly; "I will go down to the _Democrat_ office
and ask Mr. Tillinghast to do something!"

Then we all laughed; but presently we were discussing the best manner in
which to effect our purpose. The _Democrat_ is the leading journal of
our town, owned by Mr. D. N. Richardson, author of a delightful book of
travels which ought to be on every round table, and his brother, J. J.
Richardson, for many years the Iowa National Committeeman. Mr.
Richardson and Mr. Tillinghast were the editors, Mr. Richardson being
what one may call the consulting editor, and Mr. Tillinghast the active
editor. Mr. Calkins, the new city editor, I had occasion to know later.
I went to the _Democrat_. I stated our case.

I can see the editor now, his slender figure turning quickly in his
chair as he threw his arm over the back of it, his dark eyes kindling,
and his black brows meeting in a little frown of concentrated thought;
and I can hear his leisurely, distinct tones as he spoke:

"I like the idea. I like it very much. But--you know there are
difficulties. In the first place, we must discover whether the Russian
government will accept our offering. We don't want to be lacking in
courtesy any more than in generosity. In the second place, there are so
many prejudices and so many falsehoods circulating about Russia that we
want to select some channel of distribution which will be above
suspicion."

"George thinks that the Red Cross and Clara Barton would satisfy every
one."

"They would; and _she_ is in Washington, where she can consult the
Russian legation."

"And George says he will go with you any day this week to stir up
Governor Boies to issue a proclamation and name a committee."

Thus lightly we entered on a work that was to absorb most of our time,
our energies, and our hearts for the next three months.

The Governor was found already interested. His proclamation was issued
immediately. Like all the Governor's state papers, it was dignified and
to the point, but it contained in its brief lines a touch of pathos
which is not often seen in state documents. Eleven of the most prominent
citizens of the State were named as the Russian Famine Committee, the
chairman being the Hon. Hiram Wheeler, Republican candidate for Governor
in the campaign which had elected Mr. Boies. Mr. B. F. Tillinghast was
named as secretary, and the Auditor of the State as treasurer. And it
may be said here that upon the secretary and the treasurer fell the
burden and the heat of the work of organizing an immense undertaking.
Mr. Tillinghast, in especial, gave up almost his entire time, night and
day, the owners of the _Democrat_ loyally backing him up, and
contributing not only the columns of the paper, but generous gifts of
money and their own time. The first work was to organize enthusiasm--to
spread the circle wider and wider. "First we must get the committee red
hot, then they must get their committees red hot, and the press must
keep up the fire," said Mr. Tillinghast. The press all over the State
nobly responded, publishing anything bearing on the famine which the
Famine Committee would furnish. Mr. Tillinghast every day culled from
exchanges, American and foreign, from private letters and public
letters, what seemed best calculated to rouse the public feeling. It was
in itself an immense work. He, with his staff, was an entire literary
bureau; but this was only a fraction of his work. He and a few others of
us who were interested corresponded with hundreds of people, with the
officers of the Red Cross, with Colonel Murphy and Buchanan and other
corn experts (we had decided that our gift should be corn, and events
proved the wisdom of our decision), with people in our own country, with
the workers in Russia. Thousands of copies of the proclamation of the
Famine Committee were printed, and thousands more slips of extracts from
testimony from authentic sources regarding the sufferings of the
peasants and the heroic relief-work of their country-men were also made
ready. Almost the entire work of their selection and preparation was
done by Mr. Tillinghast. At the same time he was holding in his hand all
the reins of the different forces.

I remember that, accidentally, the "Horrors," as we used to call them,
were printed on colored paper--red, orange, and blue. To our surprise,
we found that the colors attracted so much attention that what began by
accident continued by design. One of our best sources of information was
the _Northwestern Miller_, which was advocating the sending of a cargo
of wheat flour by the millers of the country. The generous millers
raised the ship load, and Mr. Edgar, of the _Northwestern Miller_,
accompanied it to Europe. He was thanked in person, for the evidence of
friendship, by the Czarowitz, the present Czar.

Every Sunday night Mr. Tillinghast would come to my mother's house, the
telephone would summon my two brothers and their wives, and a council of
war would be held on the week's progress and the plans for the next
week.

It was immediately after the meeting of the Famine Committee that my own
mere active part in the work began. Mr. Tillinghast had reported the
plan of campaign. He added: "Yes, the prospect is good. I think we can
easily raise a train of corn. But I am more ambitious; I want to send a
ship-load; and I think to do it we need to--interest the women." The
women present said very little; but after he was gone, in the fashion
of women, we "talked it over."

And that was the pebble that is responsible for the Iowa Women's
Auxiliary to the Red Cross. First, I wrote to prominent women in society
and in philanthropy all over the State, proposing the plan of an
organization of women who should sign a pledge. The pledge is before me;
it binds the subscriber to

     Obey her superior officers.

     Inform herself so far as in her power regarding the famine.

     Influence her friends in favor of the objects of the Auxiliary, so
     far as in her lies.

     Aid in any effort made by the Auxiliary to raise money for the
     Russian Famine Committee, by public entertainments.

The badge was a red cross on black satin ribbon, with the letters I.W.A.
in gold above the cross. The officers generally decked the satin with
gold fringe, and pinned a knot of ribbon in the Russian colors above.
The admission fee was ten cents, which included the badge. Yet this sum
more than paid all our expenses, principally because every member among
the officers paid her own expenses. Never, perhaps, was a large
charitable undertaking run more cheaply. All the committees worked for
nothing, at their own charges; the railways donated passes, the
telegraph companies donated their wires for the work, the newspapers
opened their columns, several owners of theatres and public halls
offered them free for our entertainments in aid of the fund, the
underwriters made a present of their charges, the very laborers who
packed the cargo gave their labor. Two weeks sufficed to organize, to
have lists signed all over the State petitioning the Governor to name a
committee; and before three weeks had passed, the committee had met in
Des Moines. The chairman was Mrs. William Larrabee, wife of ex-Governor
Larrabee; and I took the position of secretary.

The members of the Central Committee were chosen as representing
Congressional districts, that being the basis of representation in the
Russian Famine Committee. They were Mrs. Francis Ketcham, Mrs. Charles
Ashmead Schaeffer, Mrs. Matthew Parrott, Mrs. John F. Duncombe, Mrs.
Ella Hamilton Durley, Mrs. Albert Swalm, Mrs. J. B. Harsh, Mrs. George
West, Mrs. J. T. Stoneman, Mrs. Julian Phelps. We considered the
officers of the Russian Famine Committee as our superior officers, and
all moneys were turned in to them.

Miss Barton advised with us, and it was through her personal efforts
that the ship that carried our corn was secured. The weeks that followed
I have not the space to describe.

The president and secretary travelled among the districts; each district
chairman travelled in her own district, organizing subcommittees and
reporting to the secretary, who reported to the chairman. We held
meetings in libraries and club-rooms and hotel parlors. There was always
the same result; the simple recital of the misery, which we grew daily
to feel more acutely the harder we worked to help it, was enough to stir
the generous Western heart. Workers rose up all about us. They, in turn,
inspired others. One old lady, enfeebled by rheumatism, a farmer's
widow, wrote me for information, and carried the red and yellow slips
which I sent her around among her neighbors, reading them, and
collecting money. She raised $17. Sometimes, she said, it was hard for
her to climb in and out of the wagon; but she thought of the poor
starving creatures, and that gave her strength.

Two Swedish servant-girls added almost a hundred members to the
Auxiliary by their own efforts. One of our most effective appeals was to
tell (quoting our Russian informants) that a man or woman could be fed
from then to the next harvest for the sum of $2.80. It seemed
incredible, but Tolstoi and several others were our informants, and our
Red Cross men later verified the statement. We used to say, "Will you
not ask your friends to join with you and save one Russian life?" A poor
seamstress came to one district chairman and offered her some money
($1.75), saying, "I can't save a grown-up Russian, but maybe this will
save some child."

We raised money by different devices. Charity balls were given, and
Russian receptions, and kind-hearted musicians sang. The opera of the
_Mikado_, given in Davenport, helped our fund by over $800. There were
other unions of the appeal to the sense of humanity and the appetite for
amusement, but in general we simply asked for money in an honest, direct
way, and it was given to us.

In the cities and towns we asked for money with which to buy corn; in
the country we asked for corn itself. Mrs. Duncombe and Mrs. Ketcham
sent out wagon solicitors, who drove from farm to farm. The Iowa farmers
are very generous, and the wagons were heaped long before the circuit
could be completed. The result of the united efforts of men and women
was the largest ship-load of corn that ever sailed from our shores.

It is not only the result of our labors which makes the memory of that
hard-working, anxious time precious; it is, most of all, the revelation
that came to me, day after day, of the noble qualities of mine own
people. I remember how, in one of the counties, a hail-storm had pelted
the corn-fields and laid waste the harvest. We were questioning whether,
at the same time that we were asking aid for others, we should ask for
our own sufferers, when one of the chairmen received a letter from
Adair, saying: "_We're_ all right; we don't want anything. What are you
thinking about? We've collected a car-load of corn for the Russians.
Where shall we send it?"

And I remember very tenderly how the committees of women worked. Their
tact, their enthusiasm, their unselfish loyalty, will always rise before
me as I think of that time. And their virtues of omission were as
shining as those of commission. We had our difficulties, our
disappointments; we were harassed and discouraged, and a few times
despairing; but in all that time, during which I had hundreds of letters
and scores of meetings and innumerable private consultations with my
comrades, I am not haunted by the humiliating spectre of even a single
squabble. Nor did any of the chairmen report such a thing out of her own
experience. Yet, for the credit of the sex, I would not wish to think
that one of the husbands was right when he said: "You've broken the
world's record. You haven't had a racket!"

But now is it not easy to understand why, of the experiences of my life,
this is the one that is the jewel of my memory? And it is the old story
of the pebble and the circle in the water.

       *       *       *       *       *

A BAD PLACE TO BE BORN IN.

There are a great many advantages in being born an American citizen. One
can hope to become President of the United States and various other high
and mighty things; but, after all, the greatest privilege is in being
born among a people who are free from foolish superstitions. Suppose you
had been born on the Congo River, for instance. How would you like that
when you consider some of their beliefs? It is told by persons supposed
to be well informed that the people inhabiting the district round the
Congo River share with the Ashantees, of whom we have recently heard
such a lot, the belief that if their high priest, the Chitome, were to
die a natural death the whole world would follow suit at once, and would
dissolve into air, for it is, according to them, only held together by
his personal will.

Accordingly, when the pontiff falls ill, and the illness is serious
enough to make a fatal termination probable, a successor is nominated,
and he, so soon as he is consecrated, enters the high priest's hut and
clubs him or strangles him to death. A somewhat similar custom obtains
in Unyore when the King falls seriously ill, and seems likely to die,
for his wives to kill him. The same rule is followed if he gets beyond a
certain age, for an old Unyore prophecy states that the throne will pass
away from the family in the event of the King dying a natural death.




A DELFT PARTY.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.


[Illustration]

"Look here! look here!" and mischievous Penelope rustled a handful of
bank-bills before her mother, and the next second raised them above her
head and waltzed around the room.

"What ails you, child, and where did you get that money?" was the ready
inquiry, while Mrs. Thayer's admiring eyes followed her daughter's
graceful, swift-moving figure.

All of a sudden Penelope's rosy face, flushed with exercise and radiant
with happiness, burst into a merry laugh--one of the laughs that ripple
all through the atmosphere, and prove so contagious that everybody
within hearing of it laughs also.

Then stopping just before her mother, and again rustling the crisp
bills, for they were bran-new, she this time teasingly said, "Guess."

"But I cannot."

"Well, then," and dragging a chair so as to be opposite both her mother
and Cousin Blanche--this cousin has been a young lady for over ten
years, and makes her home with them--Penelope sat herself down, and with
the tantalizing manner that she could assume on occasions, slowly
counted, "One--two--three--four--five," and so on, laying one
five-dollar bill over the other while doing so, until they numbered ten.
Then satisfactorily surveying the pile before her, she raised her eyes,
and looking full into the earnest faces of her listeners, exclaimed,
with a wave of her hand in the money direction, "All mine!"

"You tantalizing, tormenting--" and Penelope's mother, trying to look
severe, rose, and threw on the blazing log fire a paper which, until her
daughter's entrance, she had been reading, and then with a swift
backward turn of her head she concluded, "mischievous girl."

Mrs. Thayer was rarely known to have administered anything but caresses
on any of her children, much less to her only daughter and youngest
child. "Mother's pet," the boys called her, but people called her
everybody's pet, for from her youngest brother to her eldest, and she
had five of them, their first question was, "Where's Penelope?"

Therefore Mrs. Thayer was not at all surprised when her daughter finally
told her that the money was a present from Uncle Dan. Uncle Dan was Mrs.
Thayer's bachelor brother, and lived with them off and on, and Penelope
farther explained, while delight streamed from every feature of her
mobile face, "that uncle had given her the money to spend on a party";
and having told her story, she raised her gray-blue honest eyes to her
mother, and asked,

"I could give a party for fifty dollars, couldn't I?"

"Of course you can! the loveliest sort of a party, too," was the
assuring answer. Then, as that matter was arranged, Mrs. Thayer turned
towards Blanche, who was quietly watching the interview but saying not a
word. "Have you any scheme to suggest?" But before Blanche had an
opportunity to reply Mrs. Thayer interjected, suddenly rising to give
her dress a fresh smooth out, "Penelope, how would you like to give the
party on your birthday?"

"I'd love to, mother," and very rapidly her little hands were clasped
together while she added, "May I?"

"I don't see why not; your birthday is--let me count--just three weeks
hence;" and with the most satisfied air Mrs. Thayer exclaimed, "Plenty
of time. But run away now, dear, for we want to plan your party when
you're not around."

And after a slight demur, for Penelope was thirteen years old and
thought she should be taken into the consultation, she rose and gayly
tripped out of the room.

"Now, Blanche," and Mrs. Thayer wheeled about to face her.

"You amuse me. What should I know about children's entertainments?"

"You're the very one that does know. Haven't you been all over the world
nearly? Of course you know."

"Well, how do you think Penelope would enjoy a Delft party?"

Shaking her head slowly, Mrs. Thayer replied, "I never heard of one."

"Nor have I, and I am astonished that it has not been introduced long
ago. As New York was settled by the Dutch, a Delft party could partake
of the real Knickerbocker flavor--none of the sham kind;" and with this
last word Cousin Blanche rose and walked nearer to the fire, adding,
with a slight shiver, that she was cold.

Mrs. Thayer thereupon rang for the maid, who received orders to bring
more wood, and as the fire crackled and blazed, Cousin Blanche talked
steadily.

"Of course the word Delft suggests Holland, and we right away think of
the large windmills everywhere visible. Some of these are built of
stone, others of brick, and still others of wood. Many of them are
thatched. Now my idea would be for the boys--Penelope's brothers, I
mean--to form a tableau in which they would build windmills. The
windmills could be cut out of card-board and pasted together. They could
be painted to represent stone or brick. Ordinary straw could be used for
thatching, and two or more of the boys might be putting the straw on.
These windmills should be stood back of that large screen at the north
end of the parlor before the children arrive."

"Then you wouldn't use a curtain?"

"No; we could arrange all the tableaux back of the screen, and so save a
great deal of annoyance."

"How many tableaux do you think would be nice?"

"Three or four." And Cousin Blanche thoughtfully continued: "I would
show only those that are thoroughly indicative of our Holland Dutch
ancestors." And Blanche scrutinized Mrs. Thayer's face while she
concluded, "Entertainment is always better when it is instructive."

"But I'm afraid"--and Mrs. Thayer acted fearful while she
explained--"that the tableaux would be a terrible trouble."

"On the contrary, nothing could be easier;" and with a good-natured
smile rippling over her face, Blanche continued, "Why not let me help
you?"

"Help me? I expected you would. Why, Blanche!" and the forlorn tone of
Mrs. Thayer's voice decided matters.

"I am thinking"--and Cousin Blanche's face was very bright, showing that
her thought was satisfactory--"that it would be a good idea to show the
tulip craze. This tableau would require girls and boys. Penelope could
be one of the girls, and Fannie and Julia Mobray the others."

"They are quite getatable."

"That was my reason in selecting them. Living across the street as they
do, they could easily run over for rehearsals."

"I did not know that the Hollanders were interested in tulips
especially," Mrs. Thayer responded, slowly, and lifting her eyes so that
they met the astonished ones of Cousin Blanche.

"Why," and without waiting for an explanation Cousin Blanche continued,
"you've forgotten about it. The Hollanders spent immense sums of money
in ornamenting their gardens with tulips; every new variety of the
flower was sought for. They were produced in various shapes and
unexpected colors. Indeed, a new color meant a fortune."

"Oh!" and Mrs. Thayer seemed greatly surprised. "But how would you show
it?"

"I would group the children so that they looked pretty. They could wear
green clothes to represent stalk and leaves, and have large
colored-paper petals fastened to their waists, and with wire shaped and
bent upward they would look like veritable tulips. Then a few others
could, in a previous tableau, show the act of planting tulip bulbs and
watering some growing tulips."

[Illustration]

"Suppose that you cannot get the tulips?"

"I can get tulips of some sort," was the assured response. "If I cannot
buy natural ones, I can make paper ones."

Mrs. Thayer looked pleased, and then a pink flush suffused her face,
while she replied, "I cannot frighten you, can I?"

"Not this time. Indeed, no one can afford to quietly accept things when
arranging entertainments;" and Blanche rose and paced several times up
and down the room. While she walked she added: "As for the other
tableaux, one should certainly show a group of girls knitting and
crocheting, and others painting pottery, tiles, etc. And then there
should be a representation of storks and their nests."

"How would you get a stork?"

"Borrow one from a museum, if there is no other way. But I have friends
who have fine specimens of storks, and stork nests also."

"Well, but what about the rest of the party?" And with a swift glance at
her watch, Mrs. Thayer added, "I have an engagement."

"Delft games should be played. For example:

FIVE.

"Select a boy and hand him a knotted handkerchief. He must throw the
handkerchief at a player, and before he can count aloud five the person
to whom it is thrown must mention a round thing, such as an apple, a
globe. If that person fails, he must change places with the one who has
caught him, and throw the handkerchief at another. As no repetitions are
allowed, it will soon be difficult to find an object that is round.

BREAKFAST.

"Every player is seated. Turn to the person at your right, and ask,
'Will you come to breakfast?' To which the answer is, 'Yes.' When that
question and answer have gone around the room, the first one must ask,
'What would you like for breakfast?' Perhaps the reply would be, 'Milk';
and he then puts the question to his right-hand neighbor, who perhaps
would say, 'Oatmeal,' and so on, until no sensible answer can be made,
for no repetitions can occur in this game, also. As the different
players fail to respond they must stand.

ALPHABET.

"Give any letter of the alphabet--for example, S--to the company, also
some paper and pencils. In five minutes' time they should write the
names of three celebrated men, and also three sensible sentences, one
for each man's name, as Shakespeare was born in Stratford on the Avon.
Forfeits are required for failures.

"The games may be interspersed or followed by dances, and also by vocal
or instrumental music."

"As you describe it, Blanche, I'm afraid the children wouldn't get home
until morning."

"I am sure they will not want to. And, besides, it will be such a pretty
party."

"That is so; but you haven't suggested any decorations."

"No, nor told you what you are to wear."

"I to wear?" and Mrs. Thayer almost screamed the words.

"Why, the party wouldn't be anywhere without costumes. You must"--and
Blanche met Mrs. Thayer's face smilingly--"look over some Dutch
portraits or photographs and decide which you will copy. Besides, you
must wear a gown of Delft blue, as, indeed, I must also. And all the
girls must wear Delft-blue colored frocks, and fashion them as closely
as possible after the style of the young Dutch girls. Their hair should
be worn flowing, and tied by the same colored ribbon, or worn in braids
down their backs; and the boys must get the color in too some way; of
course they could all wear Delft scarfs. And all the decorations should
be of the same blue shade. That can readily be arranged by draperies and
crêpe paper. And don't forget to have the caterer serve all confections
and ices in form of dikes, windmills, ships, storks, etc. Indeed, we
must have everything as Delft as possible."

When Penelope heard the scheme she could scarcely wait for her birthday
night to come. But the days passed rapidly, after all, because everybody
was very busy, and the night of all nights arrived at last.

[Illustration]

And Uncle Dan, who did not enter the parlor until the games were in
progress, exclaimed in amazement, as he turned towards Penelope,

  "Well, if it be I, as I suppose it be,
  I have a little dog at home, and he knows me."

And drawing his hand across his forehead in a dazed sort of way, he
inquired: "Am I dreaming, child? I thought I was in America, but it
seems I am in Holland, or perhaps time has gone backward, and it's the
old Knickerbocker period."




A THANKSGIVING GAME.

BY S. SCOVILLE, JUN.


"It's outrageous!" said the pater, banging his fist down on the
breakfast table in a way that made the mater, accustomed as she was to
his ways, jump in spite of herself. "So that's the reason the young
rascal's not going to be with us to-morrow until late in the evening.
Listen to this;" and the pater began indignantly to read an extract from
the morning paper:

     "'An important change has been effected in the makeup of the Yale
     eleven. Teddie Larned, '99, has recently made such a fine showing
     at full-back that he will fill that position in the championship
     game against Princeton on Thanksgiving day. His punting and
     line-breaking are phenomenally good.'

"That's what I was afraid of when I sent him to college," continued the
pater, solemnly, as he folded up the paper. "Football's a rough, brutal
game, and those that play it become rough and brutal, when they don't
injure themselves for life, as most of 'em do. I wouldn't have one of
those young savages in my house. I'll just go up to that game early
to-morrow afternoon," he went on, "and bring Teddie home with me.
They'll have to get somebody else to fill his place in spite of his
being such a phenomenal--er--line-smasher--whatever that is."

"Don't be too hasty," advised the mater, in whom Teddie, knowing his
father's violent aversion to athletics, had confided. "This game means a
great deal to our boy."

"Nonsense!" snorted Mr. Larned, indignantly; "it's nothing but a silly
school-boy affair anyway. I'm astonished that grown men waste their time
encouraging such things by going."

Long before the elevated train had reached Harlem it was packed and
jammed to the doors with lusty college boys, pretty girls, and sedate
heads of families, among whom Mr. Larned saw with astonishment many men
of note. All were wearing college colors, all were filled with a
delightful, suppressed excitement. Involuntarily the pater began to feel
the contagion. But everybody was talking football, and their language
sounded strangely to his ears.

"They say that Larned's a regular find for Yale," remarked a
chrysanthemum-headed youth to his friend hanging to a strap beside him.
"He kicked a goal from the field last week, when he was playing on the
scrub, from the forty-five-yard line. You ought to see him buck a line!"

Teddie's name was on every one's lips, and the pater began, in spite of
himself, to feel proud of his son, and to have a sneaking desire to see
some of those accomplishments of his that other people seemed to know so
much about.

Fighting his way through the crush at the gate, Mr. Larned finally found
himself inside, albeit in a decidedly dishevelled condition. An official
with a long flowing badge directed him to the training-quarters where
the Yale team was reposing during the last hour before the game. At the
door the pater was confronted by Mike, the grizzled old trainer.

"Of course Mr. Larned's here," he responded, surprisedly, to the
former's inquiry, "but he can't see anybody just now."

"Tell him that his father wishes to speak with him at once," said the
pater, authoritatively.

The trainer's manner became more respectful. "I'm very sorry, Mr.
Larned," he said, firmly, "but the team can see no one before the game.
The coachers are giving them a last talk now."

"Do you mean to tell me," the pater demanded, hotly, "that I can't see
my own son?"

"Exactly, sir," replied the trainer, inexorably. "Just at present he's
the full-back on the Yale eleven, and nothing else goes. And now, Mr.
Larned, I'll write you out a pass to the grand stand, and then I must
run back to the boys. After the game you can see your son aplenty--if
there's anything left of him." And with this cheering suggestion, Mike
scribbled a few words on a card, which he handed to Mr. Larned, and
retired.

The latter stood speechless for a moment. That a power on the Street, a
man whose name was among the great ones of Manhattan, should be treated
thus cavalierly, and that by a hired trainer--

"Why, it's preposterous!" exclaimed the pater to himself; nor was his
ruffled self-esteem soothed when he read the scrawl on the card: "This
is Teddie Larned's father. He wants to see the game. Mike."

But then it proved an "open sesame," and the ushers, after reading the
magic words, received him with the most marked attention, passed him
along through the crowds of ordinary people who were not fathers to
famous full-backs, and finally seated him in a front box which was
specially reserved for the parents of the players--though Mr. Larned did
not know this.

Next to him was seated a tall, ruddy-faced man, wearing the slouch hat
which the old generation of Westerners still cling to. He was beaming
with jollity, and joined a deep bass to some of the college songs that
Yale voices were chanting all around him.

"Well, to-day's the day we watch the youngsters distinguish themselves,"
he remarked, cheerily, to Mr. Larned, during a lull in the cheering that
was surging up and down the grand stand.

But before the pater could rebuff this friendly overture, as in his
present state of mind he felt inclined to, a roar of cheers swept up and
down the field, and the speaker sprang to his feet, waving his slouch
hat frantically. Out on the brownish-green field trotted eleven
shock-headed youths clad in dirty, heavily padded mole-skins, cleated
shoes, and canvas jackets, frayed and torn, but each with the great
varsity "Y" on its breast. An oval brown ball was hurled and caught
with, what seemed to the pater's inexperienced eye, wonderful swiftness,
and then as the ball rolled along the ground each man took his turn, as
it came near, in sprawling down on it in a most comical manner. Suddenly
it was passed nearly thirty yards, straight as an arrow into the arms of
a short, chunky youngster, with an extremely dirty face, who seemed
carved out of a solid block. With almost a single movement--so deftly
was it done--the ball was caught and poised in both hands for the
tiniest fraction of a second. Then came a hollow thump as the dropped
oval was punted. Up, and up, and out in a tremendous parabola, almost
the length of the field it soared. "AA! AA!" howled the Yale tiers. "Get
on to that punt! What's the matter with Teddie Larned?"

The pater stared, at first incredulously, but sure enough that
marvellous kicker was his own son Teddie, though disguised by the grime,
the pads, and the tangled hair.

It must have been the excitement around him which made the pater stand
up and watch with all his eyes every sky-scraping punt that the
dirty-faced boy continued to make, and by a mere accident all at once he
found himself saying "AA!" as loudly as any one before he had been on
his feet a minute.

His companion was wild with excitement. "See that big chap?" he
exclaimed, pointing out a young giant whose face looked like some
monstrous mask, with its huge rubber nose-guard. "That's Bright, the
centre rush. Ain't he a corker?"

"Looks too fat," said the pater, critically.

"Too fat, eh?" replied the other, excitedly. "Well, you just watch him
play, and see if he's too fat. That little Larned's the one that's too
fat. He punts all right, but a full-back ought not to be so round."

"Not at all! Not at all!" hotly responded the pater, who, though he did
not know a full-back from a goal-post, was not going to sit by and hear
his only son maligned. "A _pull_-back should always be thickset!
They--er--_pull_ better when they're like that. And--that's my son sir!"

The Westerner choked until he was nearly black in the face. "Well,
shake, old man, and we'll call it square," he said, finally, when he had
recovered breath enough to speak. "Bright happens to be my son, and in
spite of their fat I think our two boys won't disgrace us this day--eh?"

And again it must have been the excitement of the game, for the
dignified and somewhat exclusive Mr. Larned found himself shaking hands
with a total stranger as if he had been a life-long friend. All his bad
temper had disappeared. He was aglow with excitement; the most
delightful little thrills ran up and down his back, while an
irresistible impulse to shout had taken possession of him.

"This is your first game, isn't it?" Mr. Bright questioned. But just
then came another punt, and the pater found it much easier to stand up
and yell "AA!" than to answer any such searching questions. Then all
further conversation was made impossible by a torrent of cheers from the
Princeton tiers, and eleven other men, with the same grimy,
weather-beaten costumes, and the same businesslike air of deadly
earnestness, spread across the field and went through similar
preliminaries. Only _their_ stockings were of a barber-pole pattern,
with alternate rings of orange and black instead of a uniform blue,
while a large orange "P" blazed on every breast in place of the Y.

And now there was no controlling the audience. Orange and black banners
were confronted by yards of Yale blue. Yellow chrysanthemums glared at
bunches of violets and bachelor's-buttons, while the wearers--men,
women, and children--sent out volleys of cheers that made the grand
stand shake. The pater and his newly found friend were on their feet
with the rest. Near by was a crowd of Yale "rooters," as Mr. Bright
graphically termed them, shouting a rhythmic cheer containing too many
x's and other bewildering Greek consonants for the pater, while he
invariably added an extra "Rah!" to the regulation cheer. But to his
satisfaction he found that not even the deep-voiced Bright could shout
"AA!" with more earnest emphasis and volume, and he fell back on that as
his strong point.

Suddenly there is silence, a warning whistle blows. Yale has the ball,
and the forwards group themselves in a curious zigzag formation,
awaiting the kick off.

The short and chunky Teddie takes a run, his foot swings and strikes the
ball with what seems hardly more than a gentle touch, but the oval is
spinning clear down to the other end of the field, followed by the
terrible rush of the whole Yale team. It is caught by a running
Princeton man, who, with a swerve of his body, avoids the spring of one
runner, hurls another aside with the "straight-arm," and comes tearing
down the field like a deer. A tremendous shout from the wearers of the
orange and black masses is bitten off with surprising abruptness. For
Teddie smashes straight through the interference, and with a
lightning-like dive, which there is no evading, tackles the runner just
about the knees and hurls him headlong. In a flash the lined-up elevens
are facing each other, and the fight is on.

"Too fat, eh? Just look at that!" chuckles Mr. Bright, slapping the
erstwhile dignified Mr. Larned ecstatically on the back, as Yale's
centre catches his opponent napping, hurls him aside, and downs a runner
in his tracks.

Back and forth surges the tide of battle. The elevens are almost evenly
matched, and though the ball has been dangerously close to either goal,
it has always been kicked or rushed back in time. The pater marvels at
Teddie. Where had his boy learned the daring, the coolness, and the
self-reliance that characterize him that day? Time after time the Yale
backs smash at the Princeton line and fail to make the necessary ground,
and the ball is close to the goal, with only the swing of Teddie's right
leg to ward off a touch-down. But the boy never falters. Unerringly he
catches the ball, and just at the right moment when the rush of the
opposing backs is almost upon him, the ball spins far out of danger, and
a long-drawn breath of relief comes from the Yale seats. And once when
Teddie dives into the line with the ball, and the great seething mass of
arms and legs untangles itself, there is one that fails to rise with the
rest. The little full-back lies very limp and still, and there is a cry
for water, while old Mike rushes from the side-lines with a great
blanket flapping in the breeze. The pater's face becomes all of a sudden
drawn and white, and he trembles so that the great Westerner drops his
arm across his shoulders.

"Steady, old man," he says, soothingly; "the boy's only had the wind
pounded out of him. He'll be up and playing in a second." And maybe the
two fathers don't join in the tremendous cheer that arises when Teddie
trots back to his place--a little unsteadily, to be sure--and the game
goes on.

"They're saving him," says Mr. Bright, after watching the play carefully
for some time. "He's only been sent against the line three times this
half, and now the other backs are doing most of the punting. They'll
send him in to save the game in the last ten minutes."

The ball is back almost in the middle of the field again, when suddenly
the warning whistle sounds shrilly, and the first half is over. A great
buzz goes up from thousands of seats as the spectators discuss the
details of the game, and, long before one expects them, the players are
trooping back. Hair all adrip from the hurried sponging that the rubbers
have given their grimy faces, bodies still atingle from the stinging
alcohol rub-downs, with the hoarse, earnest, words of the graduate
coachers still ringing in their ears, they line up for the bitter second
half. From the start the advantage lies with the orange and black. The
weight of their tremendous rush-line begins to make itself felt. Back
and forth goes the ball, but--significant fact to the knowing ones--it
stays constantly in Yale's territory. For the first time during the
afternoon there is a dead silence, and the thud of the players' bodies
as a back strikes the rush-line or tries to smash through the
interference can be heard, and their sobbing breathing as again and
again the confused heap untangles itself. The shrill voices of the
quarter-backs as they call out the signal for the next play punctuates
every struggle, and now and then one or the other of the Captains claps
his muddy hands sharply together with a "Play hard, boys! Hit it up!
_Now_ show your sand!"

Above the struggling, changing mass hangs a thin white steam--truly a
battle-mist. Finally, towards the end of the half, by a series of short,
hard rushes, Princeton is on Yale's 20-yard line. But here the wearers
of the blue stand like a stone wall, and, after three vain attempts, the
ball goes to Yale on downs. Instantly it is passed back for a punt, and
then--no one knows how it happened, perhaps the Yale guard was napping,
perhaps the tackle was to blame--straight through the line, between
tackle and guard, smashes the great right guard of Princeton and blocks
the kick. The ball bounds from his broad chest clear across the line. In
a flash one of the Princeton ends has followed, fallen on it, and the
score is 4-0 in favor of Princeton. A crumb of comfort is it, but only a
crumb to the Yale adherents, who sit gloomy and despondent amid a
roaring storm of Princeton cheers, that no goal is kicked.

"Only seven minutes left," exclaims Mr. Bright, despairingly, "and that's
not time to do anything against a rush-line like that. But the boys'll
die a-trying, anyhow!"

Grim and unyielding the Yale men line up for these last stern minutes.
They have failed. No matter the reason, the audience may call it a
fluke, a piece of hard luck; but up on the Yale campus it is results
that count--not excuses. In their hands is the honor of the college, and
but seven minutes remain to wipe off the stain of defeat before thrice
ten thousand people. Like a flash the eleven lines up. The battle opens
with a last-resort flying-wedge play, too risky to try except at such a
desperate time when every chance must be taken. When it is over the blue
line is twelve yards nearer the Princeton goal; but two of the precious
minutes are gone.

"Five, seven, twenty-nine!" shouts the quarter-back, hoarsely, and the
ball goes back to Teddie, and smash he goes into the line. Like a flash
the tangled mass dissolves, with the ball six yards nearer the goal.
Nothing is harder to stand than the dumb furious rush of a despairing
eleven, nerved by the sting of defeat, and seeing a chance to retrieve
itself. No end plays now, but straight through the centre they go, and
even Princeton's mighty rush-line wavers. Mr. Bright's prediction as to
Teddie's having been held in reserve proves a true one. Back into his
hands goes the ball for nearly every play, and gallantly that day does
he sustain his reputation as the best line-breaker that has ever worn a
Y. Sometimes it is a "turtle-back," or one of the huge guards makes a
hole for him at the centre, or again, in a tandem play, Teddie follows
the smashing rush of the heaviest back. But, whatever the play,
crashing through or even leaping over the opposing line, as they crouch
for his approach, pushing, boring, squirming, with the weight of half a
dozen men crushing the breath out of him, Teddie always gains ground.
Sometimes the gains are small, to be sure, but always enough for Yale to
keep the ball. Once there is a line-up by the side-line close to where
the two fathers sit, and Mr. Larned looks down into Teddie's face scarce
ten yards away. It shows very white now underneath the grime and sweat,
while the blood, oozing from a cut in the forehead, clots blackly in
little streams down the side of his face. But, strangely enough, the
pater forgets to characterize the whole thing as brutal. In fact, his
teeth are clinched as grimly as his son's as he leans far forward to see
every move of the game, and his heart goes out to those "young savages"
who are making such a dogged up-hill fight of it.

And now the ball is on the twenty-yard line, diagonally from the goal.

"Thirty seconds to play," shouts the umpire, poring over his stop-watch.
"Thirty seconds to make one last attempt for Yale, and every man on the
eleven nerves himself to hold against the Princeton rush-line as against
death himself. As the quarter-back cries the signal, the right and left
half-backs, from mere force of habit, crouch ostentatiously, as if
prepared for a run round the end. But the feint is unnecessary. Every
man on the Princeton eleven, every coacher on the side-lines, every
football-player on the crowded grand stands, knows that a goal from the
field is Yale's only chance, knows that on Teddie's coolness depends the
fate of the day. Back goes the ball on a long, low, accurate pass from
the wiry little quarter-back. And before it has reached Teddie's
outstretched hands the crash comes, and against the sternly waiting line
comes the full force of the Princeton rushers bent on breaking through
and blocking the kick.

"Hold 'em, Yale!" gasps the Captain from his place at tackle, as he
braces against the hard-pressed right-guard. And for a second Yale
holds. Then the line wavers, and straight for Teddie, from as many
different points, spring three men. But that second had been enough.
Deftly and slowly, as if in practice, the ball is poised and dropped.
Struck on the rebound by Teddie's foot, it spins up and out just above
the outstretched fingers of the Princeton rushers, who leap high in the
air to intercept it. The goal is a difficult, diagonal one to make, and
every player forgets to breathe as the ball sails slowly on, until it
just clears the cross-bar, making the score stand 5-4 in favor of Yale;
the game has been won in the last quarter of a minute.

[Illustration: THE GAME HAS BEEN WON IN THE LAST QUARTER OF A MINUTE.]

In such an indescribable turmoil as the one that followed, with every
Yale sympathizer swarming out on the field to embrace the eleven which
had so gallantly snatched a victory from the jaws of defeat, it was
impossible to chronicle events with perfect accuracy; but it has been
reported, on reliable authority, that shortly after the goal was kicked,
a hatless and much dishevelled individual, bearing some faint
resemblance to the dignified Mr. Larned, the well-known financier of New
York, was seen enthusiastically hugging a muddy Yale player, supposed to
be the full-back, pouring forth divers fragments of cheers the while,
and at intervals embracing a tall man in a slouch hat who was performing
a vigorous war-dance with variations. Both of these parties mentioned
were also said to have been members of the group that carried the
aforesaid full-back around the field on their shoulders in triumph.
Undoubtedly the facts in the case have been much exaggerated, but it is
certainly true that Mrs. Larned, to her unbounded amazement, received
the following telegram from her husband late that evening:

"Teddie, my friend Bright, and four of the Yale eleven will eat
Thanksgiving dinner with us to-night."




A LOYAL TRAITOR.

A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.

BY JAMES BARNES.


CHAPTER V.

THE LION'S GREED.

So we ran on with the wind holding fair until late in the evening,
steering northeast by east. I had overcome a great deal of my timidity
already, and had asked so many questions and paid such close attention
to the way the brig was being handled, that by nightfall I thought I
knew not a little about the working of a ship.

Captain Morrison, seeing my interest was so real, and put in a
good-humor, as I have said, by the escape from the 74, explained to me
something about steering by compass, and the wherefore of several
orders.

The planter's wife had so far recovered from her indisposition as to
take a seat at the swinging-table in the cabin, and we made a very jolly
party at supper.

The skipper, warmed by a bottle of port which Mr. Chaffee had set upon
the table, began to tell tales of the sea. I have heard many stories in
my life, but I do not think that I have ever been thrilled or excited by
any in the way that I was that evening.

Mrs. Chaffee must have noticed it, for she closed her hand over mine
(that were tightly gripping the edge of the table), and stroked them
gently in a motherly way. I resented this (although I am glad I did not
show it), for was not I at that very time employed with the Captain in
repelling an attack of a Barbary corsair? and Mrs. Chaffee's kindly
touch recalled me to myself, and reminded me that I was but a boy, after
all, who a few hours before had been almost in tears for the lack of
what she had shown me--a little sympathy and the comfort of a kindly
glance and touch.

The Captain had not finished his yarn-spinning--in fact, he was but in
the middle of it--when the first mate thrust his head down the
companionway.

"Will you come on deck, sir, and take a look at the glass on the way
up?" he asked.

To my surprise, the Captain cast his tale adrift without an apology and
hurried out, pausing for an instant only for a hasty glance at the
barometer, which hung against the bulkhead at the foot of the ladder.

"It's evidently fallen calm," said Mr. Chaffee.

"And very glad am I that it has," answered his wife. "I think any more
of that pitch and toss and I should have died."

For the last three-quarters of an hour, indeed, the _Minetta_ had been
stationary, heaving a little now and then, but in such a small way and
keeping on such an even keel as scarcely to move the coffee in our cups.
The Captain had been gone but a few minutes when we all went up on deck.
The seas were round and oily, and the brown sails hung in lazy folds
against the masts. The man at the wheel now and again gave the spokes a
whirl this way and that, and he was forever casting his eye aloft as if
by some motion of his he might catch a stray breath of wind.

It was past sundown, and there was a strange, suffused glow everywhere,
more like dawn than the twilight of evening. But off to the northwest
towered a black tumble of clouds that were edged with a fringe of
lighter color. They were stretching upwards and peering grandly above
the horizon-line like a range of growing mountains.

Suddenly a quiver of light flashed all around, and then a streak of
forked lightning ripped horizontally, like a tear in a heavy curtain,
against the pit of the cloud. The Captain went below at this, to look at
the barometer again.

"It's falling, Mr. Norcross," he said, raising his head. "Shorten sail,
sir, and be lively!"

The men tumbled out from the deck-house. The top-sails which we had
carried all the afternoon were taken in, and a reef put in the foresail
and mainsail.

I watched all this bustling about with much delight, and then my
attention was drawn to the sky. The clouds had now spread so that they
were almost over us; a few big rain-drops fell and made little splotches
on the surface of the water and spattered the deck in spots as big as
dollars. They could be heard falling in the stillness against the dry
sails overhead. Then, without a warning, there came another flash of
lightning and a deafening thunder-roll. A slight puff of wind trailed
the heavy blocks on the main boom rattling across the deck. The yards
swung about with a complaining, creaking noise.

The Captain seized the glass and pointed to the westward; then he jumped
to the wheel, jammed it over, and immediately began shouting orders to
close the hatches, haul in the main-sheet, and make all snug. Every eye
had followed the aiming of the telescope--a line of white below a wall
of gray was coming toward us on the rush! A few more drops of rain fell
softly, and then the thunder began to crash and roar on every hand.

Warned by the Captain, Mr. Chaffee and his wife went down to the cabin,
both pale with fright. I, however, kept the deck, and in some way (I
cannot account for it) was overlooked. And here nearly comes an ending
to my story.

So suddenly and so fair abeam did the wind strike us that it was almost
a knockdown then and there, and the first thing I knew I slid across the
deck over against the lee bulwarks. The scuppers were running so full
that I went under from head to foot; I thought surely I was going to be
drowned--in fact, I think I took a few strokes and imagined myself
overboard. The masts were extending over the water so far that the
yard-arms almost dipped, the crew were hanging on by anything they could
lay hand to, and the wind raised such a screeching in the rigging that
the Captain, who was bawling at the top of his lungs, might as well have
held silence; his voice apparently blew down his throat. Nevertheless,
some of the crew must have understood him, for they clambered into the
shrouds. This I noticed as I tried to crawl up the slope of the deck.
Then there came a loud report; the foresail blew out into tatters, and
the brig righted. A turn of the wheel, and she was put before it,
crashing down into the sea (that came tumbling under her quarters), and
now and then lifting her stern as if she would roll over like a
ball--any which way.

I managed with difficulty to make the head of the after-ladder, and
stumbled down it head first, some one slamming the sliding-hatch with a
bang almost on my heels as they went over the combing. Looking about me,
I found Mr. Chaffee and his wife engaged in prayer. They were much
bruised from having been flung about the cabin, and were in great fear
that we were about to founder.

But the _Minetta_ was going so much steadier now that we all three
sought our bunks, and managed to stay in them, and I had so much
confidence in the Captain and crew, and was so unfamiliar with terror,
that probably I did not recognize the nearness we had come to disaster,
so after an hour or so I went to sleep.

When I awakened the sunlight was pouring in at the transoms, and we were
gently heaving up and down. There was nothing to give me an idea of the
time of day, but I could smell the brewing of coffee, and dressed
hastily. No one was in the cabin, and the breakfast was untasted on the
table; so, hearing the sounds of conversation, I went on deck. We were
hove to, and within an eighth of a mile of us another vessel was coming
up into the wind. She was very trim to look at, and I saw that a boat
was being lowered over her side, and that she had the weather-gage of
us.

The Captain was walking up and down with his arms folded, and our crew
were gathered in the waist, muttering in surly and half-frightened
voices.

"We are in for it this time, Master Hurdiss," said Mr. Chaffee, casting
a bitter look over the taffrail at the stranger, from whose peak was
flying the British Jack. "We are under the lion's paw, and no mistaking
it."

Norcross, the mate, leaned over the rail and spoke to one of the men on
the deck below him.

"Dash, do you know that vessel, my man?"

"Indeed I do, sir," was the reply from the light-haired seaman who had
appeared so elated at the escape of the previous day. "It's his
Majesty's sloop-of-war _Little Belt_, if I'm not mistaken, and she is a
little floating hell, sir; that's what she is!"

Nevertheless, as I have said, she was a trim-looking craft, and I could
not but admire the way the men tumbled into the boat and the long,
well-timed sweep of the oars as they pulled toward us. When alongside,
within a few yards, a young man in a huge cocked hat stood up in the
stern-sheets.

"What brig is that?" he asked, brusquely.

Captain Morrison answered, giving our name and destination.

"I will board you," was the short reply of the cocked-hatted one, and he
gave orders to the bowman, who was ready with his boat-hook, to make
fast to the fore-chains.

The English seamen, a sturdy-looking set, were all armed with cutlasses,
and four or five of them followed their officer over the bulwarks.

The young Britisher's insolence must have been hard to stand.

"Muster your crew and let me see your papers," he ordered, with a toss
of his head; "I would have a look at both of them."

Our Captain's politeness in replying, however, was quite as insulting.

"You have only to mention your wish, my courteous gentleman," he
sneered. "Here are my papers and there are my crew. Will you help
yourself to the cargo also? And pardon my not firing a salute, but we
have a lady with us who objects to noise."

At this the English Lieutenant lifted his great hat, but he glared at
the Captain as if he would have liked to lay hands on him; then he
ordered two of the crew to rout out the forecastle (in a lower tone of
voice), and two of them to give a look into the cabin and deck-house. He
waited until they had returned, and then taking the papers that had been
extended to him, he called off the names of the American seamen. Each
one stepped forward in turn, but without saluting, and replied to the
Lieutenant's questioning; apparently they all hailed from New England.
Two of them, however, he told to stand over to the larboard side.

The men obeyed, and I have never seen such hate on any faces as they had
on theirs.

But the scene, which was tragic enough in all conscience, despite the
grinning of the armed man-o'-war's men who stood behind their leader,
was to be broken by a climax as unexpected as a bolt from a clear sky.

"John Dash," read the officer. There was no answer, and he called it
louder again, without result. "Where is this man?" he asked,
impatiently.

The Captain made a low bow. "Thanks to your honor for your kind
inquiry," he replied. "But the man failed to report on the morning of
sailing."

It might have gone well had it not been for the interference of a
low-visaged petty officer, who, with his fingers to his cap, here spoke.

"I saw a man go over the bow as we came up, sir," he said.

Two of the men hurried forward and leaned over the side. I, being near
the rail, looked over also.

There was John Dash, holding on to the bobstay, his frightened face just
above the surface of the water. In an instant he was hauled on board.

"Ah, there's where you've been all the time, Mr. Dash!" said Captain
Morrison, sarcastically. "And how strange I not knowing it! This
gentleman has been asking for you very kindly."

The poor man, dripping wet, was standing erect before the
boarding-officer.

The titter that had run through the English sailors ceased as they saw
the look on his face. He was drawing quick breaths, half-snarling like a
dog, but he was trembling from head to foot.

"Oho!" said the servant of the King, lifting his eyebrows, "and here we
are, eh? I think you know me, as I remember you, Charles Rice! You left
us at the Port of Spain and forgot to return, you may remember. You owe
his Majesty an accounting."

[Illustration: "I AM AN AMERICAN CITIZEN," RETURNED THE SAILOR,
HOARSELY.]

"I am an American citizen," returned the sailor, hoarsely, "born at
Barnstable, Massachusetts! I was impressed from the ship _Martha_ on the
high seas, and owe accounting to no one."

"None of your insolence," cried the Englishman, drawing back his closed
hand. "We'll see about that. You'll come with me, and these other two
fine fellows also."

Dash, or Rice (I understood afterwards the latter was his real name),
gave a leap backward and ran into the deck-house. The officer turned.

"Bring that man out," he said to two of his bullies.

Before they had crossed the deck something happened, and no one who
witnessed it can ever shake it from his memory. The tall sailor appeared
at the doorway. His hands were behind his back, and his blue eyes were
absolutely rolling in his head.

"No, by the God of Heaven, you shall not be served!" he cried. "_There_
is something you cannot command, at least, to do your bidding!" With a
swift motion he drew his left arm from behind his back and flung
something on the deck. _It was his right hand, severed at the wrist!_

Such a horror possessed us all that not a word was said. The planter's
wife went in a heap to the deck, and as for myself, I went sick with the
misery of it, and reeled to the side of the ship. The Lieutenant fell
back as if struck a blow over the heart, and without a word, followed by
his men, he clambered weakly down to his boat and shoved off. Dash
lifted the bloody stump above his head; a curse broke from him, and then
he fell into the arms of one of the black seamen. They carried him into
the deck-house, and all hands followed, even the wheel being left
deserted. As for myself, I crawled below into my bunk and wound the
blankets about my head--Mrs. Chaffee was screaming in hysterics. Then
and there was born in my heart such a hatred for the sight of the cross
of St. George that I have never confounded my prejudice with patriotism,
and this may account for some of my actions subsequently.

No one referred to the happening in our talk after this--it might not
have occurred.

However, in such ways as we could we made the poor fellow comfortable;
but John Dash, seaman, existed no longer; a poor, maimed, half-crazed
hulk of a man was left of a gallant, noble fellow. But he had lived to
teach a lesson.

A day later we sighted Sandy Hook, and beating up the bay, anchored in
New York Harbor, where the planter and his wife and the heroic seaman
were put on shore.

As the wind and tide were ripe to take us up the East River and through
the narrows of Hell Gate into the Sound, we tarried but long enough to
drop anchor and get it in again, and I caught only a panorama of houses
and spires and the crowded wharfs of the city.

The voyage up the Sound was uneventful, and my landing in Connecticut
and what followed I shall make another chapter.

But we passed many coasting-vessels and towns (whose number seemed past
counting on both shores), and at last we entered the narrow sound of
Fisher's Island and crept up close to the wharfs of Stonington. I made
up my mind not to go ashore until the following morning, as it was after
sunset before we had found a berth that suited the skipper.

Oh, I have forgotten to add that when I returned to my bunk, after being
boarded by the party from the _Little Belt_, I had missed the miniature
which I had left hanging by a nail driven into one of the stanchions.
That one of the British sailors, on the hurried search of the cabin, had
helped himself to it was beyond doubting.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




THE SONG IN THE NIGHT.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.


  Bleak, barren hills and cheerless plain,
  All soaked and sodden with the rain;
  No wood to bid the camp-fire glow,
  No forest roof against the snow;--
  Drear was the dying winter day
  When the troops halted at Luray.

  Not ev'n the draggled tents went up,
  No chance to sleep, no chance to sup!
  A few hours' rest upon their arms,
  Then--who could tell what wild alarms?
  "Halt until midnight," orders read;
  "Then, if the storm holds, march ahead."

  Tired and disheartened, faint and chill,
  The soldiers, scattered o'er the hill,
  Lay in their blankets. Scarce a word
  In all the width of camp was heard.
  Out of heart was the great blue host--
  Out of that which they needed most,--
  And the General's heart was a heavy load,
  For well he knew what that hush must bode.

  Forth from the town, as if heaven-sent,
  Passed a child; and as on he went
  Something moved him to sing a song
  His mother taught him, while waiting long
  For the loyal husband, who could not stay
  When the first blue regiment passed that way!
  Sweet, and flutelike, and childish clear,
  The boy's voice rang through the valley drear:--

      _Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching;_
        _Cheer up, comrades, they will come!_

  Every soldier along the hill
  Felt his heart with the music thrill!
  All forgotten the dreary night,
  Hunger, and pillow frosted white.
  One by one, as the child-voice sang,
  Others joined, till the chorus rang
  Deep as a mighty organ tone,
  By the bellows of the storm-wind blown.

  At midnight the order passed along:--
  "March!" And they marched with their heart of song!
  Needless to say how they fought, that day,
  When the sun rose up over far Luray.
  And the little singer--the loyal lad
  Who gave, unconsciously, all he had
  For his country's welfare--let none deny
  His sovereign share in the victory!
  If not from his song in the dreary night,
  Whence came the courage to win the fight?




[Illustration: The Remarkable Adventures of Sandboys

by John Kendrick Bangs]


THE TRUE STORY OF THE MOOSE HEAD.

For a great many years--for as long, indeed, as either Bob or Jack could
remember--there had been over the great fireplace in the office of the
Mountain House, as its chief decorative feature, a huge moose-head, from
either side of which rose up majestic antlers, concerning which Bob had
once remarked that "they'd make a bully hat-rack."

To this sage remark Bob's father had replied that he thought so too; and
he added that he thought it somewhat of a pity that Bob, when he chose
his pets, should choose pug-dogs and rabbits, that were of no earthly
use, instead of an occasional moose, which might be trained to sit in
the hall and allow people to hang their hats on his horns.

"Just to think," he said, "what a convenience a real live walking
hat-rack would be! When you wanted your hat, all you would have to do
would be to whistle, and up the hat-rack would trot; you'd select the
hat you wished to wear, and back would go the moose again to his
accustomed place between the front door and the window."

"I'm willing," Bob had answered. "You buy me the moose, daddy, and I'll
be glad to make a pet of him."

But it so happened that at the moment his father had something else to
think about, and as a result Bob never got the moose.

Curiously enough, up to this particular summer of which I am writing, it
had never occurred to either of the boys to inquire into the story of
this especial moose, who had been so greatly honored by having his head
stuffed and hung up to beautify the office of the hotel. They had both
of them often wondered somewhat as to how it came to lose the rear
portions of its body--that from its shoulders backward--but at such
times it had so happened there had never been anybody about who could be
counted upon to enlighten them on the subject. Now, however, it was
different. Sandboys seemed always at hand, and considering that he had
never failed them when they had asked for an explanation of this, that,
or the other thing, they confidently broached the subject to him one
afternoon during the music hour, and, as usual, Sandboys was ready with
a "true story" for their satisfaction.

"Oh, that!" he said, when Bob had put the question. "Yes, I know all
about it; and why shouldn't I? Didn't my father catch him? I guess!"

The boys were not quite sure whether the guess was correct or not, but
they deemed it well to suppose that it was, and Sandboys went on.

"Some folks about here will tell you wonderful stories about that
moose," he said. "Some will tell you it came from Maine; and some will
tell you it came from Canady; and some will tell you they don't know
nothin' at all about it; an' generally it'll be the last ones that tell
the whole truth, though it did come from both Canady an' Maine; and,
what's more, if it hadn't come, I wouldn't ha' been here. Nobody knows
that but me, for up to now I haven't breathed a word about it to a soul,
but I don't mind tellin' you boys the whole truth."

"You don't mean to say it got you your position here as a bell-boy, do
you?" asked Jack.

"Yes, I do--that is, it did in a way, as you'll see when I've told you
the whole story," returned Sandboys, and he began:

"My father, when he was a boy, used to live up in Canady. I don't
recollect the name of the exact place. He told me its name lots o'
times, but it was one o' them French-Canadian names with an accent to it
I never could get the hang of. Names of English towns, like London or
New York, I can always remember without much trouble, because I can
spell 'em and pronounce 'em; but the minute they gets mixed in with a
little foreign language, like French or Eyetalian, I can't spell 'em,
pronounce 'em, or remember 'em to save my life. If anybody'd say to me,
'Remember the name o' that town or die,' I think that I'd simply have to
stop breathin' an' die. I do remember, though, that it was a great place
for salmon and mooses. My daddy used to tell me reg'lar slews of stories
about 'em. Why, he told me the salmon was so thick in the river back of
his father's barn, that if you took a bean-shooter and shot anywhere
into the river, usin' pebbles instead o' beans, you couldn't help
hittin' a salmon on the head and killin' it--or, rather, knockin' it
unconscious, so's it would flop over and rise to the surface like it was
dead, after which all you had to do was to catch it by the tail, chop
its head off as you would a chicken's, cook it, and have your marketing
done for two weeks."

"Jiminny!" said Bob. "It's too bad you can't remember the name of that
place. A hotel at a place like that would be good as a mint."

"Oh no--it's all changed now," said Sandboys, sadly. "They've put a
saw-mill in there now, and the salmon's mostly all gone. Sometimes they
tell me they do catch one or two, and they're so big they cut 'em up in
the saw-mill just like planks, and feed on 'em all through the winter."

"I've heard of planked shad," put in Bob, very anxious indeed to believe
in the truth of Sandboys's statement, and searching in his mind for
something in the way of a parallel which might give it a color of
veracity.

"Hyops!" said Sandboys. "Planked shad is very good, but it can't hold a
candle to planked salmon. But, as I was tellin' you, the place was full
of moose too. They used to catch 'em and train 'em to go in harness. I
don't believe anybody up there ever thought of buying a horse or a team
of oxen to pull their wagons and plough their fields, moose were so
plenty, and, when you could catch 'em hungry, so easy to tame. They'd
hitch 'em to the plough, for instance, with ropes tied to their horns,
and drive 'em around all day, and when night came they weren't a bit
tired. But sometimes daddy said they'd strike a fearfully wild one, and
then there'd be trouble. Pop told me he hitched one up to the harrow
once, and the thing got a wild fit on and started across the field
prancin' like a Rocky Mountain goat. He pulled up all the fences in his
way with the harrow's teeth, and before he stopped he'd gone right
through my grandfather's bay-window, into the dinin'-room, out the back
door into the kitchen, takin' all the tables and chiny in the place with
him. Where he went to nobody ever knew, though the harrow was found on
top o' one of the mountains about sixty miles away, three years
afterwards. I'd tell you the name of the mountain, only it had one o'
those French-Canadian names too, so of course I can't.

[Illustration]

"Time went on, and pop got to be a pretty big boy, and on his thirteenth
birthday his father gave him the gun he'd used in the war--the war of
the Revylation, I think it was, when George Washington was runnin'
things. With it he gave him a powder-flask and some bullets, and I tell
you pop was proud, and crazy to go huntin'. His father wasn't anxious to
let him, though, until he thought pop knew enough about fire-arms to
kill something besides himself, and he told him no, he couldn't. He must
wait awhile. So pop tried to be good and obey, but that gun was too much
for him. It kept hintin', 'Let's go huntin'--let's go huntin',' and one
night pop could not resist it any longer. So after everybody'd gone to
bed, he got up, sneaked down stairs into the parlor, took down the gun
from the bricky-brack rack, and set out for the lonely woods.

[Illustration]

"'If I don't kill nothin',' he said to himself, 'I'll get home before
they wake up; and if I do kill somethin', pa will be so pleased an'
proud he'll forgive me.' He little thought then he was leavin' home
forever. He opened the door softly, an' in half an hour he was off on
the mountain, 'longside of a great big lake. Pretty soon he heard a
sound, and through the darkness he see two big eyes, flamin' like fire,
a-lookin' at where he was. _It was that moose up there as was a-lookin'
at him._ For a minute he was scart to death, but he soon recovered,
upped with his gun, an' fired--only he was too excited, and he didn't do
any more than graze the moose's cheek. You can't see the scar. It's been
mended. It was a tarrable exciting moment, for in a jiffy the moose was
after him, head down. Pop tried to run, but couldn't. He stumbled, an'
just as he stumbled he felt the big moose's breath hot on the back of
his neck. He thought he was a goner for sure; but he wasn't, as it
turned out, for as he rolled over and the moose tried to butt him to
death, pop grabbed holt of his horns, and the first toss of his head the
moose gave landed pop right between 'em, sittin' down as comfortably
fixed as though he was in a rockin'-chair. If you'll look at the antlers
you'll see how there's a place in between 'em scooped out just right for
a small boy to sit in. That's where pop sat, hangin' on to those two
upper prongs, with, his legs dangling down over the moose's cheeks."

"Phe-e-e-ew!" whispered Bob. "He was in a fix, wasn't he? What did the
moose do?"

[Illustration]

"Him?" said Sandboys. "He was absolutely flummoxed for a minute, and
then he began to run. Pop held on. He had to. He didn't want to go
travellin', but there warn't anything else he could do, so he kept holt.
That moose run steady for three days, down over the Canadian border into
Maine, takin' a short-cut over Maine into New Hampshire, droppin' dead
with weariness two miles from Littleton, where I cum from. That let pop
out. The moose was dead, and he wasn't afraid any more; so he climbed
down, walked into Littleton, and sold the animal's carkiss to a man
there, who cut off its head, and sent it up here to this hotel, an' it's
been here ever since. Pop took the money and tried to get back home with
it; but there wasn't enough, so he worked about Littleton until he had
enough; and just then he met my mother, fell in love with her, married
her, and settled down right there; and that's how it is that that
moose-head is responsible for my bein' here. If the animal hadn't run
away with dad, he'd never have met my mother, and I'd have been
nowhere."

"It's very interesting," said Bob. "But I should think he'd have sent
word to his father that he was all right."

"Oh, he did," said Sandboys; "and a year or two later the whole family
came down and joined him, leavin' Canady and its French names forever."

And here the narrative, which might have been much longer, stopped, for
the cross old lady near the elevator sent word that that "talkin' must
stop," because while it was "goin' on" she "couldn't hear what tune it
was the trumpeter was blowin'."




THE GAME OF CHOLE.

BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.


Chole (pronounced sh[=o]l) is a capital game for the
enthusiastic golfer at this time of year, when the fields are brown and
bare, and the careful green-keeper has closed the regular golf course
for fear of harm to his precious putting greens. It is golf, and yet it
is not golf, the essential difference being that but one ball is used,
one player striving to advance it towards a certain agreed-upon goal,
and his opponent as strenuously endeavoring to thwart him in the
attempt. But, on the other hand, it is not hockey or anything resembling
it. Each player has for the time being absolute possession of the ball,
and cannot be interfered with while he is making his stroke. It is an
old Belgian game, and undoubtedly one of the ancestors of our modern
golf. As a matter of fact, it is still played in the Low Countries with
rude iron clubs and an egg-shaped ball of birchwood. The following
extract from a historical paper on the beginnings of golf explains very
clearly the purpose and method of the play at chole:

     If Tom Morris and Hugh Kircaldy were going to play a match at
     _chole_, they would first fix on an object which was to be hit. A
     church door at some five miles distance, cross country, seems to
     have been a favorite goal. This settled on, match-making began--a
     kind of game of brag: "I will back myself to hit the thing in five
     innings," Tom might say. (We will explain in a moment what an
     "innings" meant.) "Oh, I'll back myself to hit it in four," Hugh
     might answer. "Well, I'll say three, then," Tom might perhaps say,
     and that might be the finish of the bragging, for Hugh might not
     feel it in his power to do it in two, so he must let Tom try. Then
     Tom would hit off, and when he came to the ball he would tee it and
     hit it again, and so a third time. But when they reached the ball
     this third time, it would be no longer Tom's turn to hit, but
     Hugh's. He would be allowed to tee the ball up and _dechole_, as it
     was called--that is to say, to hit it _back_ again as far as he
     could. Then Tom would begin again and have three more shots towards
     the object; after which Hugh would again have one shot back. Then
     if in the course of his third innings of three shots Tom were to
     hit the church door, he would win the match; if he failed, he would
     lose it.

It is evident, from this explanation, that _chole_ gives first-class
practice in driving; in fact it is nothing but a succession of tee
shots, and the longest driver ought always to win, unless he is so
over-confident of his powers that he is induced to bid too low for the
honor of being _choleur_. It may be added that hazards in the _lie_ of
the ball are not fairly a part of the game. Each striker has a right to
tee his ball, and he should be allowed to do so anywhere within two
club-lengths of where the ball has dropped. In the case of a lost ball
or a ball in water, the player must go back to the place whence the lost
ball was struck, and play a new one, without penalty. Of course only a
driver, or play club, is carried, and a caddie is not necessary, as the
players themselves should be able to keep track of the ball. In Belgium
the game is played with three or more on a side, but in this case the
players have to wait too long for their turn to strike, and the interest
must be correspondingly diminished. Here is a better plan for a match
game at _chole_:

[Illustration: DIAGRAM OF THE FIELD.]

The battle-ground should be a field of about 400 yards in length, the
fence at either end serving as the goal over which the ball is to be
driven. The width of the field is of no account, providing that there is
a clear space of at least fifty yards to give a chance for straight and
open play. In practice it might be well to roughly indicate these
side-lines by means of stakes, and if the ball is knocked out of bounds
it must be brought back precisely as in football. Supposing that there
are six on a side, the most skilful player should act as captain, and
arm himself with the ordinary wooden driver. The second man should carry
a brassey, the third a cleek, the fourth a lofter, the fifth a niblick,
and the sixth a putter. Or there may be any other selection among the
ordinary clubs used at golf, provided that each side is armed with
virtually the same weapons, and, most important of all, that every
combination must at least include a driver, a lofter, and a putter.
Three is the smallest practicable number for a side, and the maximum may
be put down at six or seven. The object of each side is to drive the
ball over their adversary's goal-line, but the strokes are taken in
turn, and there is nothing resembling the free hitting and scramble of
hockey. The captains toss for the opening stroke, and the winner tees
the ball at the centre of the field, and strikes it with his driver as
far as possible towards the enemy's goal-line. After he has had his
stroke, it is the turn of the other side; and now comes in the essential
point of the game. The return shot must be made by the _weakest_ club on
the opposing side, _viz._, the putter. The idea is that the players
shall all strike in regular rotation, but the _order_ of the sides is
exactly opposite. In other words, one side strikes in succession with
driver, brassey, cleek, lofter, niblick, and putter, their opponents
answering with putter, niblick, lofter, cleek, brassey, and driver. It
is evident that if A leads off their attack will grow weaker as the less
powerful clubs come into play, while B, the defence, will grow stronger
in the same proportion. Theoretically, after a full exchange of shots
the ball should be again at the centre of the field from where it
started, but of course, in practice, accidents will happen and shots
will be foozled.

The field should be long enough to give the defence a fair chance to
rally, and it therefore should not be less than 400 yards in all. It
should not be much longer, as then it would hardly be possible for
ordinary players to ever get near enough for a goal. Supposing that in
actual play the Captain of the Blues drives off and sends the ball 130
yards out of the 200, the putter on the Red side must reply, and he may
succeed in driving the ball back 30 yards. Brassey of the Blues has now
a carry of 100 yards to make to put the ball over the fence and win a
goal. If he does it, it is perfect play, and the Blues are credited with
one point. But if he tops his ball or drives short, the niblick man of
the Reds may get it back to, say, the 100-yard point, and the Blues have
now a chance with the cleek to get it over. If this attempt fails, the
Red goal should be out of danger for a while, for their long driving
clubs are now coming into play to carry the war into Africa. But at any
stage of the game some one may slip up on a difficult shot, and so the
advantage be gained or lost. The exact size of the field will largely
depend upon the driving ability of the players, and that can only be
arrived at by experiment. Theoretically, the goal should be made on the
third or cleek shot--that is, with perfect play on each side. Of course
only the captains have the privilege of teeing the ball; all the other
players must take it as it lies. A ball knocked into a hazard must be
played as in match-play at golf; but if it has not been extricated after
_each_ side has taken a shot at it, it may be lifted and dropped a
club-length outside of the hazard at a point agreed upon between the two
captains. A ball in a hazard may not be teed, and this gives a chance
for finesse. For instance, suppose that the ball is perilously near the
Red goal, and it is Red putter's turn to play. With a straight drive he
can only get it a few yards back, and Blue driver, whose turn it is to
follow, will be almost certain to get it over. But if Red putter can
play it into a hazard or behind a tree, Blue driver will probably fail
to make the goal, and that will give the Reds another chance. Other
variations will occur in the playing of the game, and may be readily
worked out by any boy with a turn for generalship. After each point the
sides change goals, so as to equalize the chances of the hazards, and
the side that has lost the goal drives off. A ball driven _through_ or
_under_ the goal-fence does not count for either side. It must be
brought out to a point half-way distant between the centre of the field
and the point where it went over the goal-line, and there teed for the
player whose turn it is to strike. A ball over the side-line is brought
inside, as in football, and dropped a club-length from the line. In the
case of a lost ball, the inning begins again as though no play had been
made. A player may not strike the ball back over or through his own
goal-line. If he does so, accidentally or otherwise, the ball is brought
out and teed precisely as in the former case, where the attacking player
had failed to put it fairly over.

The game may be made still more scientific and interesting if a regular
field be laid out with chalk lines, as in football. In this case the
goal at each end should be a circular pit six feet in diameter and six
inches deep. The diagram gives the other proportions and the general
arrangement of the field. The "vantage"-lines indicate the spot where
the ball is to be teed in the case of a failure of a try for goal. There
is no restriction upon the direction in which the ball may be played,
except in the case of a player who knocks it over his own goal-line. The
ball is then teed at "vantage." Balls out of bounds are placed on the
side-line at the crossing-point. To make a goal, the ball must drop in
the pit and stay there.

It is evident that the interest of the game will depend upon the
evenness with which the players are matched. As a general thing a player
should be assigned to the club which he is most expert in handling, and
the players are known by the names of the clubs they carry. In no case
must the rotation of play be altered, and _driver_ always leads off at
the beginning of an inning. It would be possible for two men to play the
game, using their clubs in the prescribed rotation, but the match
between sides gives a chance for more interesting work. If the sides are
uneven, one man may, by special agreement, be allowed to play two clubs.




THE PIRATE'S TREASURE.

BY CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON.


"Ralph," said Grandfather Sterling, one hot August morning, looking over
the veranda rail to where the boy was stretched full length upon the
lawn, "did I ever tell you about the time that I went hunting for a
treasure that had been buried by a pirate on one of the islands in the
West Indies?"

The lad came bounding up the steps in delight, for there was no greater
treat to him than one of the old sea-captain's stories concerning the
long and adventurous life that he had led from the time of his first
voyage as cabin-boy until his retirement from the sea about two years
before.

"No, indeed, Grandpop, and it will be jolly, I'm sure. Please fill up
your pipe, so that you won't have to stop just when you get to the most
exciting part. Here's your box of matches; and now, as you often say,
'let the reel hum.'"

Captain Sterling smiled affectionately into the eager face upturned to
his, and commenced his story:

"It was when I was second mate of a brig called the _Nellie_, a good
many years ago, that this yarn really begins. We were homeward bound
from Brazil, with a cargo of coffee, when the yellow fever broke out on
board. First the captain sickened and died, then in order followed our
first mate, leaving me in command. Next the oldest member of our crew
was struck down, and to give him a chance for his life, as well as to
humor the wishes of the men, I had him taken out of the dark hot
forecastle and brought aft into one of the spare state-rooms in the
cabin. Here I nursed him as well as I could; but although the fever
broke after the third day, it left him so weak that he could not rally,
and his end was hastened on account of his not being able to retain the
slightest nourishment. He seemed to be very grateful for my care. On the
afternoon of the fifth day of his sickness he said to me that he knew
his end was near, and that he wished to show his gratitude while there
was yet time. In his chest in the forecastle, he stated that there was a
leather wallet, which I was to get and give to him. I did as he
requested. He took from it a sheet of paper, on which was rudely
sketched the outline of an island, with a compass showing the cardinal
points. On the western side of this island there was an indentation
resembling a bay having a very narrow entrance from the sea, and in
about the middle of the sketch there was a small circle, about west of
which a cross was marked.

"'Take this,' he said to me, 'and listen to what I say. This is a chart
of a little island known as San Juan, in the Windward West Indies. You
will see that I have given its latitude and longitude. Twenty years ago
I was one of the officers of the pirate schooner _Don Pedro_. We went on
shore at San Juan to divide the contents of the treasure-chest and to
carouse. During the night, when all others were sleeping, I stole away
to the spring, which is shown by the circle on the chart, and buried my
share of the treasure--nearly ten thousand dollars in gold--three feet
in the sand. I dug the hole right in the wake of the rising moon, with
the spring between it and me. Go to the island, count fifty paces west
of the spring, and dig.'

"'But,' I said to him, 'how do you know but what the money was found
years ago?'

"'The island is uninhabited, and no one but myself ever knew that I had
hidden it there. Two weeks after that the _Don Pedro_ was captured. They
hung the captain, and imprisoned the rest of us for life. One year ago I
escaped. Since that time I have been waiting for a chance to recover my
treasure. I intended to use the wages made on this voyage to buy a
passage to St. Croix, which is the nearest inhabited island to San Juan,
and then by some means reach the place where my gold is safely hidden.
The money is yours now, and I want you to take it as a gift from me for
your kindness.'

"Later on, when I visited his room, he was resting peacefully, with a
little ivory crucifix pressed against his cold white lips. The spirit of
the pirate had sailed on its last voyage across the sea of eternity.

"Three weeks later I carried the _Nellie_ into the harbor of New York,
and received a handsome present in money from the owners for my
services, with which I bought a passage on a sailing-vessel, known as
the _Dart_, bound to St. Croix, and reached that place after an
uneventful voyage.

"During our trip I stated to the captain that my business was to look
after some interests of an acquaintance, and that I hoped to have the
same attended to in advance of the time that the vessel was to sail, so
that I might return in her. I volunteered the same explanation at the
house where I secured board, and then found myself at liberty to go and
come without arousing interest in my movements. Having an object to
gain, I made it a point of keeping up very friendly relations with the
captain of the _Dart_, several times inviting him to dine with me, and
showing him many other courtesies, which he responded to by having me as
a guest at his table on board whenever I could make it convenient to
visit his vessel. One evening, as we sat under the quarter-deck awning
enjoying our Havanas, I said, carelessly:

"'Captain, I've been thinking that I would like to hire your long-boat
for the time that we shall be here. Being fitted with lug-sails, she can
easily be handled by one man, and I would enjoy running about the harbor
in her, and even making little trips along shore when I have nothing
else to do.'

"'You can have her in welcome,' he said. 'Don't say a word about pay. As
long as you will return her all right you can use her to your heart's
content. I will get her overboard in the morning, and have her put in
shape for you.'

"The next day I made a trial spin in the boat, and found her all that a
sailor could wish for in the way of speed and sea-going qualities. The
pirate's island was something less than sixty miles away, and I knew
that in the constant trade-winds that I had to count upon to give me a
fair breeze there and back, I should be able to reach it in about ten
hours.

"During the next two or three days I made several short excursions along
the coast, gradually paving the way for the dash I had in view. At last
the day arrived when I determined to stretch away for the little coral
island below the horizon. In the early morning I left the house,
carrying a valise, in which was food sufficient for my anticipated
needs, a large garden trowel, and a boat compass that I had brought from
the States. Folded in the pocket of my coat I carried a chart of the
Windward Islands, and with this equipment I stepped on board, hoisted
the two jib-headed sails, and started on my voyage.

"Hour after hour I was swept swiftly onward over the wind-whipped waves,
holding the brave little vessel steadily to her course. It was about
four o'clock in the afternoon that I lifted the island into sight,
bearing directly ahead, and an hour later found me sailing through the
narrow inlet that the pirate had laid down on his chart. I ran the boat
head on to the sandy beach, securing her painter to one of several
stunted palm-trees that grew in a bunch close to the water. The island
was not much more than a mile in circumference, and was impoverished in
the matter of vegetation, although the cactus-plant showed here and
there, and a few cocoanut-trees with a fringe of sickly scrub underbrush
occupied the centre of this otherwise barren island. I reasoned that the
site of the spring must be found within the little grove; so, providing
myself with the trowel and compass, I made my way toward it.

"From the time that I had first become familiar with the pirate's secret
up to the hour when I landed on the island my head had been perfectly
cool and my nerves tranquil; but now, as I approached the spot that I
had travelled two thousand miles to find, I grew dizzy, and my limbs
trembled, so that I was obliged to throw myself on the sand to rest for
a few minutes and to force a return of my self-control. Then I arose and
stepped within the circle of the little oasis.

"If there had been a spring there twenty years before, it had dried up
in the interval, although a bowl-shaped hollow in the soil possibly
showed where the water had once oozed through the sand.

"I asked myself if I had not been too credulous in pinning my faith to a
pirate's wild tale. Had I been chasing a rainbow? Had I spent
hard-earned savings and wasted several months' time on a wild-goose
errand? Such thoughts made me sick at heart and half desperate. I placed
my compass on the ground, carefully measured fifty paces due west of
what I was forced to consider the site of the old spring, and fell to
digging with my trowel.

"At the depth of about three feet I struck coral; then I commenced a
trench running north and south, and dug away for an hour, meeting with
nothing but fine white sand and the coral foundation. Hope as good as
deserted me. Looking at the sun, I saw that it was almost touching the
horizon-line, and knew that in a short time darkness would fall--for
there is no twilight in the tropics. I dropped my trowel, and sat down
on the edge of the hole that had promised so much in the beginning. As I
gave loose rein to my bitter thoughts I savagely kicked the toe of my
boot into the sandy wall of the opposite side of the pit.

"Was I dreaming? Had disappointment turned my brain, or had I really
heard the clink of metal? I held my breath, and again drove my boot
heavily against the wall.

"A piece of the soil fell into the pit, and out of the hole that it left
a golden waterfall poured down with a merry, maddening _clink, clink,
clink_; and there I sat, motionless, fascinated, while the treasure ran
over my feet and literally hid them from sight. Then my senses partly
returned to me, and I dragged my boots out of the gold and jumped and
shouted in a delirium of joy.

"It was no myth, after all, for the thousands so secretly hidden away by
the pirate looked upon the light of day for the first time in twenty
years, and as I gazed down at the golden heap I realized that it was
mine--all mine!

"The sun went down and the deep shadows fell on sea and land as I sat
gloating like a miser over my riches. I slept in the ditch that night,
lest during absence my fortune should be spirited away, and when morning
came I stowed the gold in the valise that I had brought from the boat,
then dug into the pocket from which it had flowed, to discover that it
yet contained a few scattered pieces, and the rotten remnants of the
canvas bag in which it had been buried.

"I set sail with my precious freight, and late that afternoon I reached
St. Croix, where I pottered about the boat until nightfall; then, under
cover of the darkness, I carried the valise to my room on shore and
stowed it in my sea-chest.

"Little remains to be told. I returned to New York in the _Dart_, and
used the little fortune that had come to me to purchase a captain's
interest in a fine vessel."




IMPORTANT "TRIFLES" ON WAR-SHIPS.

BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.


II.

Just outside the door of the Captain's cabin, on every ship of the navy,
there stands a sentry. He paces up and down for a distance of about ten
feet. On one of the sides of the cabin is an electric indicator similar
to those seen in the large hotels back of the clerk's desk. The sentry
on the ship passes that indicator every time he paces from one end of
his limited beat to the other. He cannot escape hearing its bell when it
rings, and his eye at once sees whence the signal comes that is
telegraphed to the Captain in time of emergency. That indicator is
placed there so that, when necessary, there shall be instant
communication with the Captain. Some of the dials tell stories of the
utmost importance to the safety of the ship. They tell these stories
automatically.

Let us see how one of the most important of these dials may perhaps save
the ship from destruction. Down in the coal-bunkers there is a little
instrument attached to the side of each compartment that looks like a
little thermometer. It is not more than four or five inches tall. It is
simply a thermometer with an electric attachment. A fire has started in
a coal-bunker, as happens sometimes on large steamships, through what is
known as "spontaneous combustion." It may smoulder for several days and
give no indication of its existence. At last it breaks into a flame.
Some one has felt a hot deck through his shoes as he has walked along,
or perchance has accidentally placed his hand on the iron-work of the
compartment and found it blistering hot. Instantly the fire-alarm is
rung, and if the fire is not too far advanced the ship may be saved. On
war-ships, however, no such risk must be run. In the economy of space on
such ships it frequently happens that these coal-bunkers are placed very
near, and sometimes next to, the powder-magazines. A fire in the
coal-bunkers would mean an awful explosion, the loss of the ship and
hundreds of lives.

Here is where that little thermometer plays its heroic part. It is
called a thermostat, and it is so arranged that as the heat increases,
the mercury in the bulb slowly rises to what is known as the
danger-point. When the heat reaches that point the mercury sets an
electric current going. At once the bell on the indicator where the
sentry outside the Captain's door stands rings violently. The sentry
hurries to it and sees a fire-alarm from a certain compartment, and he
hastily awakes the Captain. The latter presses a button, perhaps without
getting out of bed or up from his chair, and instantly there rings the
general fire-alarm throughout the ship, and every man on board is called
to quarters. For a few seconds it is time of immense confusion and
noise. Great gongs are ringing in various parts of the ship. Men are
hurrying half dressed, if it be in the night, here and there, and there
is much shouting in the giving and passing of orders. In a twinkling,
however, order prevails, and through the aid of that little automatic
thermometer the ship and the lives of those on board are saved. This
thermostat is an insignificant-looking affair--a mere trifle in the
ship's construction--but see what an important thing it really is. These
instruments are used in many buildings on land, but nowhere are they of
such importance as when placed in coal-bunkers or on the outside walls
of magazines in war-ships.

Another dial on the indicator where the sentry paces also plays an
important part in war-ships. It is called the water-alarm. All modern
war-ships have what are known as double bottoms. They are built to
prevent the ship from sinking or from becoming flooded in the chief
compartments of the vessel below the water-line. Sometimes a ship may
scrape along the top of an unknown rock or reef, or may strike some
obstruction floating unseen beneath the waves. No one on board may feel
the shock, especially if it is a light one. The water may rush into one
of these double bottoms, and although the ship may be safe from sinking,
the danger in time may be most grave. As the water fills the compartment
which has been broken, a little piece of wood rises with it, and
finally, when it reaches a certain height, it too establishes an
electric current, and the alarm rings outside the cabin door of the
Captain. Again the alarm sounds through the ship, and if possible, the
break is mended temporarily, and the pumps set going to clear the
compartment of the water.

[Illustration: A TORPEDO BURSTING AN OUTER COMPARTMENT.]

In time of battle, however, this water-alarm may tell a more important
story. Perhaps a torpedo from the enemy has struck the ship, and a
gaping wound has been torn not only in the outside bottom of the ship,
but through the inner hull as well. Instantly the news reaches the
Captain through the water-alarm. The Captain simply presses a button,
and at once not only does the general alarm ring, but the "siren"
whistle on the ship is set to shrieking most horribly. Those siren
whistles are seldom heard either in port or at sea. They begin their
noise with a low moan, and run up to an awful shriek, with a thin,
ear-piercing note that is almost unendurable. The siren may be blown by
electricity as easily as an electric door-bell may be rung. When the
siren is heard it is a signal throughout the ship to close all the
water-tight doors in the various compartments, and thus confine the
inrushing waters to a limited space. If only one or two compartments are
torn open by the torpedo, the ship may be saved from sinking and a great
tragedy of war may be averted. When the siren howls, however, there is
such a scurrying on shipboard as is never seen at other times. Nearly
every compartment has men in it at work. The alarms and the whistles are
their only warning, except, perhaps, the shouts of their companions. A
mighty rush is made to get out of some of these compartments. No time
must be lost, and there can be no waiting for a man to escape. If shut
in, he may be drowned. It is a question of his life or that of the ship
and the lives of the rest of the crew, and there is only one way to
answer that question.

These water-alarms are used in many large buildings in connection with
the fire-alarm, but one can see how much more important they are on
ships, especially on war-ships, than on land. They are a most simple
contrivance, and, like the thermostat, mere trifles; but they may turn
the tide in a naval battle, and directly or remotely settle the fate of
a nation.

In the early days of steam navigation the Captain of a vessel could
speak to the engineer through a tube and regulate the speed of the ship.
When the vessels grew larger, the signalling was done by means of bells.
That method is in common use to-day in many vessels that ply in harbors,
such as river steamboats and tug-boats. As the ocean-liners increased in
size the bell system of signalling became antiquated. The Captain or the
navigator was 300 or 400 feet away from the engineer, and from 20 to 40
feet above the engine-room. In time of emergency it became necessary to
send word to the engineer exactly what to do in half a dozen different
cases. He must stop, back, go slow now with one engine and now with
another, or with both. A long chain was run from a contrivance on the
bridge to the engine-room. When the Captain pressed forward or backward
a handle on a vertical dial, a handle in the engine-room would move on a
similar dial, and a bell would ring to call attention to it, and the
engineer knew at once what to do. This system is in use at the present
time on all large passenger-ships and most war-ships in the world.

Electricity has invaded this field also, and on the newer war-ships of
the navy we have the signalling done by this agent. By the
electric-engine telegraph, which Lieutenant Fiske of our navy has
invented, not only does the engineer know at once when to go at full
speed, half-speed, when to stop and back, and all that, but the Captain
can tell at an instant, by looking at a little dial attached to his
signalling apparatus, whether his orders have been understood. The
little dial is connected with that part of the signalling apparatus in
the engine-room on the same electric circuit, and thus the Captain knows
exactly what is going on in the engine-room. But the new invention goes
farther than that. It tells the engineer just how many revolutions of
the screws a minute the Captain desires the engines to make. Full speed,
for example, in the old way of signalling may mean anywhere from 80 to
90 or 100 revolutions of the screws. Half-speed may mean anywhere from
60 to 80 revolutions. The engineer in those cases has to use his own
judgment as to what speed to employ, unless a message is sent especially
to him from the Captain. In the electric device which we are just
beginning to use there are certain notches on the dials, and the Captain
can signal exactly the number of revolutions he desires each engine to
make. He not only gets a signal back, but he has a telltale instrument
before his eyes which shows that the engines are making 59, or 73, or
whatever number of turns the Captain wishes them to make.

Now this regulation of the revolutions of the ship's engines has a most
important part to play in warfare. One of the most essential things in
naval manoeuvring is that ships shall keep a certain distance from one
another. It avoids collisions, and preserves regularity in fire and in
changing positions at critical times. It is as essential as that
soldiers shall present a solid line to the enemy in battle on land. A
helter-skelter fleet would be beaten from the start in a fight. It is
most difficult for ships to keep at regular intervals. The engines of
one turn just a little faster than the engines of another, and little by
little a ship creeps up or drops away from its fellows. Sometimes the
distances are preserved by guess-work. Lately a little instrument has
been invented by which the Captain can see at a glance how far he is
from the ship ahead of him. It is a modification of the sextant. The
height of a certain object on the ship in front is known. That is the
base of a triangle. The size of the angles at the end of that base are
seen at a glance by the observer, and by the manipulation of a screw or
two the Captain of a ship can see on a sliding-scale whether he is going
too slow or too fast. In either case he signals a change or two in the
number of revolutions he wishes the engines to make, and he preserves
his required distance. Accuracy in this matter may win a battle.

So great is the din and confusion on war-ships in time of battle that
what are called "visual signals" are demanded. This has brought several
contrivances into operation that are new. For example, we have a
transmitter of orders. It tells the gunners when and what guns to load,
and with what kind of shot; when to stand ready to fire; when to fire,
and when to cease firing. In the old days, and even in the present days,
such orders are conveyed in speaking-tubes or by telephone on most
ships. In the great noise an order may be mistaken, but with a visual
signal in the shape of an indicator, operated by the mere pressing of a
button, orders from the Captain may be conveyed clearly and instantly.

Another apparently trifling thing in the development of navigation is an
electrical signalling device for indicating the exact angle the Captain
wishes the helm set in making a turn. He presses a button, and the man
at the wheel sets the rudder accordingly. A dial informs the Captain
that the rudder is set as required. This is most important, because it
tends to avoid collisions as the war-ships suddenly change their
positions in column. We all remember how serious a collision, even going
at slow speed, may be when we recall how three years ago the
_Camperdown_ sunk the _Victoria_ of the English Mediterranean squadron
on a peaceful day off the coast of Africa, in going through some simple
evolutions, and when hundreds of brave sailors, including the Admiral of
the fleet himself, were drowned, as the _Victoria_ went down before the
small boats of the other vessels of the fleet could reach them.

[Illustration: THE ADMIRAL WORKING SIGNALS AT NIGHT.]

One of the great problems in naval tactics is to secure an effective
method of signalling orders from ship to ship. In the night it is
comparatively easy. A string of red and white alternating electric
lights is strung from a yard downwards. An operator sits in front of a
little box in which there are a lot of black keys on which are stamped a
certain number of red and white dots. As he presses these keys, which
are arranged in a circle and look like so many fancy dominoes, the red
and white lights flash out in certain combinations. The operators see
them, and signal back the same light. Each key pressed down means a
certain letter, and it takes little time to send an order. In the
daytime signals must be sent by flags, or by means of a contrivance with
long arms such as we see on signal-towers on a railroad. As these arms
are jerked into certain positions they tell a story of their own.

During a battle by day or night all such systems are of little value
because of the smoke. Whistles can be of little use, because the noise
of battle would drown them. Electrical experts are trying to devise a
system of telegraphing through the water, of course without the use of
wires, but the outlook in that direction is not promising at present.

Then there are important new devices which we can only mention. One of
them is the sounding apparatus, by which the depth of water can be taken
when going at full speed. The pressure of water on a column of air
varies at certain depths of the ocean. This pressure is marked by the
discoloration of a fluid in a tube through the agency of the salt water.
The electric firing of guns is also interesting. A current of
electricity is passed through a filament, such as we see in the
incandescent lamp of a house electric light, and at once the heat sets
the gun off as effectively as if a spark had ignited the powder. Then
there is the aerophone, or fog-indicator, which points out the exact
direction of some noise-making object by cutting the sound-wave in two,
so as to send it first in one ear and then the other of the man who
operates the invention, until finally he gets it in equal volume in both
ears, and the dial on the machine points straight to the object which
cannot be seen.

All these inventions, which of themselves seem mere trifles, are
necessary in these days, because of the wonderful advance in warfare and
the construction of ships. In the old days the Captain could roar his
orders out and make himself heard almost everywhere. Nowadays a fraction
of a second may determine the outcome of a battle. He must be able to
find the distance of his enemy, must fire his guns without aiming them
in the old way, must regulate the speed of his ship to the single turn
of a screw, must put his own helm at a certain angle to a degree.
Without electricity he would be helpless in the noise and confusion.
Even with electricity he is hampered, and so we may expect that the
invention of these little devices will go on, until one man in a ship
may control that engine of war as completely as if he were in every
vital place in the ship at one and the same time.




HOW TO USE THE VOICE.

BY FELIX BEAUMONT.


"Now, my friends," said Mrs. Martin, as she gathered a knot of young
people about her on the breezy veranda of her pleasant country house,
one moonlight evening in September, "we have had picnics, and drives,
and walks, and rows upon the lake in the daytime, and dances almost
every night since you have been visiting me, and I believe that you may
be getting sufficiently tired of these sports, as the weather grows
cooler, to wish to change about and settle down to something at once
more instructive and more artistic. You are, all of you, students of
music--Ethel reads it very well at sight, Kenneth plays the 'cello,
Patty plays the violin, Beatrice sings charmingly and plays
accompaniments, besides being a general helper and strong inducer of
merriment, while the rest of you have good voices, very pretty taste,
and some knowledge of music. So I am going to organize a musical club,
which shall meet here regularly once a week after you leave me, having
finished your visits. And I am going now to attempt to explain to you so
thoroughly the best methods of getting up a 'musical' that other boys
and girls who wish to amuse themselves in the same way may learn from
your example. A great deal of fun may be had from the preliminary
practice and rehearsals. I should advise you to form, in the first
place, three quartets: one of mixed voices--that is, you know, soprano,
alto, tenor, and bass--besides one of male voices, first tenor, second
tenor, first bass (or barytone), and second bass. Then a quartet of
female voices--two sopranos and two altos, and this last can sometimes
do trios as well as quartets. For all of these different sets of voices
the most beautiful and pleasing music has been made. Mendelssohn's
collection for mixed voices, called 'Open-Air Music,' is intended to be
done without accompaniment, which, as you see, fits it to be sung
independently in any place--in the woods, or on the lake, or while
driving. It is as full of inspiration and of the true sweet
Mendelssohnian melody as anything that ever dropped from the pen of that
sociable and amiable composer; the harmonies are delicious, and the
words are full of the poetry of land and sea and love. For male voices
there is a large literature; but perhaps the heaviest mass of writing is
found in compositions for women's voices, either in the form of
duets--as, for instance, those of Abt, Mendelssohn, Rubinstein, or
Dvorák--in trios, and in quartets.

"In this connection let me tell you," said Mrs. Martin, who now saw
that her young audience was thoroughly attentive and interested, "that
Schubert has written a most lovely 'Serenade' for alto solo and women's
chorus. For all three kinds of quartet, as I have said, there is a large
choice of music. The old Scotch, English, and Irish songs and ballads
have been arranged to be sung by male, female, or mixed voices, so that
'Robin Adair,' 'The Bluebells of Scotland,' 'Annie Laurie,' 'Tom
Bowling,' 'Hearts of Oak,' 'The Bay of Biscay,' 'Kathleen Mavourneen,'
'The Last Rose of Summer,' and 'The Harp that once through Tara's Halls'
take on new beauties from their harmonizations. Then there are humorous
things, such as Homer Bartlett's 'The Frogs' Singing-School,' or
Caldicott's 'Spider and the Fly,' and all Ingraham's nine 'Nonsense
Songs,' set to Lear's words, from 'The Owl and the Pussy-cat' to 'The
Duck and the Kangaroo.' Italian folk-songs, too, have been transformed
into harmonized versions, and there are hosts of waltzes so pretty and
inspiriting that you will hardly be able to keep from whirling about
while you sing them. 'Cradle Songs' and 'Slumber Songs' may be selected
when for variety you need a bit of reposeful quiet in your programme;
and you know enough of Franz Abt's pure, sweet, pleasing melody to be
able to choose judiciously on the occasions when he would be useful to
you.

"Of course," added Mrs. Martin, "these musical attempts presuppose some
knowledge of sight-reading on the part of you young people; and as
nothing is accomplished without application and effort, you must be
willing to take a little trouble in the practice and perfection of
whatever you undertake to perform. Each of you must carry his part home
and study it separately, until you are perfectly familiar with it, then
you must rehearse together until the whole thing goes smoothly. Do any
of you understand," said Mrs. Martin, giving a comprehensive glance
along the semicircle of sun-browned smiling faces in front of her, "what
you must do to make _ensemble_ singing sound sweetly to the listener? In
the first place, never sing too loud. There is a great temptation for
each member of a chorus or quartet to use all the power of his voice as
soon as he feels other voices pushing against him; but whether in solo
or other work, one of the cardinal rules is to avoid singing as loudly
as the vocal chords will permit. One must think continually of the sound
he is producing, must listen carefully to himself, by which method one
can modify and improve the quality of tone to a remarkable degree. Some
people undoubtedly make a much more successful effort than others in
managing their voices before they are cultivated. The best general
advice to be given for the help of a novice is, sing freely and
naturally, with relaxed muscles. You should try to open the throat by a
movement which at once forces the tonsils apart and depresses the roots
of the tongue, somewhat as in the commencement of a yawn. Let the column
of air which carries the tone come straight through the middle of the
open throat, and focus or strike in the roof of the mouth just behind
and above the upper teeth. Try to enunciate distinctly without
disturbing the continuity of tone emission."

"Do you think any of us can do solos, Aunt Martha?" asked little Patty,
timidly.

"Oh yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Martin, drawing Patty close to her. "We
must have some, of course; they are so good for making boys and girls
conquer shyness and nervousness and consciousness. At first you should
select simple songs of limited range, with attractive flowing melodies.
You will find plenty of just this kind among the works of Gounod, Abt,
Ries, Cowen, Sullivan, Curschman, Kücken, Fesca, Tosti, and Bohm.
Brahms's 'Lullaby' is a charming and easy bit of singing; so is Ries's
'Cradle Song.' Those by Adalbert Goldschmidt and Gerrit Smith are pretty
also. Indeed, slumber songs lend themselves admirably to early efforts
in solo work. Other song writers to whom you may look for furnishing the
best material are Jensen, Eckert, Lachner, Taubert, Bemberg, Gumbert,
Goring-Thomas, Bizet, Lassen, Delibes, Widor, Arditi, Mattei, Godard,
Saint-Saëns, Massenet, and so on, up to the classic heights of
Rubinstein, Mendelssohn, Liszt, Schubert, Schumann, Grieg, and Brahms.
Of extreme modern writers who make pleasing music you can rely on
Chaminade, Nevin, Neidlinger, Bartlett, Johns, and Pizzi. Of course
among these names you will not find many opera-composers, for I have
only cared to mention the makers of songs. I will tell you something
else, a little foreign to our immediate subject of _ensemble_ or solo
singing, which, however, will, I am sure, afford you much enjoyment and
merriment. There are compositions called in German 'Kinder Symphonien,'
or 'Children's Symphonies.' Dear old Father Haydn made one of the best
of these, and they have been followed by others, by Romberg, Chwatal,
Grenzebach, Meyer, and Schulz. They are played by about ten or twelve
persons. There will be a piano score for either two or four hands, one
for violin, and for a number of toy instruments. One of the instruments
is somewhat like a pair of bellows in construction. When it is pressed
together the most illusive sound of 'cuckoo, cuckoo,' comes from it, so
natural as almost to deceive the bird himself if he were listening.

"Another instrument is a china mug with a spout like a teapot. The mug
must be half filled with water, and on blowing into the spout a
melodious gurgling arises. This is supposed to be an exact imitation of
the ravishing song of the sad poetic nightingale. Then there is a drum,
a trumpet, a triangle, and many other things conducive to noise and
music. Each performer has a separate sheet to read his notes from, and
the effort to count properly, to wait for rests, and to make the right
entrances, gives much serious employment. But when at last everything
goes well together the effect is very merry and pleasing. One of
Chwatal's symphonies is called 'The Sleigh-Ride.' The jingling of a set
of small sleigh-bells is a feature in this. I should think," added Mrs.
Martin, "that some of these symphonies would be a great addition to your
musicals, and give lots of fun. The trumpeter of the occasion must take
pains, however, not to fall into the error of the man who blew a
tremendous blast upon his horn in the middle of a piece of music,
producing a horrid discord. When the leader asked him, angrily, 'What in
the world did you play that dreadful wrong note for?' the man meekly
replied, 'Ach Himmel, there was a fly on the fourth line of the staff,
and I _played him_!' Nor must you," went on Mrs. Martin, smiling at her
reminiscences, "copy the negligent daring of a friend of mine who sang
in a well-known German _Verein_. Things had been going badly, and
finally the conductor in despair cried out, as he stamped his foot and
gesticulated wildly, 'Tenors, tenors, you are a measure behind!'
Whereupon my friend called back lustily to him, 'Ach! muss man denn _so
genau_ sein?'--must one then be so very particular?" The children
laughed heartily at their dear hostess's jokes, as they tried always to
do when it was at all possible.

"And now," said tall Ethel, "won't you please tell us all about the
evening of the musical, and what we shall wear, and how to write the
invitations?"

"Wear?" said Mrs. Martin. "Why, of course you would wear your very best
evening gowns, you girls, and of course, to my mind, those who were
dressed in white would look the prettiest. And the boys would wear their
Tuxedo suits, or whatever they looked smartest in. As to the
invitations, do not send out so many as to crowd your parlor
uncomfortably. The rule which I have found safe to believe is that
one-third of all the people invited will decline. This gives a hostess
the liberty of paying a compliment to many more of her friends than her
house will actually hold. The form of the invitation may be thus:

     "_Mrs. Dudley requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Allison's
     company on Thursday evening, November 12, at half past eight._

  "_Music at nine o'clock._
  "_160 Saint Bernard Street._

"Or your mother's ordinary visiting-card will do, if she writes in one
corner, 'Music at nine o'clock.' Invitations should be sent at least a
week or ten days beforehand. If it is possible for you to have a
grand-piano, never use a square or an upright one. If you must use
either of the latter kinds, turn it away from the wall, and drape the
back of the upright with some pretty soft drapery, which can be held in
place by books, vases, and a lamp on the top of the piano. All the
portières or other curtains that can be taken down should be removed,
and all the rugs and heavy furniture carried out of the room. Music
sounds so much better in a place free from soft thick hangings.

"It is good to have programmes, for people enjoy listening to pieces
much more if they know their names. Should expense deter you from having
them printed, they may be nicely written off on a sheet of note-paper.
For printed programmes, a card ten inches by three and a half, folded
once in the middle of its length, makes an extremely good form.

"Would you like me to give you some idea of the programme, musically and
spiritually considered, as well as from its purely material
stand-point?" said Mrs. Martin, after a few moments' silence, "for I
believe, with that exception, that I have told you all I can. Get out
your note-book, Bertram, and put down what I tell you."

PROGRAMME.

  1. Mixed Quartet { 'Farewell to the Forest'              _Mendelssohn_
                   { 'O, Hush Thee, my Baby'               _Sullivan_
  2. Piano Solo, 'Spring'                                  _Grieg_
  3. Female Chorus, { Lullaby                              _Brahms_
                    { 'My Flaxen-haired Lassie'            _Koschat_
  4. Tenor Solo, 'Máppari,' from 'Martha'                  _Flotow_
           (Or song by Chadwick, 'Du bist wie eine Blume.')
  5. Male Quartet, { 'Verlassen bin ich'                   ----
                   { 'The Owl and the Pussy-cat'           _Ingraham_
  6. Violin Solo, 'Simple Aven'                            _Thorne_
  7. Piano, four hands, Ballet Music from Feramors         _Rubinstein_

PROGRAMME NO. 2.

  1. Piano, four hands, 'Hochzeitsmusik'                _Jensen_
  2. Female Chorus, 'Rest Thee on this Mossy Pillow'    _Smart_
  3. Violoncello Solo, 'Love Scene'                     _Victor Herbert_
  4. Soprano Song, 'Parting'                            _Rogers_
  5. Violin Solo, 'Romance'                             _Mrs. Beach_
  6. Male Quartet, 'It was not So to Be'                _Nessler-Vognih_

"And then," said Mrs. Martin, "you could finish with the Kinder Symphony
as a merry ending, or add one or two numbers to those I have suggested,
and keep the Kinder Symphony for a separate evening's entertainment. At
all events, I hope you will find that I have inspired and helped you a
little, and that you will carry out the plans I have laid down."

"Yes, we will!" cried all the young people, in a breath; and Bertram,
putting his note-book in his inside coat pocket, said, dreamily, "It's
awfully late; suppose we go in and take the gift of sleep!"




OLD-TIME THANKSGIVING.

BY M. L. VAN VORST.


  Come, will you help me harness the bay?
  Come, will you help me hitch up the gray?
  Grandfather's lent us the great big sleigh.
    Hip hurrah for Thanksgiving-time!
  Chestnuts and cider and fire's glow,
  Five good miles through the woods to go,
  Clear cold winds and a driving snow.
    Hip hurrah for the bells achime!

  Fly by the hedge of the country-side,
  By the gleaming fields and the farm-lands wide.
  Hey for the boys and the girls as they ride!
    Hip hurrah for the gray and the bay!
  Snow-wreaths hang on the fir and pine,
  And the bells are ringing like silver fine;
  Bright cheeks are glowing and bright eyes shine.
    Hip hurrah for the jolly sleigh!

  Come, will you go with us, one and all,
  To the games and romps in the country hall,
  Where the rafters ring with our shout and call?
    Hip hurrah for the fun and cheer!
  Months of the holly and mistletoe
  We would hold you fast, for we love you so.
  Thanksgiving and Christmas and sparkling snow
    Gladden the days of the dying year.




THE HANGING OF TEDDY.


Halloween was sure to see a variety of pranks played in Scottsville. It
was a fortunate front fence which had its own gate the next morning. All
of which shows that there were boys in Scottsville.

"Well, gates are good enough if you can't do any better," said Teddy, on
the afternoon of a last day in October, "but I'm getting tired of them."

"What about signs, then?" asked Joe.

"Signs are all right--genuine signs up on buildings--not these
pasteboard cards saying 'To Rent,' and sewing-machine boards nailed on
fences, and such stuff."

"You don't think you could get a big store sign down, do you?" asked
Fred.

"Yes, I do."

"Whose?"

"Oh, a lot of 'em. Mr. Parks's would be an easy one."

"But it's up over the door, and runs clear across the front of the
building!" protested Joe. "And it's fastened up with irons!"

"Don't care if 'tis. We're good for it, if we only think so. I've been
looking at it. The irons are loose, and there's room to stand on the
ledge behind it. It would be just as easy as nothing to take it down."

"What would you do with it?" asked Joe.

"Well," answered Ted, slowly, "it says on it, 'M. Parks. Cheap Cash
Grocery.' I think it would look sort of funny to take it up and put it
on the school-house."

The other boys instantly fell in with this idea, though they still
doubted their ability to get the sign down. Then Fred thought of the
village's night watchman, who spent most of his time in the business
part of town.

"But what about Billy Snyder?" he asked.

"Oh, my pa says Billy goes to sleep every night at nine o'clock,"
answered Teddy, confidently. "He says burglars might pull Billy's boots
off and he'd never know it."

"Well, if he sleeps all night, he must walk in his sleep," said Joe, who
lived farther down town than the others. "I've been awake 'way in the
night sometimes, and heard him tramping round."

"But, don't you see, to-night he'll be up town looking out for fellows
lugging off gates," returned Teddy, not to be convinced that there was
any danger from the watchman. "Besides, Billy can't run for shucks."

It was accordingly arranged that the boys should meet that night across
the street from Mr. Parks's store at half past ten; and promptly at that
hour they were all on hand. It was a dark night, and the streets were
deserted.

"It's--it's pretty dark, isn't it, Ted?" said Joe, in a loud whisper.

"Course," answered Teddy, contemptuously. "Want it dark, don't we?"

"Y--yes. Seen anything of Billy?"

"Oh, he's all right--way off somewhere. He won't be down here to-night."

They tiptoed cautiously across the street, and looked up at the sign.

"Has he been raising it?" said Joe, very earnestly.

"No, of course not," answered Teddy, impatiently.

"Well, it never looked so high to me before," insisted Joe.

"Oh, you're scared!" returned the brave Ted. "Better run home."

"I'm not scared. How are you going to get up?"

"Climb the eaves-spout on the corner. It's easy as nothing," and he
started up.

He went up for five or six feet, but found it harder work than he
expected. He stopped and rested a moment, then struggled on. This he did
twice, feeling his hold weakening all the while. The last time he
stopped he looked down. It seemed a long ways. His hold suddenly grew
still weaker, and he slid back and rolled over on the ground.

"Are you hurt, Ted?" anxiously inquired the other boys.

"Of course not," answered Teddy, impatiently. "Came down to rest and put
a little dust on my hands," and he went out into the street and spatted
his palms on the ground.

"We ought to had Tom Ketcham along," said Joe, when Teddy came back.
"He's a bully climber."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Ted. "If Tom Ketcham can climb any better'n I can I'd
like to know it. Just watch me now;" and he started up again.

Thanks to the street dust or to a determination to show Joe that he was
as good a climber as Tommy, he managed to get up this time and wriggle
in on the cornice, which made a sort of ledge behind the sign. He
loosened the iron on that end of the sign, and walked cautiously along,
taking a piece of clothes-line out of his pocket, with which he intended
to lower it. Just then footsteps were heard approaching.

"Billy's coming!" cried Fred, in a hoarse half-whisper, and he and Joe
started down the street.

"Hold on there!" called Teddy to the younger boys, in a fierce tone.
"Get in the doorway and keep still."

The others obeyed, and Ted himself lay down on the ledge behind the sign
and flattened out as much as possible. It proved to be only a man on his
way home, and he passed without seeing the boys.

Teddy's heart was thumping pretty hard as he thrust his chin over the
edge of the sign and whispered, "You fellows down there?"

"Yes," answered the boys.

"Well, what you so scared at?" he asked, tauntingly, as a way of keeping
up his own courage. "Look out, now, and I'll have this sign down there
before you know it." He rose up and started to hurry along the cornice,
but stumbled over something and went down with a great thump.
Fortunately he fell on the ledge, and the sign kept him from rolling
into the street.

"What's the matter, Ted?" asked the others, excitedly.

"Nothing. Don't know. Fell over something." He felt about in the
darkness, and added: "Iron thing to put a big flag in. Forgot it was
here."

He crawled on to the other end, and readily pulled up the other iron
that held the sign in place. Then he crept back to the middle, looking
out for the flag-staff bracket this time, and tied one end of his
clothes-line around the sign. He took a half turn with the line around
the flag-holder, which he stood astride, lifted up on the sign to
release it from the supports on which it rested, and began to lower it
slowly. "Get ready, there!" he whispered to the other boys. The sign was
heavier than he had expected, and the rope hurt his hands. But he shut
his teeth together and hung on, and slowly paid out the line. Just then
there came the sound of a heavy step up the street. Teddy tried to let
the rope go a little faster, but it suddenly shot through his hands. The
sign struck the stone sidewalk broadside with a report like a gun, and
the end of the rope, which was entangled with his feet, jerked him off
the ledge, and he shot down after the sign. But the flag bracket which
had tripped him up before saved him this time. Its upturned end caught
under the back of his jacket, and stopped him with a jerk, his
shoulder-blades against the front of the ledge, and his legs dangling in
the air above the doorway. Between the crash of the falling sign and the
heavy footsteps, which sounded precisely like the watchman's, the other
boys had been too frightened to think, and had scampered down the street
faster than they had ever run before.

Teddy's first thought was to call for help, but he was too frightened to
call; and by the time he had found his voice he had concluded that it
would be best to wait a few minutes, since he was not particularly
uncomfortable, and see if he could not get himself out of the fix he was
in without being caught. The approaching footsteps had ceased, and there
was not a sound to be heard. "Billy has stopped and is trying to make
out what all the racket is about," Teddy thought to himself. "If I keep
still he may not see me in the dark, after all." His jacket was drawn
pretty tightly across his chest, and there was a good deal of strain on
the buttons, but he knew his mother had sewed them on and that there was
not much danger of their giving way. But it was rather hard to breathe.
He wriggled about a little, and tried to get his elbows up on the
cornice in the hope of raising himself, but he couldn't do it. Nothing
more was heard of Billy, and the earth seemed to have swallowed up Joe
and Fred. It seemed to Teddy that he had hung there half an hour, though
it probably wasn't more than three or four minutes, when he ventured to
call, in a subdued voice, "Joe!"

"Is that you, Ted?" came from directly beneath him in Tom Ketcham's
voice.

"Yes, Tom. I'm caught. Help me down, somehow."

"Is that you hanging up there?"

"Yes. I'm caught on the flag-holder."

"Yes; we heard it fall. Phil's with me."

"Was that you I heard coming? Thought the walk sounded like Billy."

"We--we had a gate, and I guess that made us walk pretty heavy."

Just then Joe and Fred crept back, emboldened by the sound of the
voices. The four boys on the sidewalk now held a whispered consultation
as to the best way of getting Teddy down, but they reached no decision.
Tom thought Ted ought to take his knife, cut off his buttons, and drop
out of his jacket, but Teddy objected to this. Joe thought a ladder was
the only hope, but Fred was of the opinion that if they had a long pole
he could be got down with that; but no one knew where either a pole or
ladder could be found. Teddy himself thought that if two of the boys
should climb up on the ledge that they could pull him up, and as Phil
shared this view it was decided to try it.

"And hurry up," pleaded poor Ted, "'cause I'm getting pretty tired of
this, and can't hardly breathe."

Tom and Phil accordingly started up the leader, and soon wriggled on to
the ledge as Teddy had done. The sign being gone, there was great danger
of their slipping off into the street, and they crept along very
cautiously. When they found themselves over the suspended Ted, they rose
up on their feet, stooped over, and each got a good hold on his collar
with one hand. Then they lifted together with all their strength, but
they might as well have lifted on a thrifty oak-tree for all they
accomplished. Ted had settled down so far that his shoulders were half
drawn under the cornice, and though he tried to wriggle about and help
them as they lifted, his wriggling really consisted of nothing but
thrashing his legs about in the air.

"We can't do it, Tom," said Phil.

Tom felt around on the front of the building, and replied:

"'Fraid we can't. If there was only something for us to hold on to we
could lift a good deal more; but there isn't."

"Not a thing. And if we lift another pound we'll pull ourselves into the
street and break our necks. What shall we do?"

"Don--don't leave me," implored Teddy, with just a suspicion of a
whimper in his voice. "Wish I'd never heard of the sign. It's my last
sign if I ever get down."

"We'll get you down some way, Ted," answered Tom. "Just you keep a stiff
upper lip."

"I--I am," returned Teddy. "But I can't hang much longer. Feel like I
was going to die, or something."

Just then distant footsteps were heard on the sidewalk.

"Ssh!" said Phil. "Somebody's coming. Get in the doorway, you fellows
down there."

Joe and Fred obeyed, and the footsteps came nearer.

"That's Billy's walk, for sure," whispered Tom. "Can't fool me on that.
Lie down, Phil," and the two boys flattened out on the ledge.

Poor Teddy could do nothing but hang, as if he were a sign put out in
front of a store where small boys were kept for sale. Nearer and nearer
came the footsteps, till they were almost in front of the building. Then
there was a sudden stumble, a smothered ejaculation, and a man fell full
length on the walk, while something which showed a little point of light
went rolling along the walk. It was Billy, and he had fallen over the
sign, and his dark-lantern had rolled away. The boys all had hard work
to keep from laughing, except Teddy.

"Geewhillikans!" howled Billy, as he scrambled to his feet and made a
dive for his lantern. "What's all this?"

The next second he flashed his bull's-eye on the walk, and began an
investigation.

"You may shoot me if it ain't old Parks's sign!" he went on, throwing
the stream of light along the board. "More Halloween monkey business, I
s'pose. I'd like to catch the scalawags! Wonder how they got it down?"
He stepped back to the edge of the walk and turned the light upward.

[Illustration: "WELL, WELL! IF THERE AIN'T A BOY, THEN I'M A GOAT!"]

"Well, _well_! If there ain't a boy, then I'm a goat! Come down here,
you young imp!"

Teddy only swung his legs.

"Come down, I say, or I'll--I'll--I'll--" and Billy paused, unable to
think of anything terrible enough.

"I--I can't, Billy," Teddy managed to get out.

"Hung up, hey? Good enough for you. You ought to be hung up by the
_heels a week_! I'll get you down, young man. Just you be calm till I
fetch Whitney's ladder," and Billy started up the street on a trot,
muttering to himself.

The new danger sharpened Master Teddy's wits, and made him think faster
than he had ever done before.

"You fellows get down quick as you can," he cried to Tom and Phil.
"Hurry!" The boys scrambled along the ledge and slid down the leader.
"Get hold of that sign, the whole four of you, and stick one end of it
up here like a ladder," went on Teddy, his voice all in a tremble, but
the words coming with a rush. Up came the sign beside him. He got his
legs over and around it, half wriggled his back onto it, reached his
arms over his head, and by exerting every muscle in his body to the
utmost, managed to pull and kick himself up enough to release his coat.
Then he shot down the steep sign like a toboggan, and struck the ground
all in a heap. Billy was coming down the street with his ladder and
lantern. "Down with it!" said Tom, and he put his shoulder against the
sign.

"No you don't," cried Teddy; "I've had enough of signs and Halloweens.
Let's git;" and he did with all his might, a sadder but a wiser boy.

There has not been a case of sign lost on Halloween or any other day or
night since in Scottsville.




THANKSGIVING.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.


  When the Indians used to prowl
    Round the house at dead of night,
  And the north wind's angry howl
    Sounded fierce by candle-light;
  When the very babies learned
    How to whisper when they cried,
  And the young boys early earned
    Right to carry arms with pride--

  In those wild exciting days,
    Often hungry, often cold,
  Men uplifted songs of praise,
    Women's hearts were strong and bold.
  And amid their penury,
    In their want and peril, they
  Set apart, with courage free,
    Their first brave Thanksgiving day.

  Over harvests gathered in
    With a stealthy foe anear,
  Over scanty byre and bin,
    Over joys which cost them dear,
  Gallant souls that would not bend
    Met their trustful grace to say,
  Heart to heart and friend to friend;
    So they kept Thanksgiving day.

  Ours to-day a happier fate:
    Royal wealth on us outpoured,
  Wide our pleasant land, and great
    Is the throng about our board.
  Run the dear old flag aloft;
    Let it float from ship and spire!
  Wake Thanksgiving, field and croft,
    House and home, and child and sire.




MARTY'S PUMPKINS.

BY RAY STANNARD BAKER.


"M-a-rty! Mart--e--e!" called a shrill voice from the woodshed door.

The speckled rooster stopped scratching in the chip-pile, raised his
head, blinked his eyes, and chuckled protestingly.

"Mart-e-e!" called the voice again, and a plain woman in a calico dress
stepped out into the morning sunlight. "I wonder where thet child has
gone. She'd try the patience of a saint. Mart--e--e!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Come right here this minute."

Around the corner of the chicken-coop ran a little figure with flying
hair.

"Where hev you been?" demanded Mrs. Tucker, impatiently.

Marty's bare brown toes burrowed in the chip-pile, and she hung her
head. She was a slender girl, and a pair of big, wistful eyes looked out
from under her sun-bonnet.

"Out lookin' after my punkins," she answered, shyly.

"Your punkins!" said Mrs. Tucker, explosively. "You won't have punkins
long ef you don't answer when I call."

"I didn't hear you, ma'am."

"Stuff an' nonsense! I tol' Eb it wa'n't good sense to put such punkin
notions in yer head. Now take this cup an' run over to Mis' Wiskins an'
ask the loan of some yeast."

Marty's feet twinkled as she ran, and Mrs. Tucker was so surprised to
see her back so soon that she sent her on another errand. But at last
Marty was free to hurry again into the corn-field. Here she went about
among the shocks, and lifted the yellow pumpkins, one by one, and
carried them to a "double-decker" wagon that stood not far away, climbed
up on a stepladder, and dropped them in. Some of them were so large that
when she tried to reach around them the sleeves of her outgrown gingham
dress drew up over her sunburnt elbows. But she tugged and staggered and
wrinkled her freckled nose until the wagon was heaping full. Just as she
was completing her task old Ebenezer Tucker came out to the field.

"Got 'em loaded?" he asked, gruffly.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, we'll take 'em to town to-morrow and see what they'll bring."

Marty jumped up and clapped her hands.

"Oh, Uncle Eb--"

"There! neb mind," he said, but there was a note of kindness in his
voice.

The sun had gone down and the air was frosty and still. Marty's bare
toes tingled with the cold, but her face glowed with joy as she trudged
toward the house at her uncle's side. She would have liked to take hold
of his hand, not only to rest her tired legs, but because her happy
heart wanted to show the affection of which it was so bubbling full, but
she was afraid.

Marty was happier than she had ever been before in her life. That wasn't
saying much, for Marty's mother had died when she was very young, and
had left her and little Tim alone in the world. They had been passed
around from relative to relative for a number of years, and Marty had
taken care of Tim, and lavished on him all the affection of her timid
heart. While they were together she hadn't minded poor clothes and hard
work, but when Uncle Ben had taken "the boy," and Uncle Eb had taken
her, Marty's heart was quite broken. For Uncle Ben lived in Shelbyville,
miles away, and how would little Tim get along without her?

Aunt Tucker was known and respected in the community as a "good
provider" and a good Christian, but she didn't understand Marty. Besides
that, she had Elly and Susie and John, her own children, to look after.
Marty was shy and timid and dreamy, and so it happened that she became
little maid-of-all-work, a kind of country Cinderella. But she tried to
keep a brave face, and dreamed of the time when Tim would be big enough
to earn his own living and could take her away.

As the summer passed, Marty had grown more and more lonesome; she felt
as if she hadn't a friend in the world. One day she was in the
barn-yard, and Dot--Uncle Eb's old white cow--looked around at her so
sympathetically with her big, kind eyes that a knot tied itself in
Marty's throat, and she ran and threw her arms around Dot's neck.

"You'll be my friend--won't you, Dot?" she sobbed.

Dot was evidently about to say something sympathetic, when Marty felt a
hand on her head. It was Uncle Eb's.

"What's the matter, Marty?" he asked, and his raspy voice sounded as if
it had just been oiled.

She had always been afraid of Uncle Eb. He was big and silent, and his
bushy eyebrows scowled. But she said:

"I'm lonesome. I want to see Tim."

The old farmer stopped and patted her head, and then sat down to milk.
One day he said,

"Want to earn some money, Marty?"

Marty's head swam. With money she could see Tim. Her face flushed
faintly.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"Well, you pick up the pumpkins in the corn-lot and load 'em on the
wagon every day, and I'll give you one load."

There were a great many loads of pumpkins, and it was very hard lifting
for Marty; but she worked bravely, because she remembered Tim. She could
have finished the loading much sooner if Aunt Tucker hadn't called her
so often--Aunt Tucker didn't like the pumpkin idea; she said she didn't
believe in children having money. But now, after weeks of work, the last
load stood in the field.

"Thet's yours," Uncle Eb had said, quietly.

And that is why Marty's heart was almost bursting with joy.

The Tuckers were up at sunrise the next morning. For Uncle Eb was going
to town with Marty's pumpkins.

"You're foolish to whim thet child," said Aunt Tucker, complainingly;
"you're treating her better'n you do yer own kith an' kin."

Uncle Eb didn't reply; but an hour later he and Marty were perched on
the high wagon seat, and the sun was looking jolly at the end of the
long road to town. Marty wore Elly's hat and a plain but clean dress,
and her eyes sparkled with joy. She wanted to tell Uncle Eb how happy
and thankful she was, but she didn't dare to. So she tapped her precious
pumpkins with her toes as she was bounced about on the high spring seat.

How proud she felt when they reached the Centre and the men on the
street nodded to Uncle Eb! She wondered if they knew that the pumpkins
were all hers, and that she would soon have the money for them. Only
once in her life had she ever had any money of her own, and that was
only ten cents, which had looked as big as a silver dollar when she
first spied it lying at the road-side.

Now they had passed the post-office and were slowly climbing the
Weymouth hill toward the depot. The Centre lay in a deep valley, with
the railroad skirting the top of the hill to the east. It was a steep,
smooth hill, and the backs of the horses straightened and strained under
the crupper straps. Marty puckered up her lips and lifted on the seat,
as if to ease the load of her weight. At the middle of the climb they
stopped where a "thank you, ma'am," ribbed the hill.

"Get up," said Uncle Eb, after the horses had rested.

Just as the wheels jogged forward Marty heard a sharp crack, and then a
loud plumping and plopping from behind. She looked around and gave a cry
of alarm. For the back board of the wagon had broken out, and down the
hill her precious pumpkins were dancing and bobbing with a mellow
rumble. Before Uncle Eb could say a word, Marty sprung from the wagon
and darted behind.

"Stop! stop!" she shouted; but the renegade pumpkins acted as if they
didn't hear a word, and rolled on down the hill. In two minutes the
wagon was empty. Some of the pumpkins split open, and their rich dewy
halves, full of seeds, lay gaping in the sunshine. Farther down the
whole hill was speckled with bobbing bits of yellow, and the boys of the
Centre had begun a hilarious chase. The pumpkins seemed possessed. They
went careering through open gates and bumping against doors and casings.
They broke their heads on fences and the edges of the sidewalk, and
they sent Nick Dusenberry's old white team, that hadn't run away before
in fifteen years, snorting up the street. All the dogs barked, and the
boys shouted, and the Centre stood in its front door and cheered. Such
excitement had not stirred the village since Marston's store burned
down.

In the middle of the hill sat Marty, each arm clasping a fat pumpkin,
and the tears streaming down her freckled nose. The horses had been
frightened and had run up the hill, Uncle Eb doing his best to control
them.

[Illustration: "OH, MY PUNKINS!" SOBBED MARTY.]

"Oh, my punkins!" sobbed Marty.

"Are you hurt? Can I help you?" asked a pleasant voice.

Marty looked up. It was the postmaster's wife.

"Oh, my punkins!" choked Marty.

But the postmaster's wife bent over and questioned kindly, and Marty
told her about Tim and Uncle Eb and the pumpkins, and when she was
through there were tears in the eyes of the postmaster's wife. By this
time a crowd of men and boys had gathered. It bruised Marty's sensitive
heart that they should laugh and joke about her precious pumpkins. When
Uncle Eb came back with the team he was scowling, and when Marty asked
him to let her pick up the pumpkins he said:

"Let 'em go. I don't want 'em."

And all the way home he was silent, and Marty sat beside him biting her
lips to keep from crying. It seemed to her since her pumpkins were gone
that nothing else remained in life. As she crept off to bed that night
she heard Aunt Tucker say,

"Now, Ebenezer, you see what comes from foolin' with children's bringin'
up."

All the next day Marty's heart ached, although Uncle Eb had said, while
he was rubbing his curry-comb and brush together, "Never mind, child,"
in a tone that showed her that he was still kindly. Towards evening the
Perkins boy came with the mail.

"Here's a paper fer you, Uncle Eb," he said, "an' a letter fer Marty."

Marty flushed and trembled. The whole family looked at her. She had
never before received a letter.

The Perkins boy was holding it out. "It's a fat one, too," he said.

Uncle Eb took it, put on his spectacles, and turned it over and over.
Then he passed it to Aunt Tucker, and Elly and Susie and John all had a
peep at it. Marty stood with a rapt expression on her face and her heart
was throbbing wildly.

"Is it from Tim?" she asked.

"No, Tim can't write," said Susie, impatiently, for Susie could not help
being envious.

"Here, Marty, open it," said Uncle Eb.

Marty took it and tore the envelope with trembling fingers, Elly showing
her how. Inside there was a fat letter, and inside of that a one-dollar
bill. Little John's eyes were popping in wonder. Uncle Eb drew on his
spectacles and sat down in his rocking-chair. Marty was so excited that
she crowded up and held fast to his coat as if she feared the precious
letter might fly away. It was from the postmaster's wife, and this is
what it said:

     "DEAR MARTY,--I wish to pay you for the four nice big pumpkins that
     rolled into our front yard this morning. I've been wanting some
     pumpkins for pies ever so long, and they came just in time. Mrs.
     Brainard and Mrs. Peters also received a good supply. We enclose a
     dollar in payment. Come in and call on me when you go to see Tim,
     and have a piece of pie."

Marty's eyes sparkled. It wasn't so much the money as it was the fact
that the letter was written to her own self, and that some one in the
Centre knew about her.

The next day two more letters came--the postmaster's wife had done her
work well--and when Marty counted her fortune, she had $4.25.

"That's more'n we'd got fer the punkins at the depot," said Uncle Eb.

The next week Marty, all in a new dress, her money tightly knotted in
the corner of a handkerchief with pansies around the border, went to
visit Tim. On her way she stopped to see the postmaster's wife and eat
some pie made from the "visitin' punkins," as the postmaster called
them.




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


Two of the most important interscholastic games of the year were played
a week ago Saturday, the Exeter-Andover game at Andover, resulting in a
victory for Andover of 28-0; and the New Britain-Meriden game on the
Yale field, resulting in a victory for New Britain, 30-6.

The score of the Exeter-Andover game was somewhat of a surprise to the
supporters of both teams. The Exeter team had been looked upon as a very
strong one, and in spite of the fact that it was to play on strange
grounds it was slightly the favorite. Looking back now it seems strange
that this should have been the case, for Andover has nearly twice as
many students to draw from, and had the advantage of home grounds. It is
possible, however, that the reports of Andover's crippled condition gave
Exeter the prestige which she seemed to enjoy before time was called.

The renewal of athletic relations between the two schools was very
successfully opened by this game, and all through the day the two bodies
of players and spectators did everything in their power to let bygones
be bygones, and to contribute toward the success of the occasion.

There was a marked contrast between the playing of the two teams. Exeter
entered the competition with a certain confidence which soon became akin
to demoralization as the determined spirit of Andover began to exert
itself. Andover's play deserves great praise, and her eleven earned
every point scored. Exeter was outclassed in rushing and line-work, and
was proficient in no especial point. The Andover linesmen opened up
generous holes for their rushers when these were needed, and on end
plays their interference was compact and effective. Every Andover man
knew what was expected of him in the interference, and performed his
duty. The tackling of the whole team was sharp and sure, and exceedingly
distressing to their opponents, who were forced to call in a number of
substitutes before the end of the game.

Andover's victory is all the more creditable when we consider that the
regular captain was unable to play, and one of the best guards was not
in the game. Quimby, who acted as captain, put up a fine game and
commanded the men well. He showed that he has the powers of a good
football general. Two other players who give much promise are Elliot,
who played full-back, and Schreiber, who played left end. The former
made several good rushes, and in individual play there was no superior
to him that day. Schreiber broke up every mass of interference that
assailed his end, and frequently tackled the runner for a loss. Burdick
at right end displayed unusual talent, and from obscurity sprang into
prominence by his bearing and skilful rushes. Pierson at centre was a
stonewall, and did excellent work in making holes besides.

The Exeter players had but little method in their play, and were
deplorably weak in team-work. The line was ragged, and, although heavy,
it was no match for Andover's stocky forwards. Shaw, at end, made
several brilliant tackles, but made as many costly failures. Highly, at
tackle, managed to stop the heavy push plays of Andover, but was not
able to break through them so as to down the runner. Sawyer, who played
for a short time in the second half, was especially conspicuous for
tackling behind the line. The clean play of the game was undoubtedly due
to the efficient work of the officials, Messrs. J. H. Morse and Lorin F.
Deland, umpire and referee. They watched every detail, and maintained
strict adherence to the rules.

The detail of the play deserves some mention, and I regret that space
alone prevents me from devoting more than a few paragraphs to the
subject. Andover took the north goal, and Miller's kick-off was returned
by Quimby. Exeter began her offensive play on the 40-yard line. Whitcomb
got five yards at centre, and Miller added two at the same place.
Whitcomb worked the same position for several yards, and also left
tackle. By short plunges the centre of the field was reached, when
Andover held, and got the ball on downs. Elliot immediately booted the
leather, and as no Exeter player was ready to receive it, forty yards
were gained. Andover prevented Exeter from advancing, and had the ball
on her 25-yard line. White got in six yards at right end, and the
playing became fierce as Exeter realized the approaching danger to her
goal. Exeter braced wonderfully on her 2-yard line, and saved a
touch-down by a superhuman effort. The ball was gradually carried out
from her goal, and five yards for interference at centre aided
materially. When the 30-yard line was covered, Andover got the ball for
holding on her rival's part, and Burdick electrified the crowd by coming
out of the bunch at left end and running the whole distance for a
touch-down. It was a pretty exhibition of sprinting and interference of
Andover. The try for goal was a dismal failure, the ball falling short.

As on the first kick-off, Quimby caught and returned inside the centre
of Exeter's territory. Whitcomb got his length at centre, and Miller
added four yards to that. Syphax on a tandem play got two yards at left
tackle, and Miller the same amount nearer the centre. The middle of the
gridiron became the battle-ground, when Andover secured the ball on
downs. Andover did not want to rush, but Elliot punted well down the
field, and the Exeter half-back fumbled the ball, allowing Wheeler to
get it for his side. The referee allowed Andover five yards for
interference at centre, which put the ball on Exeter's 35-yard line. The
identical play that resulted in giving Andover her previous touch-down
was repeated by Burdick, with an improvement in the interference. Elliot
did not miss his second try for goal. Then for the third time Quimby
returned Exeter's kick-off, this time much closer to the goal-line.

Exeter could not gain at end or centre, and resorted to kicking, Miller
punting outside. Andover did not wait to rush, but kicked back, getting
the ball on her antagonist's 15-yard line because of a fumble. Elliot
was credited with four yards at centre. Holladay could not make an
impression on the line; but Burdick was equal to the emergency, and
eluded all tackles at right end, and scoring a touch-down--from which
Elliot got his goal.

Right after the next kick-off a series of kicks were exchanged between
the teams, until Andover gained the advantage at the middle line of the
field. The play still continued to be through the air, till finally
Andover settled down to a steady forward march for Exeter's goal by
reeling off rushes, at the rate of ten yards each, made by different
players in the line. When the teams lined up on the 18-yard line, Exeter
had captured the ball on downs. Miller's kick was blocked, owing to the
slowness of the pass, but Pyton was on hand to keep it in Exeter's
possession. On the 15-yard line Elliot was signalled for a goal from the
field, which did not materialize, the ball rolling in front of the
goal-posts. Time was called soon after for the end of the half.

At the start of the second half, Exeter started to rush, ignoring the
brisk wind at her back, which Andover had used so continuously and
advantageously. When a kick did come, Quimby hurried the ball back to
its original resting-ground. Elliot, by a remarkable run, in which he
leaped over an upright Exeter player, accumulated sixty yards. Play was
now being stopped after every other scrimmage for some injured Exeter
player to recuperate or be taken off. Andover resumed her plugging away
in the direction of the enemy's goal-line, getting only one setback by
losing the ball on downs; and another touch-down was scored by Elliot.

Although the final game of the Connecticut Interscholastic Football
League, between New Britain and Meriden high-schools, was in many
respects not so good an exhibition as that given by Hartford and
Bridgeport last year, it was nevertheless an interesting occasion. In
one respect, however, this year's game surpassed any school game that
has ever been played on the Yale field. This was in the display of a
system of interference by the New Britain team which proved almost
irresistible to their opponents. The backs ran in a line headed by an
end. The end was followed by one of the backs, after whom came the man
with the ball, followed by the two other backs and the second end. This
formation worked almost every time it was used, and most of New
Britain's gains were due to its practice.

The defence of both elevens was weak, Meriden's, of course, being the
weaker. Lane of Meriden was the best back of either team. He ran hard
and fast. Hubbard of Meriden worked to his greatest strength, but he was
unable to achieve much on account of a lack of interference. All the
Meriden men were remarkably good at tackling, Lane leading in this
branch as well. O'Donnell of New Britain made four of New Britain's
touch-downs, and put up an excellent game. He did some excellent
line-bucking, and is undoubtedly the cleverest full-back among the
Connecticut schools. Meehan of New Britain at quarter-back is a sure
passer, and made many hard tackles. McDonald of New Britain had it all
his own way with his opponent, Hirschfield, and made holes for the backs
whenever these were called for. He is a good tackler and a capable
ground-gainer. Porter of New Britain proved by his play in this game
that he is undoubtedly the best end-rusher in the Connecticut
Interscholastic League. He made numerous tackles, and it was but on rare
occasions that the Meriden team was able to make distance around his
end. Fitch, Flannery, and Griswold likewise did good work.

As for the detail of the game: In the first few minutes New Britain
scored by end plays and by going through Hirschfield, right tackle. The
same sort of work was kept up by New Britain until the team had scored
five touch-downs, from only one of which a goal was kicked. New Britain
started again to force her way over the Meriden line, but lost the ball
on the 20-yard mark. It was passed back to Lane, who jumped through a
hole through Buckley, and with Hubbard interfering for him, he made a
beautiful run of ninety yards and scored for Meriden. This was the most
brilliant play of the day. In the second half Meriden pulled herself
together and held New Britain much better than she had been able to do
in the first part of the game. New Britain, however, succeeded in
scoring again before time was finally called, and the score was left
30-6.

[Illustration: AROUND RIGHT END,--IN THE HOPKINSON-C. H. AND L. GAME,
BOSTON.]

The feature of the play in the recent game between Hopkinson and
Cambridge High and Latin, in the Senior League of the Boston
Interscholastic Association, was the splendid interference formed for
end plays. The accompanying illustration gives an excellent idea of how
Hopkinson made her gains. The picture shows Huntress, Hopkinson's left
half-back, taking the ball to circle right end; the left end and tackle
can plainly be seen getting into the interference on the opposite side
of the line. The camera shows distinctly the failure of the C. H. and L.
right end to put into practice what he ought to know of the game, and
follow the play around.

The score of this game was 34-0 in favor of Hopkinson. Perhaps the
weakness of the Cambridge eleven was better shown on this occasion by
its inability to hold Hopkinson for four downs more than once.
C. H. and L. also failed to make first down by rushing more than half a
dozen times; the team seemed to hold the ball only when getting it on
kick-offs or after punts. Nevertheless, C. H. and L. put up a plucky
game, and the half-backs especially worked hard behind the indifferent
interference. Lewis did by far the best work for his side, Donovan
ranking next.

In the game between Lawrenceville and the Hill School a week ago
Saturday the Jerseymen were victorious by 14-6. The game was played at
Pottstown, in the rain and on a very muddy field, and consequently the
play was limited mostly to line tactics, although Keiffer, the Hill
half-back, got around Lawrenceville's ends twice for thirty-yard runs,
and once for a fifteen-yard gain, when he scored.

On the kick-off by Lawrenceville, the ball was regained at once on the
ten-yard line by a muff by Hill's full-back, Monypenny, and in a few
plays Lawrenceville's first touch-down was made, the goal being missed.
During the rest of the first half Lawrenceville made another touch-down,
going down the field some forty yards, the plays directed on the
line-men, though this goal was also missed.

Shortly after the second half began, with the ball on Lawrenceville's
twenty-yard line, Hill sent Keiffer around the end for their only
touch-down, to which a goal was added. Lawrenceville's last touch-down
was made just before time was called, the goal being kicked this time.
Without losing the ball, some sixty yards were covered by the
Lawrenceville backs plunging through the line.

Mattis of Lawrenceville outkicked the Hill full-back, Monypenny; and the
Hill right guard, Mills, played an excellent game. Cleveland,
Lawrenceville's left half, played a very good game, considering his
short experience. The Hill School has an excellent team this year, most
of last year's players being back, and they consequently put up an
unexpectedly strong game against Lawrenceville's green team.
Lawrenceville has been unfortunate this year in having a number of
mishaps to her players just as these got into condition.

The series of games in the second section of the New York
Interscholastic Football League has been won by Trinity; the first
section is a tie among De La Salle, Berkeley, and Barnard, Berkeley
having lost, 6-0, to De La Salle last week on the play-off of the tie
game of the week previous. This all-round tie has necessitated the
arrangement of a new schedule which will be played off as follows:

     November 20.--Berkeley School _vs._ Barnard School.

     November 24.--De La Salle Institute _vs._ Berkeley School.

     November 28.--Barnard School _vs._ De La Salle Institute.

     December 5.--Championship game between Trinity School, winner of
     the second section, and the winner of the first section.

This last game between De La Salle and Berkeley was interesting and
exciting. The play was sharp, and both teams put forth their greatest
efforts to win. In spite of the many good plays, however, there was
considerable fumbling by the backs of both sides. The touch-down was
made in the early part of the first half. After some good rushing, De La
Salle got the ball on Berkeley's five-yard line, and then Tilford was
pushed through the line for a touch-down. Carrigan kicked the goal, and
there was no scoring done after that, although the ball was a number of
times within dangerous proximity to Berkeley's posts. The latter part of
the game was greatly interfered with by darkness.

The Trinity-Cutler game, which was played on November 12, was a fine
exhibition of football as well, and although the Cutler team proved
unable to score against its heavier opponent, it displayed good
team-work on several occasions. The game was played in the rain; but in
spite of that, both elevens showed considerable snap, and there was not
so much fumbling as might have been expected. This game was likewise
started so late in the afternoon that darkness came on before the end of
the second half, and made the play unprofitable for the players and
invisible to the on-lookers.

A rather startling announcement appeared in a New York paper last week
to the effect that St. Paul's School, Garden City, had defeated the West
Point cadets at football by the score of 16-2. As a number of readers of
this Department may have noticed this report, and would naturally expect
to find some comment on so unusual an occurrence in these columns, it
may be well to state that the report in the New York paper was entirely
unfounded. West Point never has played the St. Paul's School team, and
never has played a game away from West Point since 1893. The team
defeated by St. Paul's on the occasion in question was the Harvard
School of New York.

[Illustration: CHELTENHAM MILITARY ACADEMY FOOTBALL TEAM.

Champions of the Inter-Academic League of Philadelphia.]

The championship of the Inter-Academic A.A. of Philadelphia was won by
Cheltenham Military Academy a week ago by the defeat of Germantown,
16-10. Lack of space prevents further comment this week, but in our next
issue I hope to be able to devote to the game the space which it
deserves.

     "G. S., END," asks the following questions concerning football:
     1. If the ball is fumbled, and recovered by a player of the side
     which fumbled, does it count as first down for that side, or second
     or third down with a certain number of yards to gain? 2. If, when
     the ball is fumbled and recovered, it has passed the place where it
     was put in play, does the gain thus made count the same as if it
     had been rushed there?

     1. It counts as second or third down, as the case may be; see Rule
     21, _e._ 2. Certainly; many a touch-down has thus accidentally been
     made.

"A PRIMER OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL."--BY W. H. LEWIS.--16MO, PAPER, 75 CENTS.

  THE GRADUATE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some people are a bit thick-headed. The following has been communicated
by a doctor in an extensive Highland parish:

One morning he received a letter from a remote corner of his parish,
written by a man who stated that he was unwell and would like to be
prescribed for. He was sorry he could not come to the hospital himself,
on account of the distance. The physician was rather puzzled at this
request, so he wrote, saying it was much more satisfactory to see the
patient; but if he could not possibly come, it was necessary at least to
send some account of his symptoms. Next morning's mail brought the man's
photo, which happened to have been taken twenty years before.




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[Illustration: Home Study]

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[Illustration]

EARN A TRICYCLE.

We wish to introduce our Teas. Sell 30 lbs. and we will give you a Fairy
Tricycle; sell 25 lbs. for a Solid Silver Watch and Chain; 50 lbs. for a
Gold Watch and Chain; 75 lbs. for a Bicycle; 10 lbs. for a Gold Ring.
Write for catalog and order sheet Dept. I

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[Illustration: BICYCLING]

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


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

The map accompanying the department this week is a continuation of the
best routes on the western bank of the Hudson. Last week the map covered
the country as far north as Englewood and Hackensack; this week it runs
from Englewood across into New York State. The most direct route, and
the most interesting ride, is to leave Englewood, and run northward
through Highwood, Tenafly, Cresskill, Demarest, Closter, Norwood,
Tappan, Blauveltville, Rockland Park, to Nyack; or one can ride from
Tappan through Sparkill, Piermont, direct to Nyack nearer the river. In
parts this road is in very good condition, but there are places where it
is heavy riding. In Tappan it is worth while stopping for part of an
hour to see the Andre Monument and Washington's Headquarters.

Another good run is to start from Englewood, running direct to
Hackensack--that is, as direct as the road will permit. The road-bed is
good all the way. On reaching Hackensack, run southward through the
town; then turn westward, and run out through Dundee to Paterson. From
Paterson the road is in more or less good condition out towards Tuxedo,
running through Ridgewood Junction, Ridgewood, Hohokus, Allendale,
Ramseys, to Sufferns. Proceeding thence towards Tuxedo, or turning
eastward and running through Tallmans, Monsey, Spring Valley, Nanuet,
Clarksville, and West Nyack, to Nyack. Still another run is from
Englewood to Hackensack, and thence northward to Sufferns, through
Arcola, Paramus, turning to the left at Ridgewood, and running on
through Hohokus.

Any of these roads can be picked out easily from the map, and you are
pretty sure to find that in the main those roads marked in heavy black
are good bicycle roads. The hotel accommodations are none of the best in
any part of this country, with a few exceptions. In the summer-time the
Prospect House in Nyack is probably the best hotel within a radius of
many miles, but it is closed in the fall and winter. Reasonably good
accommodations can be had at Hackensack and Paterson, but the smaller
towns usually have but one hotel, which is apt to be of the road-house
type, and one must make up his mind, if he finds it necessary to stop
over night anywhere, to take what comes in an optimistic spirit. The
hills of the country are in some cases rather steep. Close to the
Hudson, after one has once got on top of the Palisades, there are not
many which cannot be ridden. The road running from Hackensack up the
Hackensack River valley, through Overtown, Westwood, Montvale,
Middletown to Nanuet does not run over many hills, but further back from
the river, north of Paterson, the wheelman is likely to find more
irregularities in the surface of the country.

     NOTE.--Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of
     route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford,
     Connecticut, in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New
     Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814.
     Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816.
     Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No.
     818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No.
     820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822.
     Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West
     Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City--First Stage in
     No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland--First
     Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to
     Boston--Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth
     Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833.
     Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to
     Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to
     New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839.
     Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to
     Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843.
     Philadelphia to Washington--First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in
     No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth
     Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in
     No. 854. Albany to Fonda in No. 855; Fonda to Utica in No. 856;
     Utica to Syracuse in No. 857; Syracuse to Lyons in No. 858; Lyons
     to Rochester in No. 859; Rochester to Batavia in No. 860; Batavia
     to Buffalo in No. 861; Poughkeepsie to Newtown in No. 864; Newtown
     to Hartford in No. 865; New Haven to Hartford in No. 866; Hartford
     to Springfield in No. 867; Hartford to Canaan in No. 868; Canaan to
     Pittsfield in No. 869; Hudson to Pittsfield in No. 870. City of
     Chicago in No. 874. Waukesha to Oconomowoc in No. 875; Chicago to
     Wheeling in No. 876; Wheeling to Lippencott's in No. 877;
     Lippencott's to Waukesha in No. 878; Waukesha to Milwaukee in No.
     879; Chicago to Joliet in No. 881; Joliet to Ottawa in No. 882;
     Ottawa to La Salle in No. 883: Jersey City to Englewood in No. 890.




[Illustration: STAMPS]

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


Belgium has just issued a new series of stamps in commemoration of the
exhibition to be held in Brussels next year. These stamps can be used
throughout the kingdom, and no limit as to time for such use has been
made. Consequently the S.S.S.S. will probably not put them on the list
of stamps not worthy of collection.

The stamps are about twice the size of the current issue of Belgium, and
all have the sabbatical label attached. The design is St. Michael and
the Dragon, with the Brussels City Hall and Palace of Justice in the
background. The 10 centimes is a rich brown, the 5 centimes a violet,
and the 25 centimes, for postal packets, black and green. The design is
very handsome, and the stamps make a good appearance.

The surcharging of India stamps with the names of the various native
governments goes on apace. New issues have lately come on the market
from Gwalior, Jhind, Chamba, and Sirmoor. These are very good stamps for
the average collector to leave alone. Advanced collectors and
specialists, of course, need no advice.

STRAITS SETTLEMENTS, JOHORE.--Design--A portrait of the new Sultan.

  1c., green.             4c., green and rose.
  2c., green and blue.    5c., green and brown.
  3c., green and olive.   6c., green and yellow.
                          $1, lilac and green.

NEGRI SEMBILLAN.--Water-mark crown and C.A. Design--Tiger head.

  15c., green and mauve.

PERAK.--Water-mark crown and C.A. Design--Tiger head.

  25c., green and carmine.

Same design, but water-marked crown and C.C.

  $2, green and carmine.  $10, green and violet.
  $3, green and olive.    $25, green and yellow.

The following are late issues which are now in the hands of dealers:

SIERRA LEONE.--Water-mark C.A. with crown. De la Rue's standard design.

  1d., black and rose.      2-1/2d., black and blue.
  2d., black and orange.    1s., green and black.

Canada has just issued a new 2c. post-card.

MADAGASCAR.--

  1c., black.     20c., red.
  2c., brown.     30c., brown.
  4c., claret.    1 franc, bronze.

COLOMBIAN REPUBLIC, ANTIOQUIA.--Two sets seem to have been issued at one
time. The design is the same in both, but the colors are different. The
denominations are 2c., 2-1/2c., 3c., 5c., 10c., 20c., and 50c.; 1 peso,
2 pesos, and 5 pesos, and a registration stamp.

The new French stamps, the design of which was published last March,
seems to have been abandoned. It is said the government was not
satisfied with the design, and intend to open a new competition.

I am frequently asked whether the dollar values of U.S. stamps are ever
used in a legitimate manner, and if so by whom.

As a matter of fact the dollar values are used in a very few
post-offices, and probably the bulk are used in New York city. Bankers
send bonds abroad in large packages by registered mail. The regular rate
is 10c. an ounce, $1.60 a pound. One large firm of bankers to my
knowledge has used over $2000 in dollar stamps for this purpose in a
single week. The average size of the bundle of bonds necessitates stamps
to the average value of about $20. Larger bundles are frequently sent.
In England a stamp of £5 ($25) is frequently used. I have seen the
wrapper of a bundle received by a New York banker on which were eight £5
stamps. Lawyers send legal papers in a similar manner. The largest
package I know of from New York was about the size of a large dry-goods
case. It was filled with legal papers to be used in a patent suit in
South Africa. The postage was $187, consequently the box weighed about
117 pounds. There is practically no limit to the weight of first-class
parcels in either the domestic or foreign mails.

     F. W. LAMPIER, JUN., STITES MELTON, and MISS FANNIE MOORE, of
     Ridley Park, Pa., wish to exchange stamps.

     B. A. RICHARDSON.--Dealers sell the 1835 dimes at 20c.

     F. I. O.--The 3 kreuzer 1865 Würtemberg unused is offered by
     dealers at about $2.

     K.--The following are prices quoted by dealers: U.S. cents, 1831,
     1845, 1846, and 1847, 5c. each. Dimes, 1838, 1842, 1854, and 1856,
     20c. each. Half-Dime, 1853, 10c. Quarter, 1845, 50c.; 1853, 35c.
     U.S. cent, 1705, 50c. to $1. The other coins, etc., face value
     only.

     A. ALBERS.--English Revenues used for postage, if on the original
     envelope, are sought after in England, but in America there is no
     demand.

     C. P. K.--By buying at auctions entire envelopes can frequently be
     bought at much less than the catalogue prices for cut copies.

  PHILATUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

RECALLED STORMY TIMES.

"Well, that looks natural," said the old soldier, looking at a can of
condensed milk on the breakfast-table in place of ordinary milk that
failed on account of the storm. "It's the Gail Borden Eagle Brand we
used during the war."--[_Adv._]




ADVERTISEMENTS.




Postage Stamps, &c.




[Illustration]

THE neatest and most attractive Stamp Album ever published is =The
Favorite Album for U.S. Stamps=. Price 25c. (post free 30c.).

Catalogue of U.S. Stamps free for the postage, 2c. Complete Catalogue of
all Stamps ever issued, 10c. Our Specialty: =Fine Approval Sheets= at low
prices and 50% commission.

R. F. ALBRECHT & CO.,

90 Nassau Street, New York.




[Illustration: STAMPS]

100 all dif., Venezuela, Bolivia, etc., & =POCKET ALBUM=, only 10c.; 200
all dif., Hayti, Hawaii, etc., only 50c. Agts. wanted at 50% com. List
FREE! =C. A. Stegmann=, 5941 Cote Brilliant Ave., St. Louis, Mo.




U.S.

25 diff. U.S. stamps 10c., 100 diff. foreign 10c. Agts w'td @ 50%. List
free! L. B. Dover & Co. 5958 Theodosia, St Louis, Mo.




[Illustration: PISO'S CURE FOR CONSUMPTION]

CURES WHERE ALL ELSE FAILS.

Best Cough Syrup. Tastes Good. Use

in time. Sold by druggists.




Important

Notice!

[Illustration]

The only genuine ="Baker's Chocolate,"= celebrated for more than a
century as a delicious, nutritious, and flesh-forming beverage, is put
up in =Blue Wrappers= and =Yellow Labels=. Be sure that the =Yellow
Label= and our Trade-Mark are on every package.

WALTER BAKER & CO. Ltd.,

Dorchester, Mass.




[Illustration]

To Show

Your

Heels

To other skaters wear the

Barney & Berry Skates.

Highest Award World's Fair.

Catalogue Free.

BARNEY & BERRY, Springfield, Mass.




YOU CAN GET

BABYLAND

Six Months For 10 Cents

by sending two other 6-months' subscribers on the same terms. Write for
the necessary _special subscription blanks_.

Alpha Publishing Co., Boston.

       *       *       *       *       *

Boys! Girls! earn

$5 to $25

before Christmas.

Particulars free.

Alpha Publishing Co., Boston.




HOOPING-COUGH

CROUP.

Roche's Herbal Embrocation.

The celebrated and effectual English Cure without internal medicine.
Proprietors, W. EDWARD & SON, Queen Victoria St., London, England. All
Druggists.

E. Fougera & Co., 30 North William St., N. Y.




HARPER'S CATALOGUE

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




Patriotism.

We are not, in this land of diversified industries, accustomed to think
of Newfoundland, with its one fish industry, as a land flowing with the
milk and honey of this world's riches. Yet here is an intelligent member
of our Order, living on the island, who sees his home through different
eyes from those that we use. His love of country equals that of a matron
of seventy years, who had lived her life on Prince Edward Island. Not
only had she never been across the Northumberland Strait to the mainland
of Nova Scotia, twenty-three miles distant, but she had never even been
to the other or Tignish end of the island, but had spent her days at her
home near Georgetown. She was a broad-minded and intelligent woman, yet
to such an extent had her environment influenced her that she remarked
complacently:

"I think Prince Edward Island the best spot in the world. It is central
in the world of affairs, and I could not live content elsewhere."

Here are our Newfoundland Knight's opinions:

A WEALTHY COUNTRY.

     We claim for Newfoundland a high position. For its size and density
     of its population it is the wealthiest country on the face of the
     earth. This extreme or, as perhaps some may think, extravagant
     claim, which is made by us with the utmost deliberation, we base
     upon the following general facts:

     1. The fishing season, broadly speaking, extends over three or four
     months of the year. During that brief working period enough is
     earned by 40,000 to 50,000 fishermen to supply the wants of a
     population of 200,000 souls.

     2. Every year there is drawn out of the waters of Newfoundland
     wealth amounting to from $8,000,000 to $10,000,000, including the
     value of fish used for home consumption, and most of this product
     is realized and marketed within the working year.

     3. This wealth is almost entirely expended in the purchase and
     import of goods of foreign growth and manufacture, on which an
     average taxation of 23-1/2 per cent. on the value is paid.

     4. The annual earnings of the fisheries, or at least an exportable
     earning of $6,000,000, cannot be diverted from the country by any
     incident of trade or competition, and cannot be mortgaged in
     advance except within each year.

     5. That while the value of all other articles of human food has
     declined from 20 to 30 per cent. within the last decade, and while
     all articles consumed by the fishermen of Newfoundland have also
     largely declined, the price of Newfoundland codfish has been
     steadily maintained, and is now as high as ever it was.

     6. That as such the producers of Newfoundland codfish hold in their
     hands a practical monopoly, and are certain of as unfailing a
     market as they are of an unfailing supply of the product.

     7. That from the great diversity and extent of the area of its
     operations, and from the fact that the waters around the island
     furnish the proper food of the codfish, the annual crop of the
     Newfoundland fisheries is in the aggregate practically as certain
     in its supply as any annual crop known to commerce.

     8. That this annual crop, being in the hands of the actual
     producers, is less affected by such financial fluctuations as
     affect other crops in other countries, and no such fluctuations can
     extend to the capital stock on which the annual crop is dependent,
     so as to limit the production or lessen its value from year to
     year.

  B. BOWERING.
  43 GOWER STREET, ST. JOHN'S, NEWFOUNDLAND.

       *       *       *       *       *

For Beginners in Art.

     I wish to become an artist, and would like to enter the
     Metropolitan Art School. Can I learn to draw and paint well enough
     to be able to open a studio of my own after graduating? When does
     the school open, and when must one apply for admission? How many
     classes are there, and about how long must one stay in each class?
     What is the age of the average pupil?

  M. M., R.T.L.

There are at least two institutions in New York city to which you may
apply for circulars. One is the Metropolitan School of Fine Arts,
Carnegie Hall, Fifty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue, and the other
the Art Students' League, 215 West Fifty-seventh Street. The former was
organized by pupils of the Metropolitan Museum when the schools of the
Museum were closed, and is maintained by them. It is in no way connected
with the museum. It is open September 30 to May 30. The latter is
maintained by the art students of New York. Tuitions are from $2 to $12
per month, according to class. There is no graduation. Pupils stay as
long or short a time as they please. Whether you could successfully
maintain a studio at the end of one year's instruction, or five years'
instruction, or at any other period, depends wholly upon yourself, as
you can readily see.

       *       *       *       *       *

To Twickenham and Beyond.

     Last summer we--there were seven of us--went one day up the Thames
     River to Hammersmith Bridge. Then we walked to Richmond, to pretty
     Teddington, and finally to beautiful old Hampton Court, with its
     long rows of trees, its big grape-vine, and its canals. Of course
     we saw much to interest us, from the odd Thames boats, which land
     and start so quickly, and which have on board small boys who repeat
     the captain's orders in a language which we vainly tried to
     understand, to the river-course over which the Oxford and Cambridge
     boat-races are annually rowed, and the breweries whose success has
     brought knighthood to their owners.

     But that which most interested us was old Twickenham Church, which
     we saw by a side excursion. It is surrounded by old trees, and a
     yard in which are those curious tombstones that lie flat on the
     ground, and do not stand up as our American tombstones do. The
     church has a square Norman tower, and an interior that carries you
     back hundreds of years--almost, indeed, to the Reformation. Here is
     buried the remains of Alexander Pope, brought thither from
     Twickenham Villa not far away. We returned by train to London, so
     tired were we of limb, and so filled were our heads with history,
     reminiscence, and pretty pictures of rural life.

  ANNA BURTON.
  NEW YORK.

       *       *       *       *       *

Answers to Kinks.

No. 55.--A carrier-pigeon.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 56.

1. Queenstown. 2. By fighting for us in the war of the Revolution. He
was an officer. 3. A British officer under Cornwallis. 4. Stephen
Girard, of Girard College.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 57.--New-castle--Newcastle.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 58.--WORD SQUARE.

  B L A S T
  L A T H E
  A T L A S
  S H A F T
  T E S T Y

       *       *       *       *       *

Questions and Answers.

The Priscilla Chapter can procure a copy of the handsome book we
mentioned recently by applying to L. G. Price, 547 Union Street, Hudson,
N. Y. The price is twenty-five cents, and four cents for postage. It is
the record of a successful Chapter, neatly cloth bound, and a pretty
souvenir for your library.--Harry C. Farrer, 559 Sixty-ninth Street,
Englewood, Chicago, Ill., wants correspondents in foreign countries. He
can get information of the Daughters of the Revolution by writing to the
secretary, 156 Fifth Avenue, New York. There is no active Chapter near
your Englewood home. You might form one perhaps.--C. B. Yardley, Jun.,
332 William Street, East Orange, N. J., is much interested in boats,
both small and large, and he wants to hear from you if you have the same
fancy. He goes every summer to a New Hampshire lake, where he owns a
sail and a row boat. He asks where he can see models of boats. Since he
lives near New York, we think the best available collection is in the
rooms of the New York Yacht Club, 71 Madison Avenue. If you write in
advance for permission, we are quite sure you will be permitted to
inspect these models as carefully as you may desire.

Three or four readers have lately asked questions directly in the line
of what follows. That such jingles help one to remember facts is
unquestioned. Still, if one can do so, it is better to remember the
facts without the rhyme. Marion H. Cooke, who finds the lines in a
newspaper, sends them to the Table just at a time when several readers
are asking for them. The first one is:

A LIST OR PRESIDENTS.

  Come, young folks all, and learn my rhyme,
  Writ like the one of olden time.
  For linked together name to name,
  The whole a surer place will claim;
  And firmly in your mind shall stand
  The names of those who've ruled our land.
  A noble list: George Washington,
  John Adams, Thomas Jefferson,
  James Madison and James Monroe,
  John Quincy Adams--and below
  Comes Andrew Jackson in his turn;
  Martin Van Buren next we learn;
  Then William Henry Harrison,
  Whom soon John Tyler followed on.
  And after Tyler, James K. Polk,
  Then Zachary Taylor ruled the folk
  Till death. Then Millard Fillmore came;
  And Franklin Pierce we next must name.
  And James Buchanan then appears;
  Then Abraham Lincoln through those years
  Of war. And when his life was lost,
  'Twas Andrew Johnson filled his post.
  Then U. S. Grant and R. B. Hayes
  And James A. Garfield each had place,
  And Chester Arthur, and my rhyme
  Ends now in Grover Cleveland's time.

And the other:

THE RULERS OF ENGLAND.

  First William the Norman, then William his son,
  Henry, Stephen, and Henry, then Richard and John;
  After Henry the third, Edwards one, two, and three,
  After Richard the second, three Henrys we see.
  Fourth Edward precedes the third Richard, then press
  Two Henrys, Sixth Edward, Queen Mary, Queen Bess;
  Then Jamie from Scotland and Charles must be reckoned,
  Succeeded by Cromwell and then Charles the Second;
  Then we had James, who relinquished the throne
  To William and Mary, then William alone,
  Till Anne, the Four Georges, Fourth William had passed;
  Victoria now reigns--may she long be the last!

To Ames Ulmer.--The latest record at hand is December, 1895. On that
date the President of Switzerland was Joseph Zemp. The official
residence is at Berne.--F. S. Davis: Order _Si Klegg and His Pard_ from
any bookseller. If you have none, write to The Baker and Taylor Company,
New York.--Janey Crowe, 13 Birch Crescent, Rochester, N. Y., plies us
with a sheet full of questions, which we are glad to answer as fully as
we are able: 1. Elvirton Wright is the author of _Majoribanks_, and, we
presume, also of the book you mention. Write to the Congregational
Publishing House, Boston, for fuller information. 2. The other author
whom you name has written many books. L. F. Meade was her former name.
Now it is Mrs. E. T. T. Smith. Her publishers are Lippincotts, Cassells,
and half a dozen others. 3. Some information is wanted about these
authors--where they live, and some interesting facts in their lives. Can
any readers supply us with morsels containing such information? 4. There
are to be Round Table prizes this year for puzzles, stories, and amateur
photographs. The puzzle prizes are to be $40 each, and there are to be
five contests. The story prizes are worth $75 for the first, $50 for the
second, and $25 for the third, and the photograph prizes amount in all
to $125. Full particulars with conditions will be announced very soon.
5. No Round Table reunion has been planned.




[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

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


OUR ANNUAL PRIZE CONTEST.

We have received many queries since the appearance of the Prize Offers
as to the exact nature of the photographic prize competition, showing
that our amateurs were looking forward to and preparing for the yearly
event of the club. Each person should read the announcement of the Prize
Offers, and the rules governing the contest, in the October 27 issue of
the ROUND TABLE.

There are two contests, both of which are open to the members of the
Camera Club, and we hope each member of the Camera Club will send
pictures to both competitions. The very fine photographs which were
submitted last year showed that the members are all striving to do good
work. The improvement in the style of pictures and the subjects chosen
was much better last year than in any previous year, and we expect still
better work submitted in this contest. All contestants must be
subscribers to HARPER'S ROUND TABLE themselves, or take the paper in
their family.

There is no restriction as to the number of prints one may send, but in
sending prints mark _each print_ with name, address, and class for which
the picture is designed. The best place to mark a picture is on the back
of the card-mount.

Any printing process may be used except the blue print. While many
amateurs use the glossy papers, the preference is for the matt surface,
and a bromide or platinum print is the paper generally chosen by
first-class amateurs. If one does not know how to use these papers, or
cannot procure them, try to make the best print possible on the paper
which is chosen. The printing and mounting of a picture have a great
deal to do with its attractiveness, and the mechanical work in a
photograph is always considered when judging pictures.

Several queries were received last year asking if a picture taken with a
4-by-5 camera, and trimmed down so that it was a little less than 4 by
5, would be admitted to the competition. The answer was that a picture
might be trimmed a little, but not enough to bring it down to a size
perhaps 3 by 4, that would make it too small to be "eligible."

Each competitor in the Camera Club may send as many pictures as he
pleases to both contests, and he may compete in each class in the two
competitions. This gives the members of the club the advantage over
non-members, who can only compete in the "Open to All" contest.

We have received many additions to our club during the last year, and
shall expect to see some fine work. Do not delay, but send in your
pictures as early as possible. The names of the prize-winners will be
announced in the January, probably the New-Year's, number of the ROUND
TABLE.




[Illustration: IVORY SOAP]

  Her graceful presence, everywhere
  Suggests the fragrance, faint and rare
  With which the sweetest flowers allure:
  To such a dainty gown and face
  The touch of soap seems out of place--
  Save Ivory, which itself is pure.

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




FOOTBALL AND OTHER SPORTS

       *       *       *       *       *

A PRIMER OF COLLEGE FOOTBALL

By W. H. LEWIS. Illustrated from Instantaneous Photographs and with
Diagrams. 16mo, Paper, 75 cents.

     There is probably no other man in America who has had as much
     football experience or who knows more about the game than Mr.
     Lewis.... Of value not only to beginners, but to any one who wishes
     to learn more about football.... We heartily recommend it as the
     best practical guide to football we have yet discovered.--_Harvard
     Crimson_, Cambridge.

     Written by a man who has a most thorough knowledge of the game, and
     is in language any novice may understand.--_U. of M. Daily_,
     University of Michigan.

     Will be read with enthusiasm by countless thousands of boys who
     have found previous works on the subject too advanced and too
     technical for beginners.--_Evangelist_, N. Y.

     Beginners will be very grateful for the gift, for no better book
     than this of Mr. Lewis's could be placed in their hands.--_Saturday
     Evening Gazette_, Boston.

_NEW EDITION OF_

CAMP'S 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._

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR:_

=FOOTBALL FACTS AND FIGURES.= Post 8vo, Paper, 75 cents.

A SPORTING PILGRIMAGE

Riding to Hounds, Golf, Rowing, Football, Club and University Athletics.
Studies in English Sport, Past and Present. By CASPAR WHITNEY. Copiously
Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $3.50.

     The work is certainly one of the most valuable contributions to
     athletic literature that has been published for many a
     day.--_Chicago Journal._

TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL

Compiled by the Editor of "Interscholastic Sport" in HARPER'S ROUND
TABLE. Illustrated from Instantaneous Photographs. 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25. In "HARPER'S ROUND TABLE Library."

     A good book to put into the hands of the athletically inclined. It
     is capitally illustrated with instantaneous photographs, and is
     full of expert and sound advice and instruction.--_Outlook_, N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York




[Illustration: "SAY, OLE TURK, I GWINE TEE DEPEN' ON YO' FUR DRUM-STICKS
FUR MY NEW DRUM TER CEL'BRATE THANKSGIVING TER-MORROW."]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

A dear little girl, named Elsie, was quite a singer, and very fond of an
old song, familiar to most children, called "The Old Oaken Bucket."
Elsie was taking lessons in drawing, which interested her very much. She
drew pictures in all her spare time, and often teased mamma with the
question,

"What shall I draw next, mamma?"

Mamma always suggested cows, or bears, or steam-engines, or trees,
according to the first idea which came into her head. One day, in answer
to Elsie's usual question, mamma replied:

"Draw the 'old oaken bucket,' Elsie. You are very fond of singing 'The
Old Oaken Bucket.' Sit down and make a picture of it."

This was new. Elsie, with a deep satisfied breath, sat down and staid
quiet about five minutes. At the end of that time she brought mamma this
picture.

[Illustration]

"What upon earth does this mean?" asked mamma. "It looks like a
conundrum, Elsie; or like the sun, moon, and stars!"

Elsie looked at her design with great pride, and a little impatience at
mamma's obtuseness.

"Why, don't you see, mamma?" she cried. "The first one is 'the old oaken
bucket,' and the next one is 'the iron-bound bucket,' and the next is
'the moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well'!"

Then mamma laughed hard, leaning back in her chair, while she held
Elsie's sketch at arm's-length to see it better, as artists always look
at pictures.

"And what are all those little spots for, Elsie?"

"Why--those, mamma?" said Elsie. "Those are 'the spots that my infancy
knew'!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A PERFECT IDENTIFICATION.

Signor Arditi, the well-known musical conductor, has recently published
his memoirs in London. Among the many anecdotes he tells is the
following adventure he had with a bank cashier. He was in an American
city and wished to have a check cashed, but as the cashier did not know
Signor Arditi, he told him he must get himself identified before he
could receive any money.

"But I do not know any one here," protested the musical conductor.

"I am very sorry," said the cashier.

Signor Arditi thought for a few moments, and presently said,

"Do you ever attend the opera, young man?"

"Frequently," said the cashier. "I am very fond of music."

"Then you must know me," continued Signor Arditi; and taking off his hat
he turned his back upon the cashier, and beat time vigorously to an
imaginary orchestra.

"Oh yes!" exclaimed the cashier at once. "I know the back of your head
well. You are Signor Arditi." And he handed out the money to the
musician without further ceremony.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE END OF THE "CHESAPEAKE."

An English journal contains the following item, for the truth of which
we cannot, of course, vouch; but it is interesting if true:

It is not by any means widely known, says the journal, that the
_Chesapeake_, famous for her historic encounter with the British ship
_Shannon_ in 1813, is in existence to-day, but is used in the somewhat
inglorious capacity of a flour-mill, and is making money for a hearty
Hampshire miller in the little parish of Wickham. After her capture by
Sir Philip B. V. Broke, she was taken to England in 1814, and in 1820
her timbers were sold to Mr. John Prior, miller of Wickham, Hants. Mr.
Prior pulled down his own mill at Wickham, and erected a new one from
the _Chesapeake_ timbers, which he found admirably adapted for the
purpose. The deck beams were thirty-two feet long, and served, without
alteration, for joists. Many of these timbers yet bear the marks of the
_Shannon_'s grape-shot, and, in some places the shot are still to be
seen deeply embedded in the pitch pine. The metamorphosis of a
man-of-war into a peaceful life-sustaining flour-mill is, perhaps, as
near an approach to the prophecy that spears and swords shall be beaten
into ploughs and pruning-hooks as the conditions of modern civilization
will allow.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Pray, Dr. Smith, what is a good cure for the gout?" was the question of
an indolent and very luxurious gentleman to his hard-worked friend.

"Live upon sixpence a day--and earn it," was the unexpected answer.





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, November 24, 1896, by Various



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