The Project Gutenberg EBook of Harper's Round Table, May 5, 1896, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Harper's Round Table, May 5, 1896 Author: Various Release Date: August 14, 2018 [EBook #57693] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, MAY 5, 1896 *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire
Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.
| published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 5, 1896. | five cents a copy. |
| vol. xvii.—no. 862. | two dollars a year. |
There once lived in New York an Indian warrior by the name of Peter Twenty Canoes. Tommy Ten Canoes lived at Pokanoket, near Mount Hope, on an arm of the Mount Hope Bay.
He was not a warrior, but a runner; not a great naval hero, as his picturesque name might suggest, but a news agent, as it were; he used his nimble feet and his ten canoes to bear messages to the Indians of the villages of Pokanoket and to the Narragansetts, and, it may be, to other friendly tribes.
Pokanoket? You may have read Irving's sketch of Philip of Pokanoket, but we doubt if you have in mind any clear idea of this once beautiful region, from whose clustering wigwams the curling smoke once rose from the giant oaks over the many waterways. The place of it on the map is now covered by Bristol and Warren (Rhode Island) and Swansea (Massachusetts). It is a place of bays and rivers, which were once rich fishing-grounds; of shores full of shells and shell-fish; of cool springs and wild-grape vines; of bowery hills; and of meadows that were once yellow with maize.
Tommy Ten Canoes was a great man in his day. As a news agent in peace he was held in high honor, but as a scout in war and a runner for the great chiefs he became a heroic figure. There were great ospreys' nests all about the shores of old Pokanoket on the ancient decayed trees, and Tommy made a crown of osprey feathers, and crowned himself, with the approval of the great Indian chiefs.
Once when swimming with this crown of feathers on his head, he had been shot at by an Englishman, who thought him some new and remarkable bird. But while his crown was shattered, it was not the crown of his head. He was very careful of both his crowns after that alarming event.
Tommy Ten Canoes was a brave man. He was ready to face any ordinary danger for his old chief Massasoit, and for that chief's two sons, Wamsutta (Alexander) and Pomebacen[Pg 646] (Philip). He would cross the Mount Hope or the Narragansett bay in tempestuous weather. He used to convey the beautiful Queen Weetamoc from Pocassett to Mount Hope to attend Philip's war-dances under the summer moons, and when the old Indian war began he offered his two swift legs and all of his ten canoes to the service of his chief.
"Nipanset"—for this was his Indian name—"Nipanset's bosom is his chiefs, and it knows not fear. Nipanset fears not the storm or the foe, or the gun of the pale-face. Call, call, O ye chiefs; in the hour of danger call for Nipanset. Nipanset fears not death."
So Tommy Ten Canoes boasted at the great council under the moss-covered cliff at Mount Hope.
He was honest; but there was one thing that Nipanset, or Tommy Ten Canoes, did fear. It was enchantment. He would have faced torture or death without a word, but everything mysterious filled him with terror. If he had thought that a bush contained a hidden enemy and flintlock, he would have been very brave, but had he thought that the same bush was stirred by a spirit, or was enchanted, he would have run.
Tommy Ten Canoes had been friendly to the white people who had settled in Pokanoket. There was a family by the name of Brown, who lived on Cole's River, that he especially liked, and he became a companion of one of the sons named James. The two were so often together that the people used to speak of those who were very intimate as being "as thick as little James Brown and old Tommy Ten Canoes," or rather as "Jemmie Brown" and our young hero of the many birch boats.
The two hunted and fished together; they made long journeys together; in fact, they did everything in common, except work. Tommy did not work, at least in the field, while James did at times, when he was not with Tommy.
When the Indian war began, King Philip sent word to the Brown family, and also to the Cole family, who lived near them, both of whom had treated him justly and generously, that he would do all in his power to protect them, but that he might not be able to restrain his braves.
Tommy Ten Canoes brought a like friendly message to Jemmie Brown.
"I will always be true to you," he said; "true as the north wind to the river, the west wind to the sea, and the south wind to the flowers. Nipanset's heart is true to his friends. Our hearts will see each other again."
The Indian torch swept the settlements. One of the bravest scouts in these dark scenes was Tommy Ten Canoes. He flew from place to place like the wind, carrying news and spying out the enemy.
Tommy grew proud over his title of "Ten Canoes." He felt like ten Tommies. He wore his crown of osprey feathers like a royal king. His ten canoes ferried the painted Indians at night, and carried the chiefs hither and thither.
There was a grizzly old Boston Captain, who had done hard service on the sea, named Moseley. He wore a wig, a thing that the Indians had never seen, and of whose use they knew nothing at all.
Tommy Ten Canoes had never feared the white man nor the latter's death-dealing weapons. He had never retreated; he had always been found in front of the stealthy bands as they pursued the forest trails. But his courage was at last put to a test of which he had never dreamed.
Old Captain Moseley had led a company of trained soldiers against the Indians from Boston. Tommy Ten Canoes had discovered the movement, and had prepared the Indians to meet it. Captain Moseley's company, which consisted of one hundred men, had first marched to a place called Myles Bridge in Swansea. Here was a garrison house in which lived Rev. John Myles. The church was called Baptist, but people of all faiths were welcome to it; among the latter, Thomas Willet, who afterwards became the first Mayor of New York. It was the first church of the kind in Massachusetts, and it still exists in Swansea.
Over the glimmering waterways walled with dark oak woods came Tommy Ten Canoes, with five of his famous boats, and landed at a place near the thrifty Baptist colony, so that his little navy might be at the ready service of Philip. It was the last days of June. There had been an eclipse of the moon on the night that Tommy Ten Canoes had glided up the Sowans River towards Myles Bridge. He thought the eclipse was meant for him and his little boats, and he was a very proud and happy man.
"The moon went out in the clear sky when we left the bay," said he; "so shall our enemies be extinguished. The moon shone again on the calm river. For whom did the moon shine again? For Nipanset."
Poor Tommy Ten Canoes! He was not the first hero of modern times who has thought that the moon and stars were made for him, and shone for him on special occasions.
In old Captain Moseley's company was a Jamaica pilot who had visited Pokanoket and been presented to Tommy, and told that the latter was a very renowned Indian.
"What are you?" asked the Pilot.
"I am Tommy One Canoe."
"Ah!"
"I am Tommy Two Canoes."
"Indeed! Ah!"
"I am Tommy Three Canoes."
"Oh! Ah! Indeed!"
"I am Tommy Four Canoes, and I am Tommy Five Canoes, and I am Tommy Six Canoes, and I am Tommy Ten Canoes."
"Well, Tommy Ten Canoes," answered the Pilot, "don't you ever get into any trouble with the white people, because you might find yourself merely Tommy No Canoes."
Tommy was offended at the answer. He had no fears of such a fall from power, however.
The old Jamaica pilot had taken a boat and drifted down the Sowans River one long June day, when he chanced to discover Tommy and his five canoes. The canoes were hauled up on the shore under the cool trees which over-shadowed the water. The Pilot, who had with him three men, rowed boldly to the shore and surprised Tommy Ten Canoes, who had gone into the wood, leaving his weapons in one of his canoes.
The Pilot seized the canoe with the weapons and drew it from the shore.
Tommy Ten Canoes beheld the movement with astonishment. He called to the old Pilot, "I am Tommy Ten Canoes!"
"No, no," answered the Pilot. "You are Tommy Nine Canoes."
Presently the Pilot drew from the shore another canoe. Tommy called again:
"Don't you know me? I am—"
"Tommy Eight Canoes," said the Pilot.
Another boat was removed in like manner, and the Pilot shouted, "And now you are Tommy Seven Canoes." Another, and the Pilot called again, "Now you are Tommy Six Canoes." Another. "Good-by, Tommy Five Canoes," said the Pilot, and he and his men drew all of the light canoes after them up the river.
Xerxes at Salamis could hardly have felt more crushed in heart than Tommy Ten Canoes. But hope revived; he was Tommy Five Canoes still. He was not quite so sure now, however, that the moon on that still June night had been eclipsed expressly for him.
The scene of the war now changed to the western border, as the towns of Hadley and Deerfield were called, for these towns in that day were the "great West," as afterwards was the Ohio Reserve. Tommy having lost five of his canoes, now used his swift feet as a messenger. He still had hopes of doing great deeds, else why had the moon been eclipsed on that beautiful June night?
But an event followed the loss of his five canoes that quite changed his opinion. As a messenger or runner he had hurried to the scene of the brutal conflicts on the border, and had there discovered that Captain Moseley, the old Jamaica pirate, was subject to some spell of enchantment; that he had two heads.
"Ugh! ugh! him no good!" said one of the Indians to Tommy; "he take off his head, and put him in his pocket. It is no use to fight him. Spell set on him—enchanted."
Tommy Ten Canoes' fear of the man with two heads, one of which he sometimes took off and put in his pocket, spread among the Indians. One day in a skirmish Tommy saw Moseley take off one of his enchanted heads and hang it on a blueberry-bush. Other Indians saw it. "No scalp him," said they. "Run!" And run they did, not from the open foe, but from the supposed head on the bush. Moseley did not dream at the time that it was his wig that had given him the victory.
Across the Mount Hope Bay, among the sunny headlands of Pocassett, there was an immense cedar swamp, cool and dark, and in summer full of fire-flies. Tommy Ten Canoes called it the swamp of the fire-flies. It was directly opposite Pokanoket, across the placid water. A band of Indians gathered here, and covered their bodies with bushes, so that they might not be discovered on the shore.
One moonlight night in September Tommy went to visit these masked Indians in four of his canoes. He rowed one of the canoes, and three squaws the others. On reaching the fire-fly cedar swamp the party met the masked Indians, and late at night retired to rest, the three Indian squaws sleeping on the shore under their three canoes.
Captain Moseley had sent the old Jamaica pilot to try to discover the hiding-place of this mysterious band of Indians. The Pilot had seen the four canoes crossing the bay from Pokanoket under the low September moon, and had hurried with a dozen men to the place of landing. He surprised the party early the next morning, when they were disarmed and asleep.
The crack of his musket rang out in the clear air over the bay. A naked Indian was seen to leap up.
"Stop! I am Tommy Ten Canoes."
"No, Tommy Five Canoes," answered the old Pilot; "and now you are only Tommy Four Canoes." Saying which, the Pilot seized the sixth canoe.
A shriek followed; another, and another. Three canoes hidden in the river-weeds were overturned, and three Indian squaws were seen running into the dark swamp.
"And now you are Tommy Three Canoes," said the Pilot, seizing the seventh canoe. "And now Tommy Two Canoes," seizing the eighth.
"And only Tommy One Canoe," taking possession of the ninth canoe. "And now you are Tommy No Canoes, as I told you you would be if you went to war," said the Pilot, taking according to this odd reckoning the Indian's last canoe.
But Tommy had one canoe left, notwithstanding the dark Pilot had taken his tenth. He was glad that it was not here. It would have been his eleventh canoe, although he had but ten. He knew that the Pilot was one of Moseley's men, the Captain who put his head at times in his pocket or hung it upon a bush. Poor Tommy Ten Canoes! He uttered a shriek, like the fugitive squaws, and fled.
"Don't shoot at him," said the old Pilot to his men. "I have taken from him all of his ten canoes; let him go."
Tommy had not a mathematical mind or education, but he knew that somehow he had no eleventh canoe, and that one of his ten canoes yet remained. And even the old Pilot must have at last seen that his count often was only nine. Tommy fled to a point on the Titicut River at which he could swim across, and then made his solitary way back to the shores of Pokanoket and to his remaining canoe, which did not belong to mathematics.
One morning late in September Tommy Ten Canoes turned his solitary canoe towards Cole's River, near which lived his boy friend, James Brown. He paddled slowly, and late in the dreamy afternoon reached the shore opposite the Brown farm. He landed and tied his one canoe to Jemmie Brown's boat, in which the two had spent many happy hours before the war.
The canoe was found there the next day; but Tommy Ten Canoes? He was never seen again; he probably sought a grave in the waters of the bay.
But he had fulfilled his promise. He had been true in his heart as "the north wind to the river, the west wind to the sea, and the south wind to the flowers."
Paris.
DEAR JACK,—Bon joor! That's French for how are you. It's wonderful how quick you get the hang of a language. We haven't been here more than a week, and I find myself thinking in French. When I waked up this morning the first thing I said was voilą, and when I got down to breakfast and the waiter brought me a chop with mushrooms on it, without having to think at all I said kerskersay, which is French for what on earth's that. What's more, I dream in French. I drempt the other night that Napoleon came back to life again and asked me to take dinner with him, and I went and kept up a conversation all through the evening with him in his own language. He kept calling me Mussoo Bobbee and I'd call him M. le General. He told me all about his battles, how he ran across the bridge of Lody with bullets just raining all about him, and lots of awful funny things about himself that made me roar with laughter. But the queer part of it all is that while I understood him perfectly well while I was asleep, the minute I waked up I couldn't translate a thing he'd said to me. That's the worst of dreams, but I'm glad I had that one, because I really feel now as if I'd met Napoleon.
I tell you, Jack, he was a great man that Napoleon. He wasn't big, but he covered the ground. Pop says he was the greatest man that ever lived except me and George Washington. He wasn't a Frenchman at all, only a Corsican. And he was a fighter right from the start. He used to make snow forts at school, and when it came to a snowball fight, Pop says he wasn't out of it a minute. He was fearfully brave, and if it hadn't been for the weather he'd never have been beaten at Waterloo. Somehow or other he couldn't fight in the wet, and every time he had the elements against him he got beaten. When he got to Moscow the Russians set fire to the town, and that beat him, and on the way back the snow just regularly froze him out, and then it rained at Waterloo, and that finished him.
They keep his memory very green here though, which I am glad of because he deserved it. He's got a tomb that's worth dying for to get. It's out back of the Hotel des Invalides under a great big dome, and it's so arranged that when the sun shines through two big stained yellow glass windows at the back it looks as if great rivers of glory were being poured on it; and all around it are the battle flags with cannon-ball holes in them, and altogether it makes you feel as if little chills were playing tag up and down your back.
Jules says it was a pity he didn't have two or three boys like me. That was all he needed, he said, to make France the biggest nation in the world. He says I'm very much like Napoleon in several ways. One is I wasn't born in France, another is that I don't seem to be able to keep still two minutes in succession, and always want to be doing something, but I guess he was only trying to be complimentary and make me feel good.
After we'd seen the tomb of Napoleon we went up the Eiffel Tower. It's a funny-looking thing, and I'd hate to have it fall while I was on top of it, because it's a thousand feet high, which is no fun if you're tumbling. Pop says it wasn't built according to rules. The rule is that there's plenty of room at the top, but with the Eiffel Tower there's hardly any; but, my, what a view you get! It was awful funny to look down on the city of Paris from that fearful height. The people looked like lady-bugs crawling along[Pg 648] the sidewalk, and the one-horse fakirs looked for all the world like beetles, and it's given me a very different idea about birds from what I used to have. I used to wonder why birds were such fraid-cats, but I know now why it is. It must scare a bird like everything to be soring way up there in the sky and think he sees a nice fat luscious beetle for breakfast crawling along the street, and then pounce down on it and find out it's a horse and wagon worth fifty cents an hour. It really takes an eagle to stand a surprise like that. Pop bought some souvenirs on top of the tower, and I'll bring you home one of 'em when I come. It's a brass medal with a picture of the tower on it, and it cost two dollars. Pop says that's two cents for the medal and the rest for souvenir. When I asked him to buy it he said isn't that rather expensive? Not for me if you buy it, I said, and that made a man laugh, and he said to Pop that's a bright boy of yours, and Pop felt so proud he bought two of 'em. There was an artist on the first floor of the tower that drew your picture while you waited, for five francs. Pop had him make one of me, and it's fine. Aunt Sarah says there isn't much art in it, but Pop thinks differently. He says it's really a wonderful picture, it's so like somebody else considering I sat for it.
The elevators in the Eiffel Tower are wonderful. They run right up its legs, the way ants do us at picnics, only inside, and glorious to say they were made not only in the United States, but in Yonkers, where I was born, and going up in 'em makes you feel as if you were at sea, because they can't go up straight, the legs being bandy. At one time you'd have thought I was lying on the floor when I was only standing up straight, it got off the perpendicular so far. Pop asked why it was they didn't have a sign up telling people that these elevators came from Yonkers, and a man that knew all about it said it wouldn't do any good because the French people didn't know where Yonkers was, and besides they were exciteable, and wouldn't ride in a machine they thought wasn't French. "Let 'em walk then," said Pop. "It's too high up," said the man. "Well," said Pop, "as a walk it may be high up, but as a trick it's low down." And the man agreed with him, but he said: "It isn't my fault. Mr. Eiffel built the tower, I didn't. I'm only a green-grocer at Leamington." And then we all laughed, but Pop's kind of mad about it yet, because he's proud of Yonkers, and thinks people that do things ought to get credit for 'em.
After we came down from the tower I wanted Pop to take me up in a balloon they had flying about a mile away, but he wouldn't. He thought we'd had high living enough for one day, and, besides, Jules advised us not to go. He said every once in a while the balloon broke loose and landed in the desert of Sahara, which is very awkward to those who can't go a week without water and don't eat sand. And the walking is bad, so we didn't go.
To-morrow we are going out to the palace at Versailles in a big coach, and if I see anything worth telling about I'll drop you another line.
Yours ever
Bob.
All golf is divided into three parts—driving, approaching, and holing out—and of these three, driving, or free hitting, either with wood or iron, is by far the most pleasing. It is a delightful sensation to feel the ball slip away almost by itself as the club head swings through, and then to watch it describing its graceful curve of, say, one hundred and fifty yards through the air, or skimming like a swallow, straight and low over that dreaded bunker. Without driving, indeed, there would be very little golf, and happy is the man who may always count upon being both far and sure.
Now although style cannot drive a ball, there is still a right and a wrong way of going at the problem, and the first thing is to clearly understand the conditions of that problem. Let the player imagine himself at the centre of a circle, the radius of which is the length of his arms plus the club shaft, and upon whose circumference is resting the ball that is to be swept away. Remember, too, that it is to be a swing and not a hit, that the club head should be treated as though it were a bit of lead attached to a string, and consequently dependent for its effectiveness on speed and not on weight. Obviously, if the circle in which it swings is not perfect, if at any point the string is suddenly lengthened or shortened, the ball will either be missed altogether or the force will be imperfectly applied, resulting in a loss of power. Take a piece of lead and a bit of string, and try the experiment for yourself. It will at least show you how clearly distinct the golf swing is from the hit of a baseball bat, and how speed may become equivalent to weight.
It is customary to advise beginners to use clubs with very stiff shafts, but I am inclined to think that the reformed baseball-player will do better with a springy driver. With a very stiff club there is an irresistible inclination to hit at the ball, and this is exactly what you must not do. You must be able to feel the club head swinging at the end of the shaft, as though it were really the bit of lead on a string. The instant that you attempt to hurry that swing you throw it out of time and true, and the result is failure. Weight and brute strength may drive a baseball, but for the golf-ball it is speed and accuracy that are needed.
THE "ADDRESS."
Having determined, then, that the stroke shall lie a swing and not a jerk nor a hit, the first thing is to take up our position to the ball, technically called "addressing" it. Clubs are all about the same length, but they may vary in their "lie" or in the angle made by the club head and the shaft. Generally speaking, a tall player will need a more upright club than his shorter brother, in order that the sole of the club head may rest flatly on the ground.
It is a rough-and-ready rule that when the club is placed with its heel behind the ball the end of the handle should just touch the left knee of the player standing upright. Other authorities say that the club should be grounded with its centre and not its heel opposite to the ball. As a matter of fact, the difference of the inch involved amounts to nothing. You want to be far enough away to get in all the power of your swing and yet keep steady on your feet.[Pg 649] No one can measure that distance for you; you must accustom yourself to take it without thinking about it.
As for the position of the ball, it should be just in advance of the imaginary line drawn from the left eye over the hands and down the shaft to the face of the club head. In other words, let left eye, hands, club shaft, and the striking face of the head be in the same plane, with the ball a quarter of an inch in front. This, again, should be arrived at instinctively. If you try to measure it by a foot-rule you will be wrong.
The proper position of the feet, or the "stance," is a question about which the doctors disagree. According to one authority, you should stand squarely opposite the ball, with both feet equally distant from the line of fire. Another teacher advises that the right foot should be slightly advanced in the old or "open" style. According to the modern school, the right foot should be drawn back two or three inches. Which is right?
As a matter of fact, good golf is possible in all three styles, but it is generally acknowledged that the last-named position is the most commanding of the three, and it is the one generally adopted by the modern school and the majority of professionals. But it should not be exaggerated, or the power will be gained at the expense of accuracy. The most important thing is that the "stance" should be absolutely firm. The "straddle" should be taken naturally, with the feet neither too far apart nor too close together.
BEGINNING OF FULL SWING.
The proper grip was illustrated in last week's paper. It is not the natural position for the hands when at rest, but experience has decided that it is the best for the swing. In particular the left hand should be well over the club, or freedom of motion is impossible. Get your grip by grasping the club as though you were about to strike a blow straight down upon an anvil, and then swing gently two or three times directly over the ball, describing a flourish that shall resemble an elongated eight. This is called the "waggle," and its purpose is to assist the hands to settle into position. Finally ground the club close behind the ball for an instant, and then swing back for the real business of the stroke. About an inch of the shaft should be left above the grip to give greater command over the club. The thumb may lie along the shaft or be wrapped around it, or one thumb may be around and the other along the handle. In any case the grip of the left hand must be absolutely firm and close so that there may be no possibility of the club turning at the moment of impact. The right hand may be comparatively loose, but, generally speaking, that hand will take care of itself. Finally, keep the left wrist as taut as possible, and remember that every inch that separates your hands on the shaft takes off yards from the length of the drive. Let the arms be naturally bent, and keep your hands low. The end of the shaft should point well below the waistcoat.
Coming now to the swing proper, it is a safe rule not to attempt too much at first. If you watch a professional making a full drive, you will see his body turn and his left heel come well off the ground, while the club will appear to wind completely around him. But if you attempt to imitate him you will soon find yourself in difficulty. Instead of turning your body, you will be inclined to sway it over the right leg; rising on the left toe will throw you off your balance, and you will only be able to get a long swing back by bending your wrists. Now all these things are wrong, and tend to inaccuracy and feebleness. The thing for you to do is to take a short or half-swing back, and trust to practice to lengthen it. It is very important that your up swing should be slow, so that the arms may go freely out from the body. "Slow back," as it is called, is a cardinal principle. Otherwise you are sure to make the swing too straight up and down. Let the swing finish itself out, as the fly fisherman does when casting, and let the return be swift and even. Keep your shoulders loose and your body firm, and as your swing lengthens your body will turn to accommodate it. But it must turn on its own axis, as does a rudder-post, and not sway from side to side after the fashion of a boom. And all the time you must have your eyes fixed upon the ball or you will never hit it cleanly.
END OF FULL SWING.
It is a poor practice to make one or two false swings, pulling up short just before reaching the ball. It is certain to get you in the bad habit of "nipping," or not following through after the ball. This after-swing is fully as important as the first part, although no one knows exactly why. Let the club swing through and with the arms freely flung out from the body.
Make your tees low. There is no advantage in perching the ball upon a pyramid of sand that resembles a chicken croquette, and it will incline you to "top" (hitting the ball above the centre instead of below it) from the ordinary lies of the green.
You will say that it is impossible to remember all these things, and you are right. But if you will read over what I have said with attention, it will help you to understand the few absolutely indispensable conditions upon which good driving depends. Here they are:
1. Stand firm.
2. Don't sway your body.
3. Keep the left wrist taut, and grip hard with that hand.
4. Ground your club close behind the ball before swinging.
5. Swing back slowly, letting your arms well out.
6. Follow through freely, and keep your eye on the ball.
As I walked down the garden path
In the pleasant bright May weather,
I saw two busy robins
A-hopping there together.
They were talking low, with heads quite close,
But still I heard one say—
Mr. Redbreast to his mate—
"Katy's ten years old to-day."
"Dear me! ten years! how very old!
How wise the child must be!
I suppose, now, she could build a nest
Just as well as we.
"You know it isn't much to do,
As you and I have found;
Just lay the sticks, and weave the hairs,
And make it nice and round."
"She build a nest? you silly wife!
I'm astonished at your words!
She couldn't even catch a worm
To feed the little birds!
"She knows arithmetic and grammar,
Can read and write and sing,
But as for building nests like ours,
She isn't worth a thing."
Then the bees set up a humming
In the apple-tree close by,
And I watched them very closely
To see what I could spy.
And I listened, too, to hear,
If I could, what they would say,
And they said, just like the robins,
"Katy's ten years old to-day."
And then they seemed so very pleased,
They said, still buzzing gladly,
"So much to do in this great world,
We need her help so badly.
"We wonder which she would prefer,
To store the sweets or gather;
Because, you know, we'll let her do
Exactly what she'd rather."
Then up spoke Madam Queen Bee,
Clad in velvet, black, and gold—
Her dress was very charming,
But she was cross and old—
"She can knit and sew, I dare say,
And she knows the use of money,
But I'd rather have the smallest bee
When it comes to making honey."
So I left them buzzing earnestly;
They couldn't quite agree
Whether Katy was as useful
As the very smallest bee.
And I walked back to the door,
Where, upon the braided mat,
Sleeping soundly in the sunshine,
Lay the gray old pussy-cat.
Then, tearing round the corner,
Came the kittens, one, two, three—
Black Bess, and Star, and Dicky—
Tumbling headlong in their glee.
"Oh Mamma Cat, wake up!" they cried,
"Hear what we've got to say.
We know you'll be astonished,
Katy's ten years old to-day."
The old cat yawned and blinked,
Stretched herself upon the mat,
Sweetly smiled on Star and Dicky,
Gave Bess a gentle pat,
Said, "She sweeps and dusts the parlor,
And that is very nice,
But she isn't worth as much as you;
You know she can't catch mice."
I laughed a little softly;
It really seemed absurd
That, because she couldn't do their work,
The cat, the bee, the bird,
Should think her worth so little,
When her friends all join to say
They wouldn't part with Katy
For millions such as they.
So, ten happy years behind her,
Six times ten, we trust, to come,
We leave our little maiden
To make sunshine in her home.
That, I'm sure, is better far
(It can't be bought for money)
Than catching mice, or building nests,
Or even making honey.
Mr. Grigsby ate his supper alone that night, having come home very late. The younger children were in bed, the three elder busy with their lessons, when he entered "the chamber." His wife hardly waited for him to be seated and to light his pipe before plunging into the story of the reports.
"Bea's is fustrate, if I do say it—'Lessons very good. Conduct very good.' Dee's was 'Lessons indiffrunt. Conduc' good.' Flea—she says she lost hern on the way home. That's what makes me say what I do say 'bout that child. A-traipsin' 'bout the country 't all hours, an' come to look for the repo't her pa's got to sign an' sen' back to the teacher ter-morrer, 'taint nowhar to be foun'."
Flea did not lift her head during the tirade. Her slate was propped up in a slanting position by a book; her round comb had been pushed to the back of her head, and her shock of hair tumbled low upon her forehead. The terrible test sum already covered one side of the slate. At her father's voice the pencil stood still, although she did not look up.
"If she says she lost the paper, it is true. My lassie never tells a lie."
Flea dashed down the pencil and started up. Her eyes burned like live coals. "Father trusts me! I knew he would. I'll tell you just what was in the old report. It said: 'Lessons good—usually. Conduct——room for improvement!' There was a long ugly dash after 'conduct.' Now you know all there is to tell."
"Well, I declare!" from Bea, and "Did you ever?" from Mrs. Grigsby, were followed by Dee's drawling comment:
"It warn't fair, pa. Mr. Tayloe hates her because she's smarter than him. She's the bes' girl in school."
Flea burst into tears, sobbing so hysterically that her father put his arm about her and led her from the room. In five minutes he was back, and glanced over the table.
"Where is your sister's slate, Bea?"
He took it from her hand, and stood for a moment, running his eyes down the calculation that resembled an irregular staircase, his rugged face relaxing as he marked the erasures and smears telling of a weary fight with the task. He was at the door when Bea's prim pert tone arrested him,
"Mr. Tayloe will ask me to-morrow if anybody helped her, pa."
"I never knew you to be backward in tale-telling," rejoined her father, and went on his way.
Flea was in the dining-room, already half comforted. Her father had listened sympathizingly to the story of her hour's labor over the formidable sum, and encouraged her to persevere by predictions of her final success. He now lighted another candle and established her comfortably on one side of the table.
"I will read my newspaper over here," he said, cheerily. "Nobody shall disturb you. I am sorry to tell you, lassie, that there are mistakes in the work on that slate. I cannot tell you what they are, but I advise you to wash the slate clean and try to forget how you did the sum before. 'Rub out and try again,' is one of the best rules in such cases."
He copied upon the margin of his newspaper the figures written by the teacher before he gave back the slate, and when she had washed it, set down the sum again for her.
"You make prettier figures than Mr. Tayloe does," said Flea, gratefully, laying her cheek against the brawny hand.
She fell to work with fresh zeal. Now and then her father stole a pitying glance at her intent face, but he did not interrupt her. At half past ten Mrs. Grigsby's disapproving visage appeared at the door. Her husband shook his head authoritatively; she shut her teeth down upon the exclamation that was between them, and vanished. At eleven o'clock the premises were still, except for the occasional rustle of the newspaper and the continuous scratch of Flea's pencil. At half past eleven she laid down the pencil and rubbed her cramped fingers.
"Father, would it be helping me if you were to look at it, and tell me if it is right now?"
Both sides of the slate were covered with figures, so childish and unevenly rounded that the father's heart ached at the sight. In reaching the bottom of the second side he smiled and patted the head leaning against his shoulder.
"Well done, lassie! It was a tough fight, but you've won it. I am proud of you, my little heroine!"
He not only kissed her "Good-night" twice, but he went all the way up stairs with her, lighted her bedroom candle, looked to the fastenings of the windows, and, Flea strongly suspected, was within an ace of offering to help her undress.
Poor father! he had called her a heroine just because she had done a sum in long division!
The missing report did not come to light. The next morning being dry and sunny, the children went by the field path to school, purposely to look about the door of the haunted house to see if Flea could have lost the paper there. There was no sign of it. In case she could not find it, she was to give the teacher a note of explanation written by her father. Mr. Tayloe had not arrived when she got to the school-house, and she laid the note upon the Bible that was on his desk, where he could not help seeing it. He read it, drawing his brows together, but said nothing of the contents until the second class in arithmetic came up to recite.
"Felicia Grigsby!" was the first name called.
A subdued rustle ran through the school. By now the children had learned to understand when there was war in the pale eyes.
Flea stepped forward and offered her slate. The pale eyes snapped.
"Whose figures are these?"
"The sum was so rubbed that my father wrote it down for me again," said Flea, modestly and simply.
"That's a likely story. We'll talk more of it presently."
He went over the sum to himself, making a sort of humming noise without unclosing his lips. This "um-m-m-m!" was the only sound in the room. When he read the quotient, he snorted violently.
"Your father is a good hand at long division. You can tell him that I said so when you go home."
She met his eyes full. Slander of her father made her fearless.
"He did not help me to do that sum, Mr. Tayloe."
"Beatrice Grigsby! what have you to say of this matter?"
Bea stammered and blushed in giving the testimony upon which the inquisitor insisted. At last he drew out the admission that her father had sat with Flea in the dining-room all the evening, and let nobody else come in.
There was no color in the face Flea turned upon her sister, but plenty of fight in flaming eyes and working lips.
"Bea Grigsby! you know that father wouldn't have helped me! He only told me once that the sum was not right."
"Silence!" thundered the teacher, bringing down the ruler upon the desk. "What more help did you want than that? David Grigsby, come here, sir!"
Dee stumped up the aisle, settling stolidly into his hips at each step.
"What story do you tell? Your sisters give one another the lie in fine style."
"Flea never told a lie in her life," asserted Dee, sturdily. "Pa said so las' night."
"He has a better opinion of her than I have. How did he happen to say that?"
"Cause ma she didn't b'lieve Flea los' her report."
"Your 'ma'"—mimicking the witness's drawl—"has more sense than your 'pa.' Did you see him help your truth-telling Flea with her sum?"
"No, sir."
"You wouldn't tell me if you had, would you?"
"No, sir."
By the time the dogged reply left his lips he reeled under a crack of the ruler upon his head. Flea cried out once and sharply, and hid her face with her hands.
Mr. Tayloe addressed the school: "This girl has disobeyed me. She has tried to cheat me. She has lied outright. She also, as I believe, tore up her report to keep from showing it at home. She will stand for an hour on the dunce-stool with the dunce-cap on her head. She will not leave the school-room at play-time. She will stay after school for an hour for three days, and do, each day, a sum in long division as long as that her father did last night. The other girls to whom I gave the sum have had the honesty to confess that they could not do it. They will not be punished. They have neither cheated nor lied."
If the child had been as guilty as he said, the punishment would have been extreme. Some of the girls cried silently behind their books; the boys exchanged savage looks in the shelter of slates and atlases. Nobody was amused by the grotesque figure mounted upon a tall stool by Mr. Tayloe, and facing the school, a conical paper cap upon her head. Something in the livid, set face that gazed over and beyond their heads with blank, unseeing eyes, appalled the most thoughtless.
Bea shed becoming tears, and was pitied by all for her sister's misconduct. Dee got a terrible flogging for sulking and disrespect. When called up to recite, he stood with locked jaws and clinched fists, and would not answer a single question. Flea cast an agonized glance at the loyal little rebel as the blows fell thick and fast and his jaws were not unlocked. He would die under the lash, she knew, sooner than cry out now that his blood was up. She had the same in her veins, and she had not shed a tear.
It was a field-day long to be remembered in the history of the Tayloe reign. More lessons were missed through stupidity or lack of study than upon any previous day. During Flea's hour upon the dunce-stool Snail Snead and Tom Carter were thrashed, Emma Jones had a taste of the ruler upon her palm, and six girls were in tears from the sarcastic scoldings dealt out to them. There was no romping or jollity upon the play-ground when Mr. Tayloe went home for his luncheon, and little appetite for the "snacks" brought from home. One and all, the children had been forbidden to speak to Flea, left solitary on the front bench, but Dee sat on the floor at her feet, his head against her knee, like an ailing, devoted puppy.
The hour rolled heavily by, and the afternoon session began. Every lesson recited by Flea during that horrible session was without a flaw. It was not in child-flesh to feign cheerfulness or to appear indifferent. She looked obstinate and sullen. She was mad (in the Virginia sense of the word) through and through. Yet her brain did its work well. She had passed the red-hot stage of temper, and was now at the white heat that often makes the mind abnormally clear.
Two other children had been condemned to stay in, but their lessons were despatched in ten minutes, and Mr. Tayloe and Flea had the school-house to themselves. His watch was laid, as usual, upon the desk, and he glanced at it frequently while writing his letters. Flea busied herself with the sum he had written out for her, the identical sum she had done last night, and, therefore, easy work.
"Have you done it?" asked the teacher, as her pencil ceased its scratching.
"Yes, sir."
"Bring it here!" As he took it he said, rudely, "Go to the spring and bring me a bucket of water."
No girl had ever been ordered to fetch water for the use of the school or the master. It was the boys' business. Without a word, Flea took the big tin bucket and dipper from the window-sill and started to the door.
"Be quick about it!" was called after her.
She sauntered down the hill, insolent, reckless, and dangerous. She had had "tiffs" and tempers often before, but they were passing flurries that left no trace upon character. What had been done to her since she passed this spring on her way to school, less than seven hours ago, could never be forgotten or forgiven. The tinkle of the water into the trough, and the whispering among the grasses as it stole away to lower ground, irritated instead of soothing her. She kicked a stone into the ripples to change the sound, filled the dipper, drained it thirstily, and was about to brim it again, when Mrs. Fogg's wheedling whine made her look around. The old woman was watching her craftily.
"What you doin' totin' water, chile, like a nigger? Who set you 'bout that sort o' work?"
"The Old Harry!" said Flea, deliberately. Her eyes were black and deep; red fire burned behind and through them. "I told you that he lived up there!"—jerking her head backward in the direction of the school-house. "You'd better keep away, if you don't want to be scorched."
The old woman's laugh was like the rattling of pebbles in a gourd. "Lor' bless you, my sweet little lady! I ain't afeard of the Old Harry in broad daylight. They tell me he do treat you mighty mean, and that's a fac'. I wonder yo' pa stands it. I s'pose he daresn't cross the Major. The Major's mighty thick with the teacher. Ah well! the pore was made to be trompled inter the mire of the dus'. Thar's a day a-comin' when they'll have to answer for the deeds done in their bodies."
For the first time Flea detected a false ring in the snuffling cant. She started up the bank, lugging the heavy bucket; the water, plashing and trickling over the sides, wet her feet and ankles and angered her still further. Mrs. Fogg overtook her and seized one side of the handle.
"Lemme tote it fur you, deary! 'Tain't fitten work fur yo' pretty white han's. He mus' be a nimp o' the Evil One, sure 'nough, to let you be a carrier o' water an' a drawer o' wood, this yere fashion."
She was not to be shaken off, and they went together to the school-house door. There Flea nodded her thanks, lugged the bucket with both hands to the head of the room, and set it down upon a bench. She would not offer her tormentor what she had brought, as if she were his negro slave. In her absence her slate had been laid upon her seat. Both sides were bare! In fact, the teacher had found her work correct, and chose this ungracious mode of dismissing her for the day. She instantly concluded that he meant for her to do the sum over from the beginning. The match had touched the powder-magazine of temper. Rising to her feet she surveyed him with desperate eyes. He sat quite erect as he wrote, and worked his month oddly, compressing and loosening his lips, sometimes fast, sometimes slowly. Now he drew his eyebrows together, and then he would smile at what he was writing. He was comfortable and at peace with himself, this natty, prosperous, and powerful little man, whom she knew to be the vilest of the vile. If she thought that the blow would kill him, she would bring her big slate crashing down upon his skull. She could not kill him, but she could injure and mortify him.
"A TORRENT OF ICE-COLD WATER DELUGED HIM."
Quickly and easily she lifted the pail she had carried with difficulty just now. Wrath lent her strength. In a twinkling it was turned upside down upon the head of the unsuspecting writer; a torrent of ice-cold water deluged him, and as she let go the bucket it clattered down upon his shoulders, covering his head like an enormous cap.
It was the deed of a second. In another second Flea had cleared the school-house and was running for her life.
The revenue-cutter whose appearance caused Alaric and Bonny so much anxiety had, indeed, been absent from Tacoma for two weeks, as the man in the sail-boat told them. On their first night in the Siwash camp she had gone to Port Townsend to turn over the captured smuggler Fancy to the Collector at that place. Knowing how important the testimony of her crew would be during the proceedings against her, the commander of the cutter intended to return to the upper sound and to institute a thorough search for them the very next day. Before he could carry out this plan news was received that an American ship was ashore near Cape Flattery, one hundred miles away in the opposite direction, and the cutter was despatched to her assistance.
Although the task of saving the ship was successfully accomplished, and she was finally pulled off the reef on which she had struck, it was nearly two weeks before the cutter was again at liberty to devote her attention to smugglers, with only a slight hope of finding those whom he so greatly wanted as witnesses; but thinking he might possibly gain some information concerning them from Skookum John, the commander of the cutter headed his vessel up the sound, steamed through Colros passage, and sent his third Lieutenant ashore in the yawl to make inquiries at the Siwash camp.
This officer found only women and children at home, but learned that the owner of the camp had gone to Tacoma. As he was about to depart without having discovered anything concerning those of whom he was in search, curiosity prompted him to glance into a hut that appeared newer and much neater than the others. Here, to his amazement and great satisfaction, the first object that caught his eye was the well-remembered canvas dunnage-bag that he had seen in Victoria, and which still bore the name of "Philip Ryder" on its dingy surface.
"Ho, ho! Master Ryder! So we are on your trail at last, are we?" soliloquized the officer. "This is a clew of which we must not lose sight, and so I guess I'll just take it along and hold on to it until we can return it to you in person."
Thus it happened that Alaric's bag was carried aboard the cutter, where its contents excited a great deal of curiosity, and that vessel was headed toward Tacoma in the hope of finding the lads, who were supposed to be with Skookum John.
The big canoe was discovered when in the very act of going about and standing back toward the city, as though to escape from the approaching cutter, and a full head of steam was instantly crowded on in pursuit. Great was the disappointment when, on overtaking her, she was found to contain only Indians. These, however, eagerly directed attention to a smaller canoe ahead, in which could be distinguished two figures, apparently those of white men, and the cutter renewed her chase.
Before she could overtake this second craft it was lost to sight behind a wharf, and a Lieutenant was hastily sent ashore in a boat to trace its occupants.
He found the empty canoe in charge of a yacht sailor, who said that those who had come in her were somewhere up on the wharf, and without waiting for further particulars the officer followed after them. When he reached the group of spectators assembled to witness the departure of the great steamer that was just moving out, he asked one of them if he had seen two persons running that way within a minute. One of them, whom he mentioned as being[Pg 654] the younger, he described as being a tall, gentlemanly appearing and neatly dressed lad, while the other was a sailor.
Now the gentleman of whom he made inquiries answered that he had seen a number of persons running just as the ship's moorings were cast off. "There were a couple of young chaps," he said, "very ragged and dirty-looking, who ran aboard the last thing, as if afraid of being left. Then there was another couple who seemed in a great hurry, and ran shouting after a carriage that was just starting up town. They stopped it, got in, and drove off. One of them was, as you say, a very gentlemanly appearing lad, and the other was so evidently a sailor that I expect they're the two you are looking for."
"I shouldn't wonder if they were," replied the officer, delighted at having thus quickly discovered the trail. "Did you happen to hear them give the driver any directions?"
"Yes. The young chap said, 'Hotel Tacoma.'"
Thanking the gentleman for his information, the Lieutenant hurried away, boarded an up-town trolley-car, and a few minutes later stood in the office of the great hotel scanning its register. A single glance was sufficient, for the last two names on the page, so recently entered that the ink was hardly dry, assured him that his search was successful. They were both in the same handwriting, and read: Philip Ryder, Alaska. Jalap Coombs. Alaska. "Pretty smart dodge," chuckled the Lieutenant, as he walked away, "to hail from such an indefinite place as Alaska. This Philip Ryder is certainly a sharp chap. It is plain enough now that he left that bag in the Siwash camp as a blind to throw us off the track."
The Lieutenant then hurried back toward the cutter, to make report of what he had discovered to his superior officer. After listening to all he had to say, that gentleman decided to continue the investigation himself; and an hour later he, with his third Lieutenant, both out of uniform, appeared at the hotel, with a sailor bearing a canvas bag.
Going into one of the small writing-rooms, which happened to be unoccupied, the Commander wrote a name on a plain card and sent it up to Mr. Philip Ryder, with a request that the gentleman would consent to see him on a matter of business. Then, with the canvas bag on the floor beside him, he waited alone.
Inside of three minutes a bell-boy ushered into the room a well-dressed, squarely built youth, with a resolute face and blue eyes that looked straight into the Commander's.
"Mr. Ellery, I believe," he said, glancing at the card still held in his hand.
The Commander bowed slightly, and then asked, "Is your name Philip Ryder?"
"It is."
"Is this your property?" Here the Commander indicated the canvas bag.
The youth stepped forward to get a better view of the article, in question, started as though surprised, and then answered, "Yes, sir, I believe it is; but I must confess to great curiosity as to how it came here."
"Why so?"
"Because when I last heard of it it was on board a vessel that had just been seized by a revenue-cutter."
"Exactly; and that vessel was seized for smuggling by a cutter under my command."
"Pardon me, sir, but I think you are mistaken," objected Phil, "for I am intimately acquainted with the Commander of the cutter in question, while you are a stranger to me."
"I beg leave to say that I think I know what I am talking about," retorted the other, stiffly, "and I may as well inform you at once that I not only was, but am still, in command of the cutter that seized your smuggling craft some two weeks ago. I am here for the purpose of causing the arrest and detention of yourself and the mate of that vessel, both of whom will be wanted as witnesses for the government during the forth-coming proceedings to be instituted against Captain Duff."
"And I, sir," replied Phil, hotly, "beg leave to say that you don't know any more of what you are talking about than I do. Although I have sailed with Captain Duff and know him well, I am not a smuggler, and never have been. Moreover, I can summon witnesses this very minute who will identify me and certify to my character."
With this Phil stepped to the bell. "Go to number 20," said the youth to the bell-boy, "and ask the gentleman who is there to kindly step down here for a minute."
"And you, boy," thundered the Commander, his face flushed with anger, "find the gentleman who came here with me, and inform him that I desire his presence."
The Lieutenant was the first to arrive.
"Is this your Philip Ryder?" demanded the Commander, at the same time pointing to the youth opposite.
"No, sir, he is not," replied the Lieutenant, promptly.
"Who is he, then?" asked the other.
"Begging the gentleman's pardon, this is Mr. Philip Ryder, as I can swear," interrupted a fourth individual, who had just entered.
"Hello, Carncross! You here? And you know this young man?"
"Certainly I do, sir. I met his father, Mr. John Ryder—the famous mining expert, you know—at my father's house in San Francisco last winter, and came to call on him here as soon as I heard of his arrival in Tacoma. He and his son arrived on to-day's steamer from Alaska. He is also a friend of your friend Captain Matthews."
"What! Not Israel Matthews of the Phoca? You don't say so! Mr. Ryder, allow me to shake hands with you, and to offer my humble apologies for this absurd mistake."
At the end of an hour the revenue-officers were as puzzled as ever over the disappearance of the present owner of the famous Philip Ryder bag, and his companion; but suddenly Carncross exclaimed:
"I think I know what became of them! I remember now seeing the two chaps who came in that canoe run down the wharf and board the Alaska steamer just as she was starting for Seattle, and I'll warrant you that's where they are at this minute. Tough-looking fellows they were, too."
"In that case," said the Commander, rising, "I must be getting under way for Seattle as quickly as possible. I only wish that I might have you both down to dine with me this evening; but business before pleasure, and so I will wish you both a very good-night."
"I tell you, Rick Dale, that was a close shave," said Bonny, as the steamer moved away from the Tacoma wharf.
"Wasn't it, though! But it seems to me, Bonny, that smuggling must be one of the worst crimes a person can commit, judging from the anxiety those fellows show to capture us. I knew it was bad, but I hadn't any idea it was so serious."
"It does look as if we were wanted," admitted Bonny; "but we've thrown 'em off the track this time, so they won't bother us any more. Didn't we do it neatly?"
"Yes, we certainly did. But where do you suppose we are going now?"
"Haven't the least idea, and don't care. Maybe to China, maybe to San Francisco, and maybe to Alaska. Yes, I think this must be an Alaska ship, for I remember now seeing a big Eskimo dog taken ashore just as we came aboard, and Alaska is where they come from. If she is bound for Alaska, though, she'll stop at Port Townsend and Victoria on the way, and we must lie low until after we pass the first. It would never do to be put off there, for that's headquarters for the whole revenue business, and they'd scoop us in quick enough. I wouldn't mind Victoria so very much, though."
"I should," objected Alaric, who feared that the Sountaggs might have telegraphed from Japan to have him apprehended and forwarded to them. "I don't like Victoria, and neither do I want to go to any of the places you have mentioned."
"Very well," laughed Bonny, who, with a sense of freedom, had regained all his light-heartedness. "Just send word to the Captain where you want to go, and he'll probably be pleased to take you there."
For an hour or so longer the boys discussed their plans[Pg 655] and prospects. Then, as it was growing dark and they were becoming very hungry, Bonny proposed to skirmish around and see what the chances were for obtaining something to eat. Bidding Alaric remain in hiding until his return, the young sailor sallied forth. In a moment he reappeared with the news that the ship was putting in at Seattle and was already close to the wharf.
"That's good," said Alaric. "Seattle is much better for us than Fort Townsend, or Victoria, San Francisco, China, or even Alaska. So I move we go ashore and try our luck."
This was what they were obliged to do, whether or no, for the ship was hardly moored before they were discovered by one of the mates, who chased them ashore.
"Whew-w!" gasped Alaric, after they had run to a safe distance. "It seems to me that working your way through the world consists mainly in being chased by people who are bigger and stronger than you are."
"Yes," remarked Bonny, philosophically. "I've noticed that. It's the same way with sparrows and dogs too; the strong ones are always picking or growling at those that are weaker. Being chased, though, is better than being caught, and we haven't been that yet. Now let's go up town and see about a hotel."
This mention of a hotel reminded Alaric of his previous visit to Seattle and the great "Rainier" away up on the hill-side in which he had spent the day. But Rainier dinners were not for poor boys, and with a regretful sigh he followed his comrade in another direction.
It is hard to say how our lads expected to obtain the meal for which they longed; but whatever hopes they had were doomed to disappointment, for after wandering about the streets a couple of hours their hunger was as unsatisfied as ever. Finally Bonny asked a policeman if there was not some place in that great city where a boy without one cent in his pocket could get something to eat.
"There's a free-soup kitchen on Jessler Avenue," answered the man, "but it's closed for the night now, and you can't get anything there before seven o'clock to-morrow morning. But what do strong young fellows like you want of soup-kitchens? Why ain't ye at work, earning an honest living? Tramps is no good, anyway, and if you don't chase yourselves out of this I'll run you in. See?"
Seven o'clock to-morrow morning! How could they wait? and yet there seemed nothing else to be done. Slowly and despondently the lads made their way back to the wharf on which they had landed, for even that seemed a better place in which to pass the long night hours than the unfriendly streets.
They eluded the vigilance of a night-watchman, and gained the shelter of a pile of hay bales, on which they stretched themselves wearily.
"I'd almost rather be in China, or even a well-fed smuggler," announced Alaric.
"Wouldn't I?" responded Bonny; "and won't I if ever I get another chance? I don't believe anything would seem wrong to a fellow as hungry as I am, if it only brought him something to eat. Even chewing hay is some comfort."
At length they fell into an uneasy sleep, from which they were awakened a few hours later by the sound of voices close at hand. In one of these they instantly, and with sinking hearts, recognized that of their relentless pursuer, the revenue-cutter's third Lieutenant. The other person was evidently answering a question, for he was saying:
"Yes, sir, I seen a couple of young rascals such as you describe chased off the Alaska boat by the mate. They started up town, but I make no doubt they'll be back here again. Such as them is always hanging around the docks."
"If they do come around, and you can catch them, just hold on to them, for they are wanted by the government, and there is a reward offered for them," said the officer.
"Ay, ay, sir; I'll nab 'em for ye if they comes this way again," was the answer, and then both speakers moved out of hearing toward the upper end of the wharf.
The poor, hunted lads, trembling at the narrowness of their escape, peered after the retreating forms. Then Bonny's attention was attracted to the lights of a white side-wheel steamer lying at the outer end of the wharf that seemed on the point of departure.
"Look here, Rick," he whispered, "this place is growing too hot for us, and we've got to get out of it. There's the City of Kingston, and she is going to Victoria or Tacoma, I don't know which. Either of them would be better for us than Seattle just now, though, because in Victoria the revenue folks couldn't touch us, and in Tacoma they won't be looking for us. What do you say, shall we try for a passage on her?"
"Yes," replied Alaric. "I suppose so, for it is certain that we must get away from here somehow. I hope she won't take us to Victoria, though."
So the young fugitives stole down the wharf in darkest shadows to where a force of men were busily at work by lantern-light, trucking freight up a broad gang-plank from the steamer's lower deck, and at the same time carrying aboard the small quantity that was to go somewhere else. Among this was a lot of household goods.
"Now," whispered Bonny, "we've got to be quick, for there isn't much more to be done. I'll run aboard with one of these trucks, while you grab a chair or something from that pile of stuff and follow after. Each of us must hide on his own hook in the first place he comes to, and if we don't find a chance to get together on the trip, we'll meet on the wharf at the first place she stops. Sabe?"
"Yes. Go ahead."
BONNY SEIZED A TRUCK, AND ALARIC A MATTRESS.
So Bonny boldly picked up one of several idle trucks that lay near by, and rattled it down the gang-plank with every appearance of bustling activity. As he trundled it aft along the dimly lighted deck he was greeted by a gruff voice from the darkness with:
"Get that truck out of here. Didn't you hear me say I didn't need any more of 'em?"
"Ay, ay, sir," answered the pretended stevedore, facing promptly about and wheeling his truck away. In a place where there seemed to be no one looking he set it gently down, and walked forward as boldly as though executing some order just received. Away up in the bows of the steamer he found a great coil of rope, in which he snuggled down like a bird in a nest.
Alaric was not quite so fortunate. He watched Bonny disappear with his truck in the dark interior of the boat, and then, taking a mattress from the pile of household goods, marched aboard with it in his arms. Walking aft with his awkward burden, he stumbled across the truck that Bonny had left in the passage and sprawled at full length. As luck would have it, the mattress, loosed from his grasp, struck the mate who was coming that way and nearly knocked him down.
Springing furiously forward, the man aimed a kick at the prostrate lad, called him a clumsy lunkhead, and ordered him to wheel the truck up on to the wharf.
There was nothing for it but to return to the wharf with the truck. Then, to his dismay, Alaric found that there was no freight left to be taken on board. The pile of household goods had disappeared. As he stood for a moment irresolute another gruff voice sang out to him to cast off the breast line and get aboard in a hurry if he didn't want to get left.
Alaric had no more idea than the man in the moon of what a breast line was; but he knew what to cast off a line meant, and, making a blind guess, fortunately did the right thing. By this time the gang-plank was hauled in, and obeying the order "Jump! you chuckle-head!" the lad took a flying leap that landed him on all fours on the deck. As he regained his feet the lad was ordered aft, but he managed to slip away before reaching the stern, and hid among the very household goods he had helped bring aboard.
Here, after lying for a while pondering over the strange fortunes by which every step of his path into the world of active life seemed to be beset, he fell asleep. When he awoke it was broad daylight, and he was being greeted by an angry roar from the gruff voice of the night before.
"Shirking, are ye, you lazy young hound? I'll teach ye!"
Picking up a bit of rope and whirling it about his head, the mate sprang toward the lad, who darted away in terror; nor did he stop until he found himself clear of the boat and running up a long wharf.
ANNE'S CROWN.
here was once a King of England whose family name should have been Bluebeard, but it happened to be Henry Tudor, and a proud old name it was too. Born in 1501, Prince Henry was just eighteen when he came to the throne, and his subjects were well pleased to see an end to the long Wars of the Roses, because in him were united both lines, the White and the Red, and that meant peace. He had a most fortunate start—riches, power, health, friends. Life lay fair before; what would he do with it? His unpopular father's avarice had massed an immense fortune, and the son was quite ready to spend it. He was well educated, a bold huntsman and dashing rider, full of spirit and energy, and with a turn for letters and business. He must have had wonderful strength, for his armor weighed ninety-two pounds. It is in London Tower yet, is of German-work, silvered and engraved over with saintly legends and scroll-work, and the initials H. and K. for Henry and Katharine of Aragon.
The King was exceedingly attractive. An Ambassador from Italy, the land of beauty, wrote: "Nature could not have done more for him. He is much handsomer than any other sovereign of Christendom—a good deal handsomer than the King of France—very fair, and his whole frame admirably proportioned. He is fond of hunting, and never takes his diversion without tiring eight or ten horses, which he has stationed beforehand along the line of country he means to take; and when one is tired he mounts another, and before he gets home they are all exhausted. He is extremely fond of tennis, at which game it is the prettiest thing in the world to see him play, his fair skin glowing through a shirt of the finest texture."
HENRY VIII.
Bluebeard had six wives. The second is the one whose woful tale I have to tell. Early in his reign he married Katharine of Aragon, a noble Princess, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, whose girlhood had been spent among the orange gardens and tinkling fountains of the Alhambra.
She had a maid of honor named Anne Boleyn, a light-hearted damsel, skilled in music, singing delightfully, full of repartee, with a laugh gay as her costumes and dances. Her favorite dress was blue velvet starred with silver, a mantle of watered silver lined with minever, and on her little feet blue velvet shoes flashing each with a diamond star; around her head a gold-colored aureole of gauze above a fall of ringlets rich and rare. A toilet that well became her dimples, her fresh lips, her teeth like hailstones, and her witching glance. Tall and slender was she, a true daughter of the Howards, and so "passing sweet and cheerful" that every man who looked on her was her lover.
At the midnight ball given to the French Ambassador, the King chose her for his partner in the dance, and Mistress Anne's pretty head was wellnigh turned by the royal flatterer's whispers of sparkling eyes and twinkling feet and the fairest hand he ever touched, and then he kissed her.
Soon he began to write letters, beginning "Mine own Sweetheart," and sent her a jewel valued at fifteen thousand crowns. Then he would ride out to visit her in the chestnut avenues of Hever Castle, gallantly prancing along the greenwood, and sounding his bugle to announce his approach, for he went unattended.
At first Anne resented such close attention from one already married, King though he was; but the letters came often and the writer came oftener, and in the dewy springtime they strolled through flowery gardens together, and heard the nightingale's love-song to the rose, and the cuckoo pipe her pretty note telling her name to the meadow-larks, till the fair maid forgot her honor and began to think wild thoughts. Woodland scents and sounds were sweet, but perfumed palace chambers were sweeter, and court minstrel and laureate sang as never did bird in summer.
What a fine thing it would be, by-and-by, to sit on the throne of England in the place of the faded old Queen, six years older than her husband, the magnificent monarch Henry the Eighth! Evidently he tired of the wife of his youth, and plotted separation from her who had faithfully loved and obeyed him more than twenty years.
The tale of divorce is too long to tell here; enough that it was done by the help of the Church, and Queen Katharine was ordered to leave the court. She made a dignified speech before her judges, declaring herself daughter of a King and still Queen of England, and should so continue to the end of her days. She then retired to the palace assigned her, degraded—no, not degraded, but shorn of her rank, and yet loving him without change. Her last message written in banishment was, "I make this vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things."
Henry admitted that Kate had been the best of wives; but the old love was off, the new one was on, and a private marriage with Anne Boleyn took place—just when and where is not known. The coronation was proclaimed May, 1534, and London, in sleepless preparation, made ready to hail Anne Boleyn Queen Consort of England.
The Tower was at that time palace as well as prison and fortress, and the Thames was crowded with every sort of craft, full of crews who flocked to behold the like of which has not been seen before or since in that greatest city on the earth. Bells chimed, music floated over the water, and thousands of flags saluted when Anne came out of Greenwich[Pg 657] Palace clad in cloth of gold, attended by her maidens—a beauteous sight to see. When she reached the Tower in the state barge a mighty peal of guns was shot off. The tremendous wave of sound broke over the barriers of Katharine's retreat, and oh, how the salute smote the ear of the neglected and forgotten Queen, where she sat mourning for her dead sons and worse than dead husband!
The roofs and bridges were alive with men and boys, musicians playing divers instruments, and making a far-reaching melody of trumpets. The Lord Mayor and officers of the city were in crimson and scarlet, with gold chains round their necks, and there was no end of velvet, ermine, and jewels. Carpets of Persia and India hung from windows and balconies, and there was such splendor as tongue cannot tell, or minstrel sing, or painter paint.
Henry met the bride at the water's edge, showy in white and green, the livery colors of his family. We can imagine he looked right kingly, for he was of heroic height, and had not reached the swinish shape that in later years made him the likeness of a prize pig at the fair, a monstrous brute. He kissed Anne, called her the desire of his heart and the delight of his eyes, and vowed to love her and none other while woods grow and rivers run to the sea.
Days of merriment and revel welcomed her to the palace, and then the coronation came. The streets were gravelled from Tower to Temple Bar, and freshly hung with purple. The crown of Edward the Confessor was too heavy for the girlish brow, and a new one was made for the new Queen, mainly of rubies red as blood. You may see it in the jewel-room of the Tower with the other crowns and the Kohinoor of Queen Victoria.
There were vast processions of horsemen, Ambassadors with badges and decorations, and so many collars set with gems it was said whole estates were carried on men's shoulders. A fountain ran wine, and any—the way-side beggar with the rest—might put in his cup and drink his fill. Even the cooks wore satin that day.
THE CORONATION CHAIR.
But all else was of slight interest—Duke and Earl, belted knight and high-born gentleman—beside the lady for whom the parade was ordered. She was seated in an open litter covered with cloth of gold shot with white. Her robe was silver tissue under a mantle of ermine, auburn ringlets flowing on her shoulders below the ruby crown. The ladies attending were mounted on palfreys with trappings that shone with gold and crimson. It was in bridal June, when merry England is merriest, and with shoutings and trumpetings Anne entered Westminster, and was crowned at the high altar of the Abbey. Royal purple took the place of crimson robes, and the unholy marriage was preceded by the Holy Sacrament, and made a sinful mockery with vows solemn and binding. Countesses and marchionesses were the Queen's train-bearers, and the world seemed at her feet. No warning prophet was there to foretell that the triumph would pass like a vision of the night, and when the blossoming hedges had showered their snows three times she would slip from her high place and, for her sweet lord's pleasure, fall a headless corpse.
Bluff King Harry was highly pleased with the coronation show, and the bride, radiant with bloom and happiness, held his fickle fancy for a time. She was used to admiration, and knew the art of pleasing. Studying the moods and tenses of her fitful master, she bent her finer nature down to his. Did he wish to ride, she could try the mettle of his best jennet, her glossy brown hair mingling with the floating plumes of her hat, making a sunlit picture. Would his Majesty walk, in banquet-hall or bower, on greensward or under silken pavilion, she was ready to trip with fairy tread. Did he want music, she charmed with lute and song. If the stormy ruler preferred silence, she could sit still as chiselled marble till his varying temper brought her lord to her side again.
Her study was difficult, for absolute power makes tyrants, and the King subdued to his humor every one about him. No man ever ventured to ask why do you so. He varied court gayeties, and maintained them also, by plundering churches and abbeys; and burning at slow fires sainted men as high above him as the heavens are above the earth, because they presumed to differ from him in opinion of the body and blood of Christ. He grew meaner and more cruel every day, fattened and bloated into a hateful beast, and to this most Christian King belongs the fame of being the first to torture women with machines made expressly to grind and twist human bones. In London Tower to-day you may see these infernal devices, and the rack where an undaunted woman was stretched till the tormentor refused to turn the wheels again; then she was carried in a chair to a fire and burned alive.
And this was free and merry England three hundred years ago!
Where were the people?
The strangest part of history is their submission to bloody despotism. The time was rich in heroes—nobles come of generations born to command, who had looked death in the face on land and sea, and knew no fear; they were as silent slaves. Thoughtful men grown gray in the service of the state were tortured, maimed, and crippled. The princely Buckingham was sent to the block, and gallant chiefs and captains were racked for heresy, and the pleasure of the King was the pain of dying men.
It was not the oppression of an army or a mob of enraged persecutors, as in France two centuries later, but a one-man power, a Tudor reign of terror. So the years went by, and King Henry went on fattening till he could hardly see.
It was written of him a generation afterward: "If all the patterns of a merciless tyrant had been lost to the world, they might have been found in this Prince." Royal blood was precious in those evil days; all below the highest were mere worms. The court poet wrote verses that made Henry the brightest star of a constellation composed of Hector, Cęsar, Judas Maccabęus, Joshua, Charlemagne, King Arthur, Alexander, David, Godfrey de Bouillon; and the satisfied monarch believed whatever was said or sung in his praise, and loaded minstrel and troubadour with costly presents, jewelled badges, and decorations.
There is no trick that makes a better impression on an audience, and requires less practice on the part of the performer, than that known as "The Protean Pitcher."
The performer has on his table an ordinary quart pitcher filled with water, and a dozen or more tumblers. To prove that it is pure water, a glass is filled and offered to the audience, and the performer drinks of it.
All suspicion being thus set at rest, the trick is begun by alternately filling with water and wine the glasses, which stand in a row at the front of the table.
"This may seem strange," says the performer, "that I can pour from this pitcher, which certainly is not prepared in any way, water or wine at pleasure. The fact is, however, that when once the fumes of the wine have thoroughly permeated the atmosphere, it is a difficult matter for the ordinary spectator to tell positively what I do pour out. No doubt many of you imagine that I have filled these glasses with water and wine, while others are just as positive that there is nothing but wine. The pitcher is empty, nothing in it, as all can see. Let us pour the contents of the glasses back." Here he empties the water and wine into the pitcher. "And now what have we? Wine, wine, wine—nothing but wine." Filling the glasses again. "Again return it to the pitcher"—which he does, "and this time, on refilling the glasses, there seems to be nothing but water. No, I am wrong, for here is a glass of wine."
For a third time he returns the contents of the glasses to the pitcher, and this time pours out nothing but wine, and finally, for a fourth time, goes through the same routine, and ends the trick by pouring water, water—nothing but water.
Let us suppose that sixteen glasses are to be used in the trick. Six are left clean; in each of six others is put one drop of a strong tincture of iron about half an hour before beginning the performance. Two other glasses are about half filled with a saturated solution of oxalic acid in water, and in still another glass is poured some strong ammonia. To prevent the fumes of the ammonia from escaping into the room this glass must be covered with a handkerchief folded several times, or, what is still better, with a piece of transparent mica cut to fit the top. Lastly a glass is quarter filled, with a saturated solution of tannin in water. Beginning with a clean glass, the six clean glasses and the six containing the iron are placed alternately in a row at the front of the table. Behind them, in the following order, stand the tannin glass, an acid glass, the ammonia glass, and the second acid glass.
The performer begins by filling a clean glass and the tannin glass with water from the pitcher. The clean glass he offers to the audience to taste, or sips of it himself. Then he pours the contents of both glasses into the pitcher.
Now if he fills the clean glasses and the iron glasses from the pitcher, they will appear to be filled alternately with water and wine. Pouring the contents back and immediately refilling the glasses, they are all filled with wine.
Before filling the twelfth glass, however, the performer picks up an acid glass, covering it with his hand so as to conceal its contents, and, filling it, remarks: "All wine. No, here is water, and here again"—filling the twelfth glass—"is wine."
When the contents of the glasses are poured into the pitcher this time, the action of the acid will bleach the solution completely, and on filling the glasses this time there appears to be nothing but water.
Again, however, the performer picks up another glass, the one with the ammonia, and filling this, it appears to contain wine, but of a lighter color than before.
This time, on emptying the glasses into the pitcher, it will appear to be filled again with wine, the ammonia counteracting the effect of the acid.
Once more the glasses are filled with wine, all but one, the second acid glass, which the performer has filled.
For the last time the pitcher is again filled, and when the contents are poured out there is nothing but water. "For," as the performer remarks, "having begun with water, it is only right we should end with it."
As the strength of the various ingredients varies a great deal, the amateur will do well to experiment for the proper proportions of tannin, acid, and ammonia before attempting to exhibit the trick, bearing in mind that the smaller the quantity used the better it will be.
Mr. Kellar, who is rather an exhibitor of stage illusions than a sleight-of-hand performer, since his "feats of prestidigitation," to quote the language of the show-bill, are of the most simple character, has made quite a name by offering what he is pleased to call "mental phenomena." In one of the most surprising of these he almost instantly tells the day of the week on which any date of the present century falls.
An attempt to explain this has been made by a certain magazine, which seriously informs its readers that "the secret 'of the how' is neither a remarkable 'gift,' nor surprising mental or mathematical ability, as is usually supposed.
"The performer holds concealed in his hands tablets on which formulas are engraved, or they may be written on his shirt cuffs. He raises a hand to his head, as though meditating, and can thus, unnoticed, glance over the tabulated formulas. Or he stands before the audience with folded arms, coat sleeves drawn well back, which gives ample opportunity for a quick yet careful glance at the unpretending cuffs; but instead of gazing at the floor in deep thought, as is commonly supposed, he is studying the formula dexterously concealed from the audience."
All this sounds very learned, but as there are no less than six tables given as absolutely necessary for the accomplishment of the trick—one of them of thirty-one lines and eight columns—the performer who should attempt it on that plan would require, instead of eyes, what Sam Weller calls "a pair o' patent double million magnifyin' gas microscopes of hextra power."
I know of three different short methods of arriving at this calculation, by which any one with a fair memory and an elementary knowledge of mental arithmetic can answer almost instantly the question, On what day of the week does a certain date fall? The easiest and best of these is as follows: First memorize the following couplet:
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
| Time | Flies | Fast | Men | Wisely | Say; |
| (Tuesday) | (Friday) | (Friday) | (Monday) | (Wednesday) | (Saturday) |
| 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 |
| Many | Think, | Alas, | Time's | Fooled | Away. |
| (Monday) | (Thursday) | (Sunday) | (Tuesday) | (Friday) | (Sunday) |
These twelve words stand for the twelve months of the year, while their initial letter or letters represent the days of the week, as shown by the lines in parentheses, Sunday being represented by A.
To find out the day of the week on which a certain date falls in a leap-year, take half of the last two figures of the given year, divide by 7, and the remainder gives the date. For example, 1880: The half is 40; divided by 7, equals 5, with 5 remaining. Therefore, March 5th would fall on a Friday; June 5th on a Saturday; September 5th on a Sunday; and so on. To get the other dates is a matter of simple addition.
According to this, January 5th would be Tuesday, and February 5th Friday, but in leap-year the remainder must be increased one; therefore January 6th would be Tuesday, and February 6th Friday.
In non-leap-years, take the previous leap-year, and subtract[Pg 659] one for each year past that leap-year. For example: Let us suppose that some one asks on what day of the week July 29, 1895, fell. The previous leap-year was 1892; the half of 92 equals 46; subtract one for each year past—i.e., 3—which would be 43; this, divided by 7, would leave a remainder of 1. So that July 1st fell on a Monday, and adding 28 days, four full weeks, gives us Monday, which your calendar will show you is right.
If in dividing the last two numbers of the given year there should be no remainder, the date is 7.
"But how are we to know the leap-years, without stopping to figure them out?" some one may ask.
Very easily, if you will bear in mind that in the years having the odd decades, such as 50s, 70s, 90s, the leap-years end in 2 or in 6, as 1852, 1876; while those with even decades end in 0, 4, or 8.
With very little practice any bright boy or girl can soon master this, and while it will tend to surprise their friends, it will prove excellent mental exercise.
Mr. Kellar has recently exhibited what he terms "Karmos." In its original form this trick, an imported one, as are most of the tricks he exhibits, was really very ingenious and baffling, though a little slow. To overcome this objectionable feature Kellar put on his thinking-cap, or had some other fellow to cudgel his brains, and the result was the following:
Mrs. Kellar sits blindfolded on a platform erected on the stage, and gives the cube and square roots of numbers chosen or designated by the audience, but apparently unknown to her. These Mr. Kellar writes on a blackboard set up at one side of the stage in full view of the audience.
The lady also tells the names of cards dealt off from a thoroughly shuffled pack, spells out the word selected from a dictionary and gives its definition, reads a check held up against the blackboard, tells its amount, and the name of the one who drew it.
There is no hesitation, no mistakes, and the answers and descriptions are given with the greatest rapidity.
How is it done? The lady certainly cannot see, and the quickness with which the answers are given preclude the idea that Kellar conveys the information by such signals as walking in a certain way, tapping the blackboard, etc.
The method is so simple that many of "the profession" consider it inartistic, but the public seems to like it.
Every one who has attended a magical entertainment will have seen a narrow platform extending from the stage to the auditorium, by means of which the performer passes to and from the audience.
This platform is known technically as a run or slip-stage. With Sir Kellar this run crosses the footlights and goes over a short distance on the stage, where it is slightly elevated, and is boxed in at the sides. A hole is cut in the stage, and through this hole, shielded from view by the run, sits Mr. Kellar's assistant. With the help of an ordinary opera-glass he can see everything that is written on the blackboard or is placed against it, and by a simple mechanical means, either of a speaking-tube leading under the stage from his hiding-place to the back of Mrs. Kellar's chair, or some similar arrangement, he can at once convey to her the needed information. If the cube root or square root of any number is asked for, he has merely to turn to some such work as Haswell's Engineer's Companion to find the answer; should a word be selected from the dictionary, he refers to a second copy of the dictionary, which he has at hand, apply his mouth to the speaking-tube, and Mrs. Kellar answers:
"The ninth word in the second column on the steen-hundredth page is vicarious, and the definition is, 'acting, performing, or suffering for another.'"
Let us hope this word may never be selected, as it would be too suggestive.
FIG. 1.
The reader will understand that there is scarcely a limit to what Mrs. Kellar (? or the assistant) can tell.
As this trick is not practicable for the drawing-room, let me give one that my young friends will be able to accomplish. For the want of a better name I will call it "The Flying Watch."
A watch is borrowed, and to prove that it is not obtained from a confederate, one of the audience is allowed to select paper of such color as he may prefer in which to have it wrapped, and another to choose the ribbon with which the package is to be tied. The packet is then placed in a handkerchief and handed to some one to hold. At word of command the watch leaves the handkerchief, and is found in the innermost box of a nest of three boxes, each of which is tied with tape and sealed.
For this trick are needed: 1. A large handkerchief with a cheap watch sewn in a sort of pocket at one corner. This pocket must be sewn carefully and strongly on all sides so that the watch cannot slip out. 2. A nest of three small plain boxes, each a trifle larger than the other, and the smallest of a size to easily hold a watch—that is, about 3½ in. long, by 3 in. wide, by 2 in. high.
FIG. 2.
This smallest box is most conspicuously nailed, see Fig. 1, but on one side the two top nails are mere dummies, not going through, all but the heads being cut off. The two bottom nails are short, and can easily be pulled partly out, while the two centre ones act as pivots on which the side swings, as shown in Fig. 2. This box is filled loosely with some wool. The lid is put down, the bottom nails of the loose side are pulled partly out, the top is pressed in, when the side will open at the bottom. A wad of paper is put in to prevent it closing, other wads are put at the sides so that the loose nails may not be accidentally pushed in, and finally the box is bound with tape and sealed.
FIG. 3.
This box is placed, with the open side uppermost, in No. 2, in which it loosely fits, and that one is closed, bound up, and sealed. It, in turn, is placed in No. 3, which is also bound with tapes and sealed. The whole package, which somewhat resembles Fig. 3, is stood on a table before beginning the trick.
When the borrowed watch has been wrapped in red, white, or blue tissue-paper, as the audience may select, and bound with a colored ribbon, also chosen, the performer pretends to wrap it in the handkerchief, but really folds the handkerchief around the prepared corner, and gives it to some one to hold. The borrowed watch he slips into a pocket which he has sewed to the back of the right leg of his trousers in such place that his hand can readily reach it.
As the dummy watch is ticking, the one who holds the handkerchief will not suspect anything. The performer, approaching him, catches hold of the handkerchief and gives it a shake. "Go!" he cries, and as nothing falls to the floor, the watch is supposed to have vanished.
The sealed box is now shown, and some one is asked to cut the tapes. The second box is taken out, and as it is securely bound, everything appears right. Now comes the critical part. The performer takes the two boxes to his table, and while going there gets hold of the watch with his right hand, and sets it on the table back of the larger box, which conceals it. The second box he places on top of the first, cuts the tapes of No. 2, and as he throws back the lid, lifts the watch with his right hand, and at almost the same moment drops it into the open side of the smallest box. To lift this box out, and at the same time to press the bottom nails into place is easy. The box can now be shown, the tapes cut, and the watch returned to be identified by the owner.
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Training for pole-vaulting should begin in the gymnasium early in the winter. The arm and chest and dorsal muscles are the ones that must be developed, and these may best be strengthened by work on the chest weights, rope-climbing, dipping on the parallel bars, and by using the travelling parallels. If you have no gymnasium to work in, a good exercise is to stand four or five feet off from the wall of your room, and to fall forward on your hands, and then push yourself back into an erect position. Do this a few times at first, increasing the number as you grow stronger. Sprinting is also as necessary an exercise for the pole vaulter as it is for the broad jumper. When the weather moderates, work should be begun and continued daily out-of-doors.
For practice the vaulter must have two square posts similar to those used by the high jumpers, only higher, bored with holes two inches apart above six feet, then one inch apart up to eight feet, and half an inch apart from there up. The pegs should be between two and three inches long, and the bar, of one-inch pine, should be about eleven feet long. I say the "bar," but it were better to say the "bars," for the vaulter will do well to buy a dozen at a time, as they break very easily.
The posts are placed ten feet apart at the end of the runway, which should be from eight to ten feet wide, and as long as possible, say fifty feet. Like the high-jumping and broad-jumping runways, it is made of cinders rolled down hard, and must be kept well dampened so that it may be springy. Beyond the posts the earth should be turned over and raked, so as to make a soft landing-place. This landing-box is usually divided from the cinder path by a board sunk into the ground running perpendicular to the upright posts, and across their bases.
The costume for a pole-vaulter should consist of an entire jersey suit, although many of the best men of late seem to prefer linen trousers. The advantage of jersey trousers, or tights, however, is that they keep the legs warm, and consequently the muscles more limber. The shoes are the regular jumping shoes—made of kangaroo-skin, and fitted with six spikes in the toes, and two spikes in the heel of the foot that takes off. These two spikes should be fixed at the extremities of a diagonal drawn through the centre of the heel, to prevent stone-bruising.
The best vaulting poles are made of selected, straight-grained spruce, and are somewhat expensive, on account of the number of sticks that have to be destroyed in the making of one good one. A good pole costs from $4 to $5. It should be sixteen feet long, and fitted with an iron spike at the lower end. Having purchased your pole, wind it with tape for a distance of three or four feet along that part where it is to be held by the hands in vaulting.
When you first begin to vault, it is best to place the bar at about six feet, and to work over this height until you have mastered the knack of the event, which is undeniably a complicated one. As in high and broad jumping, the athlete must lay out his take-off and his run. No rule can be set down for either of these things. Some vaulters like a long run, and depend entirely upon speed to carry them over the bar, while others take a short sprint, and throw all their force and energy into the leap. But whichever method is adopted, both the take-off and the starting-point remain fixed spots on the runway, and must be experimented with until found, and then carefully fixed.
Whether in practice or in competition, and no matter what height the bar may be, always measure your pole before vaulting. This is done by stepping up to the posts and holding the pole upright until it touches the bar. Let it fall back then, and grasp it with the lower hand one foot below the point where it touched the cross-piece. For a vaulter who takes off with the left foot, the lower hand is the left hand. For a man who takes off with the right foot, it is just the other way. For the sake of convenience and clearness, let us understand that we are now speaking of one who takes off with the left foot.
THE PHILADELPHIA INTERSCHOLASTIC RELAY RACES.Having measured the pole, the athlete seizes it with both hands, thumbs up, the left hand forward at the spot indicated, and the right hand from two and a half to three feet further up. He then retreats to the spot which he has determined upon as his starting-point. He stands in the middle of the runway, with the pole pointing straight at the uprights, and he fixes his eyes on the bar. From this moment he does not remove his gaze from that pine stick, or from the handkerchief which may be hanging from it, until he has made his leap. He should never look to see where he is placing the pole to vault, for this will interfere with the success of his leap. The pole will take care of itself.
For going down the runway with the pole styles differ. Some vaulters hold the pole well up over the chest, while others (like Mr. Buchholz in the accompanying illustrations) hold the pole well down. The novice will find it better to keep his right or higher hand well up under his head. The athlete starts down the runway at full speed, and when he reaches his take-off he plants the pole firmly into the ground with all his force, and springs straight for the cross-piece. The moment his body leaves the ground, the right arm stretches taut (illustration No. 4), and his body swings towards the pole.
The motion of the body as it rises is a turning one, the object being to twist and face the pole, so that when the proper height is reached the back will be towards the bar, that the heels may be lifted over. The fifth illustration shows the vaulter half-way up from the ground to the bar, which in this case was placed at nine feet. He has turned half around, and by the time he has nearly reached this height he is still further around. Illustration No. 6 shows the beginning of the working of the arms and of that twist which is so necessary to carry the body over at great heights. The working of the arms begins just before this twist is made, and consists of pulling with the right arm, and pushing with the left. This lifts the body, and the twist carries it over, together with a strong push against the pole at the last moment, when the athlete feels his upward motion is changing to a fall.
After the pole has been let go, all is plain sailing. You have either made your vault or you have not, and all you have to do is to fall free, or bring down the bar with you. No effort that the athlete can now make to avoid the bar will avail him, as the motion in mid-air is practically uncontrollable after the pole has been abandoned. It is easy to learn how to fall limp into the soft earth below, and there is never any danger attending this drop. It will be noticed in the illustration that the twisting motion imparted on the hither side of the bar turns the body so that the athlete falls with his back to the posts, having performed one complete gyration in mid-air. This is not by any means a necessary element of the event, however, for many men drop facing the runway.
It is not permissible in vaulting in America to move the upper hand on the pole. The lower hand may be brought up, and Hoyt, the Harvard athlete who won the vault at the Olympic games of 1895, usually does this. In England, "climbing the pole" is allowed, and athletes there frequently bring the lower hand up above the other. Some of them manage to make better records by this method too.
When training for this event the novice should not vault oftener than fifteen times a day, and he should never work with the pole more frequently than three times a week. On the intervening days he should do light work at sprinting. Take every height three times, and then raise the bar, for it is frequently possible for a man to clear a higher mark after failing at the point below. On one day each week try to see how high you can go.
Speaking of pole-vaulting, it is encouraging to record that at the Drisler games, a week ago Saturday, both Hurlburt of Berkeley and Paulding of Black Hall, Connecticut, broke the New York scholastic record for the pole vault. This was 9 ft. 10 in.; but on this occasion Hurlburt cleared 10 ft. 6 in., and Paulding took second with 10 ft. 4 in. Hipple lowered Meehan's scholastic record in the half-mile from 2 min. 9 sec. to 2 min. 7-4/5 sec. These were the only notable performances, except, perhaps, Moore's time of 10-2/5 sec. in the 100, which deserves mention. The Berkeley team carried off the honors of the day in points—an achievement which is somewhat prophetic for the Interscholastics next week.
Of the fifteen relay races held on Franklin Field, Saturday, April 25th, seven were competed in by scholastic runners. The contests were exciting, but not so much so as they would have been if the school athletes had been in any kind of condition. Hardly any of the runners were fit, and over half a dozen fainted outright at the relay mark. Many staggered along the last fifteen or twenty yards, as though they could barely lift one foot ahead of the other, plainly showing that they had not made proper preparation for the kind of work they were attempting to perform.
The races in their order, and the time made in each case, are given here for the sake of record:
First Race—Won by Adelphi Academy; second, De Lancey; third, Episcopal; fourth, Hamilton School. Time, 3 m. 49 sec.
Third Race—Won by Wilmington High-School; second, Norristown High-School; third, Camden High-School. Time, 3 m. 58-2/5 sec.
Fifth Race—Won by Friends' Central; second, Haverford Grammar School; third, Swarthmore Grammar; fourth, Cheltenham. Time, 3m. 54 sec.
Seventh Race—Won by Pennington; second, Hill School; third, Brown Preparatory; fourth, York Collegiate. Time, 3 m. 50-4/5 sec.
Ninth Race—Won by Germantown Academy; second, Penn Charter; third, Abington Friends' Central; fourth, Eastburn Academy. Time, 3 m. 50-1/5 sec.
Eleventh Race—Won by West Chester Normal School; second, South Jersey Institute; third, Drexel Institute; fourth, Temple College. Time, 3 m. 55-2/5 sec.
Thirteenth Race—Won by Central High-School; second, Roman Catholic High-School; third, Manual Training School. Time, 3 m. 44-1/5 sec.
The Adelphi team had an easy time of it for first place, the real contest being among the three other schools. A hot struggle was that between the Hill School and Pennington, in which the latter won. Kiefer, who ran the last lap for the Hill, had twenty yards to kill to get even with his opponent. He made a pretty fight, but Finnegan was too much for him, and defeated him in the last ten yards. In the ninth race Germantown met its old rival, Penn Charter, and took it into camp. Eastburn Academy took the lead at first, beating Penn Charter by three yards on the lap, with Germantown, Abington, and Friends' School puffing along in that order. But Eastburn's second man lost the advantage won, and soon dropped to the rear. Germantown then passed Penn Charter, finished first in the second relay, and kept the lead to the end. The last race—that between Central High, Catholic High, and Manual Training—was uninteresting, all three schools maintaining the order given from start to finish.
| Event. | Winner. | Performance. | |||
| 100-yard dash | Drum, L.H.-S. | 11 | sec. | ||
| 220-yard dash | Drum, L.H.-S. | 24-2/5 | " | ||
| 440-yard dash | Woolsey, B.H.-S. | 56-1/5 | " | ||
| Half-mile run | Shaw, L.H.-S. | 2 | m. | 12-4/5 | " |
| Mile run | Cutler, L.H.-S. | 5 | " | 7¼ | " |
| 120-yard hurdles | Cheek, O.H.-S. | 17-4/5 | " | ||
| 220-yard hurdles | Warnick, B.H.-S. | 29-1/5 | " | ||
| Running high jump | Hoffmann, O.H.-S. | 5 | ft. | 5 | in. |
| Running broad jump | Parker, B.H.-S. | 20 | " | 7 | " |
| Pole vault | Hoffmann, O.H.-S. | 10 | " | ||
| Throwing 16-lb. hammer | Smith, Hoitt's. | 103 | " | 10½ | " |
| Putting 16-lb. shot | Cheek, O.H.-S. | 37 | " | 5¼ | " |
| Event. | Second. | Third. |
| 100-yard dash | Lippman, Hoitt's. | Jenks, O.H.-S. |
| 220-yard dash | Jenks, O.H.-S. | Switzer, St. M. |
| 440-yard dash | Osborn, St. M. | Smith, P.H.-S. |
| Half-mile run | Steele, O.H.-S. | Manley, St. M. |
| Mile run | Haseltine, B.H.-S. | Smith, O.H.-S. |
| 120-yard hurdles | Colby, B.H.-S. | ————- |
| 220-yard hurdles | Dawson, O.H.-S. | Parker, B-H.-S. |
| Running high jump | Grant, P.H.-S. | Man, P.H.-S. |
| Running broad jump | Cheek, O.H.-S. | Simonds, B.H.-S. |
| Pole vault | Cheek, O.H.-S. | Woolsey, B.H.-S. |
| Throwing 16-lb. hammer | Lynch, O.H.-S. | Johnson, St. M. |
| Putting 16-lb. shot | Woolsey, B.H.-S. | Goodale, B.H.-S. |
| Relay race, one mile | Lowell. | Oakland. |
| Points. | |
| Oakland High-School | 42 |
| Berkeley High-School | 38 |
| Lowell High-School | 26 |
| Hoitt's | 8 |
| St. Matthew's | 6 |
| Polytechnic High-School | 5 |
| —- | |
| Total | 125 |
N.B.—The odd point in the 120-yard hurdles was left unscored, there being but three men in the race, and one of them, Dawson, O.H.-S., being disqualified.
O.H.-S., Oakland High-School; B.H.-S., Berkeley High-School; L.H.-S., Lowell High-School of San Francisco; P.H.-S., Polytechnic High-School of San Francisco; St. M., St. Matthew's School; Hoitt's, Hoitt's School.
The Spring Field Day of the Academic Athletic League of the Pacific Coast was held on the University of California[Pg 663] track at Berkeley, Saturday, April 18th, with the results as shown on the preceding page. It was a bad day for track sports—cold, and eventually rainy, with a cross wind that brought no help to the racers. Nevertheless, the performances were noteworthy in several cases, and a glance at last year's record of the California schools' games will show that the tendency of the records is downwards. Drum took the 100 after a hot fight with Jenks, and also scored a win in the 220. Jenks had been looked upon as a pretty sure winner for the longer sprint, having equalled the Coast record in his heat; but Drum was too much for him, and Switzer came near cheating him out of second honors. These two defeats seemed to discourage the O.H.-S. man, for although entered he did not compete in the quarter. This race went to Woolsey, who got his points through heroic treatment of his distance. He wanted to save himself for the relay, and yet take the quarter too, which he felt confident he could do, having covered the distance in 54½ sec. So he set a hot pace from the start, covering the first 220 in 25-1/5. The field followed close, but the pace killed them, and Woolsey came home in the excellent time of 56-1/5 sec. The A.A.L. record is only 1/5 sec. lower.
Steele, O.H.-S., had trained to run his first quarter of the half-mile in 60 sec., counting on these tactics to slaughter the rest. But the bunch fastened on, and at the end of the second lap Shaw of Lowell showed unexpected endurance and crept ahead. He and Steele then ran within a yard of one another to the tape, which Shaw breasted first in 2 m. 12-4/5 sec. There was a big field for the mile run, and a remarkably tight one. At the end of the third lap Haseltine hit up the pace, but Cutler of Lowell was good for it, and rushed in a winner. Dawson was unfortunate in the hurdles. Some one has taught him a bad trick in practice—to run around an obstacle after knocking the previous one or losing his stride—and he suffered for it. He knocked the top bar off the eighth hurdle, played his trick of dodging the ninth, took the tenth, and beat Cheek to the tape. Of course he was disqualified, but as an O.H.-S. man won, his error was of less consequence than it might have been. It is always better to work in practice just as the rules require that you work in competition. Then you have an advantage over the other man.
In the high jump Grant, P. H.-S., proved a surprise. His form is wretched, but he has springs in his feet. He tied with Hoffmann for first place, and lost the honor on the toss. Cheek could have done better in the shot after he won it, in going for a record, but forbore on account of his other events. The hammer throw was somewhat complicated by the failure of the judges to mark accurately Lynch's sixth and last throw. The least they could give him was the 102 ft. 9 in., but to make the thing square all three were allowed a seventh throw. Smith and Johnson did not improve their marks, but Lynch threw 109 ft. In doing so, however, he fouled by overstepping an inch, and the event went to Smith of Hoitt's.
In the relay race the Berkeley team led all the way, and won in 3 min. 31 sec., which is within 10 seconds of the Pacific Coast record, made by U. of C. in 1894. Drum did the best work for O.H.-S., but his mates were not in condition, and the event was lost to them.
Every school that competed at the meeting scored. This fact is especially creditable for Polytechnic H.-S., St. Matthew's, and Hoitt's, all being new members of the A.A.L., and not so seasoned in athletics as some of the other schools. Their teams give good promise, and if they keep on as they have begun, Oakland and Berkeley will have to look sharp!
The Princeton Interscholastic tennis tournament was not held last Saturday, as had been announced. The date was considered too early in the season, none of the school players having yet had sufficient time to get into tournament form. The date now proposed is May 23d.
George W. Rollins, Boston, Mass.—The best kind of training for a ten-mile bicycle race is to take short spins of a mile or two at speed on a track, and long rides of from fifteen to eighteen miles on the road, on alternate days, for two or three weeks previous to the date of the race. If you can ascertain what road the race is to be run over, it is well to become as familiar with it as possible; but do not try to ride the distance on time more frequently than once in ten days.
F. J. Chapman, New Richmond, Wis.—See answer above for your question on training. Cold baths are good, if you rub down well afterward. Never continue exercising when you begin to feel the slightest fatigue. It is not well to go to bed immediately after exercising; and it is better to run early in the morning rather than in the evening.
The Graduate.
Real Lace Robes,
Organdie Dresses, French Caps,
Hand-made Guimpes,
COATS.
Children's Reefers,
Outing Suits,
Wash Dresses.
Children's Hand-Emb. Underwear.
The many imitations of HIRES Rootbeer simply point to its excellence—the genuine article proves it.
Made only by The Charles E. Hires Co., Philadelphia.
A 25c. package makes 5 gallons. Sold everywhere.
Impure food that may not seriously affect the stronger digestive organs of an adult will frequently cause serious illness in a child. A child's food is largely cakes and bread, and these things when light, sweet, and composed of materials free from deleterious substances are easily digested, nutritious, and wholesome. But there is a danger to children too liable to be lost sight of. If their bread and cake are risen with alum baking powders they are not healthful, but will produce serious digestive disturbances. Mothers are liable to overlook this fact, and because such food may not produce immediate ill results with the adult, give it to the children unmindful of their greater susceptibility to harm. Professor Willard Parker, United States Surgeon-General Hammond, Professor Alonzo Clark, and other eminent physicians have spoken most earnestly of the evils arising from food made with these alum baking powders.
The makers of the Royal Baking Powder are entitled to the thanks of every mother in the land, because of the better food it insures. The physicians tell us that its use in biscuit and cake really adds to the healthfulness of these articles. We have known some of the best doctors to prescribe Royal Baking Powder as a remedy for digestive disturbances who, when asked why they did it, replied: "Because this is about the only form in which we can get chemically pure cream of tartar and bi-carbonate of soda."
Mothers should take a hint from this, and use as much care in the choice of a baking powder as in obtaining pure milk, or in having a prescription compounded from pure drugs.—Mothers' Magazine.
On Bosworth Field
King Richard cried:
"My kingdom for a horse!"
But times have changed—
To-day he'd want
A Monarch wheel, of course.
and a wheel fit for a king. Made in 4 models, $80 and $100. For children and adults who want a lower price wheel the Defiance is made in 8 models, $40 to $75. Send for Monarch book.
Lake, Halsted and Fulton Sts., CHICAGO
83 Reade Street, New York.
The celebrated and effectual English Cure without internal medicine. Proprietors, W. Edward & Son, London, England.
E. Fougera & Co., 30 North William St., N.Y.
The Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject. Our maps ind tours contain much valuable data kindly supplied from the official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen. Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L. A. W., the Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership blanks and information so far as possible.
So many inquiries have been received of late asking information regarding bicycling in Europe, that it will prove more satisfactory to answer these in a general way in this Department than to attempt to give specific replies to each writer. The usual question which presents itself is the one of expense. How cheaply can a person make a trip from New York to England by steamer, ride through England for a month, and return? Many a boy and girl has the time in school or college vacation to take this trip if it could be done at a reasonable figure. Crossing the ocean is now a much cheaper, quicker, and easier matter than it used to be. There are very comfortable cattle-steamers leaving New York for London which make the trip in ten or twelve days, and which carry perhaps twenty-five passengers. The accommodations are very good, and it is a perfectly feasible method of crossing the ocean. The fare on these steamers, first-class, ranges from $40 up. On the regular passenger steamers it is quite proper, and does not involve a loss of dignity, for school-boys or college men to cross second-class, which ranges from $35 up. You can see, then, that so far as going from America to England is concerned not much expense is involved; $60 to $70 will procure the round-trip passage, which will occupy about sixteen to twenty days. On the other side the travelling expenses with a wheel may be made almost anything the individual chooses to make them. One wheelman will ride from city to city, stopping at large hotels in each city, spending several days there, and going to theatres and places of amusement. Another will stop at the inns through the midland counties of England, ride through the cities, and stop at hotels in Scotland. A third will invariably try some farmer or shepherd's cottage, there ask to be taken in overnight, and will only enter public-houses when he comes to some such famous hostelry as the Swan Inn near Therlmere. These are only three grades of travellers, and where the first will average from $10 to $20 a day, the third will probably do it on the average of not more than $1 a day.
Let us take up the question of English wheeling this week, and the French side of bicycling next week. To bicycle through England certain simple facts should be borne in mind. In the first place, do not take a steamer for Liverpool. Sail from New York or Boston by a steamer that stops at Southampton, and begin your trip through England from Southampton itself. If you go to Liverpool, there will be some difficulty in getting out of Liverpool itself, and the country immediately around Liverpool is not so attractive as that around Southampton. Starting from Southampton, then, cross to Isle of Wight and ride through Newport and Ryde, going even so far as St. Catharine's Point. Returning to the mainland, it may be said that any route you may lay out will lead you through beautiful country of fine roads, and suitable places for stopping at every mile. One good ride is through Dorset, Devon, and Cornwall to Land's End. But the chief route, and the best one probably if it is your first in England, is to run from Southampton through Winchester, Aldershot, and thence across a corner of Surrey to London. From London, following the Thames, out through Windsor, Henley, Abingdon, to Oxford; thence to Cheltenham, and from this point passing up through Warwickshire, circling around Birmingham instead of going into the city, and making for Leicester. From Leicester run straight to Derby, and then there are many routes to Chester. From Chester the object should be to reach Windermere without passing through too many of the great manufacturing towns. This route each man must pick out according to his map and his own judgment.
On reaching Windermere, on the edge of Lake Windermere, move on to Ambleside, Keswick; thence through Newmarket to Carlisle. Leaving Carlisle, make for the Solway Firth railway bridge, cross on the railroad train, and run up through Dumfries. From this point to Ayr there is a very good road, and at the end of it any one who is an admirer of Burns may study him in his home. From Ayr proceed to Glasgow through Kilmarnock, and from Glasgow the prettiest run is through Dumbarton up the western shore of Loch Lomond; then, following the valley at the north end of the Loch, you will come in time to Tyndrum, and from here it is not a long run to Oban. Here the trip may be further extended up the Caledonian Canal, or the return trip may be made through Stirling to Edinburgh, and thence back to London along the east coast. Such a trip may be completed, including the journey over and back, in from six to eight weeks, and if the method of going to private houses wherever feasible is followed, the expense need not exceed $250.
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.
Green prints may be made by first making a red print, and then, by the use of nitrate of cobalt, changing the red tone to a brilliant green. The process for making red prints is fully described in No. 850 of the Round Table, but we repeat the formula, referring the amateur to the paper on red prints for fuller details.
Sensitize photographic paper by floating it on a solution made of 96 grs. of nitrate of uranium dissolved in 8 oz. of distilled water. Dry by a gentle heat, and print. This is not a printing-out paper, but the picture is brought out by development. A strong negative requires ten minutes in bright sunlight and two hours in the shade. Remove the print from the frame, and place at once in a dish of hot water for 30 seconds (120° Fahr.). Drain off the water, and lay the print face up in a toning-tray, and flood with a solution made of 40 grs. of red prussiate of potash and 4 oz. of distilled water. Keep the tray in motion so that all parts of the print may be equally affected by the developer. In a few minutes the picture will begin to appear, and will develop up a beautiful red color. Wash this print in several changes of water till no more color runs from it and the washing water is clear.
Have ready a ten-per-cent. solution of nitrate of cobalt. Place the red print in this without drying, leave it in for one minute, remove, and, without washing, dry by a fire. The red print will turn to a beautiful green; the more intense the heat used in drying the more brilliant will be the green color. This print is not permanent, but must be made so by immersing in a fixing solution prepared as follows:
| Distilled Water | 4 | oz. |
| Sulphate of Iron | 80 | grs. |
| Sulphuric Acid | 4 | scruples. |
Have this solution made up at the dealer in photographic supplies, as the sulphuric acid is a dangerous acid to handle. The small quantity in the solution will do no harm, though it is best to use rubber fingertips when handling all known poisonous chemicals. Place the print in this fixing solution for 30 seconds, pass it through three or four changes of water, and dry by the fire. Landscapes printed on green tinted paper make a pleasing change from the brown and black tones generally used.
Sir Knight W. F. Blatchley asks what kind of sensitized paper to use for pictures which are to be reproduced in periodicals. Any printing paper, with the exception of blue prints, may be used; but the black and white tones are preferred to the reddish browns.
Sir Knight Le Roy Thompson asks what other color beside red and violet may be produced with nitrate of uranium. Green, blue-black, chestnut-brown, copper color, and several other tints may be made by different toning solutions or treatments of the print. The processes will be described in early numbers of the Round Table.
Sir Knight Thomas S. Winston, Box 65, Albertville, La., says that he has some curios, consisting of turtle shells, water moss, water celery, wild boar's tusks, etc., and a collection of about one thousand stamps, which he would like to exchange for a Pocket Kodak or a Kombi Camera.
Sir Knight Lawrence Fraley sends the following formula for developing bromide paper: Water (filtered), 20 oz.; carbonate of soda, 300 grs.; sulphite of soda, 500 grs.; hydrochinon, 30 grs.; metol, 30 grs. Sir Knight Lawrence says that he has used this developer, and finds that one can make a much shorter exposure and obtain clear whites and fine detail in shadows. This developer works equally well with dry plates. Sir Lawrence has the thanks of the club for his formula.
Lesley Ashburner asks what makes prints gray; the sizes and prices of transferrotype and bromide paper; a formula for toning solution; and in what number it gives directions for enlargements. The reason prints assume a gray color is because they are left too long in the toning solution, or the toning solution is not fresh. Bromide and transferrotype paper may be bought in any size desired; 4 by 5 costs 50 cents per dozen, and 5 by 7 costs 65 cents per dozen for both papers. A formula for toning solution may be found in No. 825. A formula for toning solution comes with every package of sensitive paper, and may always be relied on to produce good results. Several toning solutions will be given in an early number of the Camera Club. The number giving directions for enlarging is No. 801 of the Round Table, and the article is entitled "Bromide Enlargements."
This Department is conducted in the interest of stamp and coin collectors, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on these subjects so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Stamp Department.
The second type of the 5c. Baton Rouge has been seen by Mr. Deats with the error McCcrmick.
The widespread collecting of imprints of the current issue of U.S. stamps has led an enterprising publisher in New York to place on the market an album for the use of collectors. Each Plate No. has a page with spaces for all four positions of the imprint, and separate pages are prepared for the watermarked and unwatermarked varieties.
The newspapers report the arrest, in Chicago, of a gang of counterfeiters who have been printing counterfeit U.S. 2c. stamps by lithographic process, in sheets containing twenty-five stamps. It is said that large quantities of the stamps have been used. No copies have been seen in New York as yet. Should any of the Round Table readers have any copies of these stamps, I should be glad to see one. They are described as bearing a smudged look.
The influence of fashion in fixing the price of stamps has been curiously illustrated at the last large auction held in New York city. The gems of the sale were the 1878 reprints of the U.S. stamps from 1847 to 1870, and of the periodical stamps from 2c. to 60c. These reprint periodicals are the only copies known, and yet the price obtained for them was an average of only $6 each. The original 9c. stamp, of which hundreds of copies are in existence, sells for $15. The unique reprint of the same stamp brought $10 only. The purchaser secured a great bargain.
An old story has been going the rounds of the press lately of how a small boy wrote to Field-Marshal Yamagata for some Japanese stamps, and received in reply a complete set of all the Japanese stamps unused. The story is probably true, but the sequel is not given. The success of this boy's request was published, and as a result the Marshal was overwhelmed by thousands of similar requests from collectors all over the world. Of course they got nothing.
Belgium has caught the speculation fever. Designs have been invited for stamps to be used in commemoration of the International Exhibition to be held in 1897. Germany has filed an official protest against such stamps by proposing the following resolution, which will be considered at the International Postal Union Congress at Washington in May, 1897: "Resolved, That the International Postal Union will exclude all stamps which are not necessary for actual postal requirements, especially the so-called Jubilee and Celebration stamps."
Sir Robert Hart, Commissioner of the Chinese Customs, has been asked by the Emperor of China to organize a national postal system. If the project is carried out, the many Chinese Locals will be made valueless in the eyes of every one.
R. Craig.—The current 50c. U.S. cancelled is worth 10c. The old bank bill has no value.
E. C. Wood, Germantown, Pa., K. C. Gibson, Morrisburg, Ont., wish to exchange U. S. and Canada stamps.
W. C. A.—The rarest U.S. cents are 1793, Liberty Cap, $7.50; 1799 over 98, $7.50; 1799, perfect date, $10.
C. F. Philip.—Values of sets of U.S. Departments in unused "mint" condition, are, State, $287; Executive, $49; Navy, $40; Agriculture, $27.65; Treasury, $12; War, $4.50; Post-office, $4.50; Justice, $110; Interior, $4.50. Used sets are not worth as much, and damaged sets are materially less in value. The loss of a single perforation, or uneven centering, will affect some of the stamps from ten per cent. to thirty per cent. in value.
J. H. Brown.—There are two varieties of the 1860 silver 5c. piece. The one bearing the figure of Liberty with "United States of America" around it is common. The one with Liberty surrounded by stars in place of "United States of America" is rare. Dealers charge $5 for a good copy of the rare stamp, 10c. for the common one.
J. S. Popper.—I do not know what album you have, nor can I say whether your stamp is genuine or counterfeit, as I have not seen it. The New York 5c. black, Washington's portrait, has a space in all the standard albums, at the beginning of the U.S. issues. The Saxony 10 gr. blue is worth $4. The Roman stamps are catalogued at 5c. each.
J. Hall.—The 24c. U.S. 1851, unperforated, is a very rare stamp. An unsevered pair would be worth from $250 to $500. A single stamp is worth $100. Unprincipled parties have taken copies of the 1856 perforated stamp with wide margins, and trimmed off the perforations, then offering the same as unperforated.
N. C. Wilbur.—Your coin is a Columbian quarter made by the U.S. government, and is a legal tender for face value. It is getting a little scarce, and dealers now ask $1.25 for it.
Philatus.
different advertisements of
The variety of Columbia Bicycle advertising is great. All the good points of Columbias, all the delight of riding them, cannot be fully described in any one advertisement, nor in a hundred.
We wish to know how many announcements can reach any one person, and so offer a
to whoever shall send us the greatest number of different Columbia Bicycle advertisements clipped from newspapers or magazines issued since Jan. 1, 1896.
Many advertisements differ only in a word or two; others in the style of type; distinct variations only, however, will be counted.
Each advertisement must have plainly attached to it the name and date of the newspaper or magazine from which it is clipped.
Separate entries cannot be combined.
Entries must be received by us at Hartford on or before Tuesday, June 30, 1896. In case of a tie, the award will be made according to priority of receipt and entry. Address
No. 75 Hartford Single Tubes—the standard racing tires, the kind Bald rode in 1895.
No. 80 Hartford Single-Tubes—the standard fast road tires, delightful, buoyant, comfortable.
No. 77 Hartford Single-Tubes—the standard tires for those who are willing to sacrifice a little speed for greater security from puncture. The ideal tire for tandems.
No. 70 Hartford Single-Tubes—the standard tires for rocky, hilly country.
Nos. 303, 404, 170, 604 E. F., 601 E. F.
And other styles to suit all hands.
to agents selling stamps from my 50% approval sheets. Send at once for circular and price-list giving full information.
Every one who sends me 20 unused stamps of his land will receive 20 unused stamps, in good varieties, from Japan.
LOOK HERE, BOYS! 50 stamps and hinges, 15c; 100, 25c. Cheaper packets if you want. Sheets on approval. List sent free. Send Postal Card.
STAMPS! 100 all dif. Barbados, etc. Only 10c. Ag'ts w't'd at 50% com. List free. L. DOVER & CO., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.
Stamps. Approval sheets. Agents w't'd; 50% com.
Stamps, 105 all dif. fine S. Am., etc., 10c. Agt's w't'd, 50%. List free. Stockbridge Stamp Co. 1219 Shawmut Pl., St. Louis, Mo.
FINE APPROVAL SHEETS. Agents wanted at 50% com. P. S. Chapman, Box 151, Bridgeport, Ct.
Not only is it excellent in its written text, but artists make its pages artistically beautiful.—Chicago Inter-Ocean, Feb. 22, 1896.
"When may I hear the story?"
"Well," replied Walter Preston, the genial station-master at Springdale, "it happened several years ago. I could tell you many more wonderful stories than this, concerning Hector, in which he displayed almost human intelligence. The only remarkable thing about this story lies in the fact that a number of human lives were placed in a position of deadly peril, and that all were saved—not in any wonderful manner, but, nevertheless, saved by Hector.
"When we first moved here we lived a mile down the track in the only house near the station at that time. Hector was my only companion while on duty, and in all these years he has never failed to accompany me, night or day, in sunshine or in storm. He is one of the best dogs I ever saw. I have never been able to make out his breed, but that is of small importance to me.
"Since the company put in their new system of signals there have been but few accidents, but before that they were of frequent occurrence. When I came here the road had only a single track, and the signal-station was put in as a matter of precaution, owing to the dangers arising from the heavy grades, dangerous curves, and many deep cuts.
"For several years I had only one man to help me. During the first month I did all the day work, but after that we changed about, and I frequently took the nightshift. My partner came down from C—— on the six-o'clock train in the morning or evening as the case might be; but as these trains were frequently two or three hours late, I often had to send Hector home for my meals. I would tie a note to his collar, and he would carry it to the house in a very few minutes. Wife would then put up my lunch for me and tie it to his collar. He never failed but once in bringing it to me safely. Then the basket came loose and fell in the dirt; but Hector took the basket in his mouth and carried it back to the house to be replenished.
"Being away from home from twelve to fourteen hours each day, no duties to speak of, and only Hector for a companion, the time passed slowly enough. Trains made no regular stop here, and when by some unusual chance a stray passenger wished to take the train, my red flag by day or red light at night 'hauled up' the desired train.
"One stormy evening when I was on the night shift I sat in my little den of an office listening to the clicking of the telegraph instruments, as the usual business passed to and fro on the wires—business in which I took no active part. Hector lay behind the stove as you see him now, entirely oblivious of the gale that rattled the windows and went shrieking and howling through the upper gorge.
"For once my little office seemed cheerful, when compared with the raging storm on the outside, and I had just settled myself before the fire to enjoy my book when I heard the instruments calling. Answering at once, I took my pen and copied the following message:
"'To operator at Springdale.—Special left A—— at 7.30, and by mistake No. 12 left C—— at 7.45: both due at Springdale at 9.15. Be very sure to stop them if possible!—Hobbs, Despatcher.'
"No. 12 was a through freight that never stopped at Springdale, and the special contained some of the officers and stock-holders of the road, with their families, returning from a pleasure trip. I had been watching the progress of the special, as its orders had been flashed along the wires, and knew that it was running at the rate of nearly a mile a minute.
"I glanced at the clock. It was already just nine o'clock. Only about ten minutes left in which to act. My only chance lay in hanging out my red light for the special, and then running in the direction of the freight, as that was coming down grade and would be hard to stop. Still, I knew that the engineer of the special could not see my signal until he rounded the curve, and having no orders to stop, he might disregard it altogether.
"I FASTENED ONE OF THE LANTERNS TO HIS COLLAR."Luckily, I had several red lanterns, and they were soon lighted. Hanging up two as signals for the special, I took two more, one in each hand, and started up the grade. But a sudden thought struck me. My home lay in the direction from which the special was coming; so I turned back and called to Hector. He came to me at once, and I fastened one of the lanterns to his collar and ordered him home. He didn't like the looks of the storm, but he started off, the lantern swinging back and forth about six inches from the ground.
"Seeing that Hector was well started on his mission, I turned again and started up the grade. As I beat my way as best I could against wind and storm, I began to realise how nearly hopeless my task was. Just ahead of me lay the great gorge, a deep cut nearly a quarter of a mile in length. It was extremely dangerous to enter this even in the daytime, as the cut was new, and there was little room to get out of the way of the train. But I must risk it if I hoped to save the many precious lives; so on I went, stumbling over the uneven ties, falling several times, but never daring to stop even to catch my breath. I thanked Heaven when the last rock of the cut was passed: but now the fierce gale met me stronger than ever. Fearful of having my light blown out, and hearing the train close at hand, I stepped aside under the shelter of a rock. As the train rounded the curve and the headlight flashed into view I swung my lantern vigorously, but no one seemed to notice me.
"'Gracious!' I cried, 'will they never see me?'
"The huge monster lighted up the gorge at my feet for an instant, and then with a shriek dashed by; but that shriek meant 'down brakes.' Ah, what a load was lifted from my heart when I heard that sound!
"By the time the way-car had passed I could see that the speed was slackening. With the wind now at my back, I made quick time down the grade. The two engines stood in front of the station 'nose to nose.' They had met with sufficient force to throw all the passengers from their seats, but no damage had been done.
"The little platform was crowded with people, passengers of the special and trainmen, who eagerly awaited my coming. In a few words I told them my story—how I had hung out the signals, how I had run up the track in time to stop the freight.
"'I saw a red light swinging back and forth near the ground, about half a mile back,' said the engineer of the special. 'I only caught a glimpse of it as we rushed by, but I slowed up; then when I saw the red light at the station I whistled for brakes at once, and, coming to a stop, I saw the headlight of the freight just in time to back up enough to escape disaster.'
"'What was the light you first saw?' was asked.
"As if in answer Hector just then appeared from behind the passenger train, the lantern swinging back and forth in front of him. It was the first time he had ever failed to go home when I sent him, but he evidently knew that his mission was fulfilled. He was at once the centre of an excited crowd, and I am sure he received enough attention that night to spoil any dog.
"It was only a few days before I received a check for a large sum, a present from the company, together with the notice that Hector had been put on the company's pay-roll at fifty dollars per month. I was also offered another position with a larger salary, but I declined it.
"In about a week there came to my office a little package addressed to 'Hector, care of Walter Preston.' It contained a handsome gold-plated collar, on which were engraved his name and a little sketch, 'How Hector Saved the Train.' It has never since been off his neck.
"Yes, sir, I have been offered large sums for Hector, but there isn't money enough to buy him."
Here is something to set the Table guessing. All articles mentioned grow, and all are of the same general character, hence the expression in the last verse, "numerous family." The questions are, What general family is it? and what are each of the forty-three things indicated by the numbers? No prizes are offered in this contest, and you are not asked to send answers. The latter will be published in two weeks. The Table will have a prize-puzzle contest very soon.
Our pedigree is old and long.
Starred with familiar names;
Our family is popular,
And much of worth it claims.
'Tis needless to discriminate
Where all such merit claim;
We'll just describe our characters,
And you can guess each name.
I am the oldest one of all, (1)
And I, the silliest; (2)
I help to play a pleasant game, (3)
While I am just "non est." (4)
I drive a carriage, as you see; (5)
I sit upon the seat; (6)
I'm just a summer visitor; (7)
I exercise the feet. (8)
I furnish you a light at night, (9)
And I am very slow; (10)
But I am of a royal line, (11)
And we are white as snow. (12-13)
I cover o'er the cottage roof,
Supply you with a bed; (14)
We furnish men two kinds of drink; (15-16)
We're looked upon with dread. (17-18)
We bear the names of animals, (19-20)
And we have wings to fly; (21-22-23)
My home is in a swampy place, (24)
And I live in the sky. (25)
I beautify the landscape wide
In early morning hours; (26)
And I adorn the maiden fair,
Mayhap in bridal bowers. (27)
I wear the color of the sky, (28)
And I'm of Afric hue; (29)
I'm an unwelcome visitor,
Though very useful too. (30)
I oft have crowned the victor's brow; (31)
We always block the way; (32-33)
I always keep you in suspense, (34)
And I make winter gay. (35)
Called for a migratory bird,
I'm very sour, you see; (36)
While I am just the opposite,
And sweet as I can be. (37)
We bring good cheer at Christmas-time; (38-39)
We keep the household neat; (40-41)
And I, who try your temper some,
Am really very sweet. (42)
Of all our numerous family
We've mentioned just a few,
But call attention to one more,
The last—'tis simply you. (43)
Miss A. C. Banning.
Newport, R. I.
This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.
How to strengthen the memory is an interesting question. I think the best way is to use it constantly, making it serve you by giving it definite facts and events to carry, as a pack-horse might on a journey. There are many phases of the problem, some people finding that they cannot fix dates in their minds, others forgetting the faces and names of friends, and others still having great trouble in committing anything by rote. Devices of rhymes and associations help some persons, and others simply depend on memoranda, and do not tax their memories at all. As a rule, the more we give the memory to do, however, the more quickly and faithfully it will respond to our wishes. In little children memory is very retentive, because their minds are at the stage when impressions are easily made; you know the line which says that in childhood our minds are "Wax to receive, and marble to retain." So that we should be very careful indeed about what we say, what we do, and what we teach, where the dear little ones are concerned.
Gladys R. S—— has a great deal of trouble in remembering the rules of syntax, the Latin conjugations, and the pages of history which her teacher requires to be recited exactly as they are in the book. Try the method of studying aloud, Gladys. Go away by yourself to commit your lessons to memory, and then, over and over, slowly, carefully, with your mind and attention fixed on what you are doing, read phrases, sentences and formulas, over and over, and over and over, and by-and-by you will have them by heart. I have often done this when I have wished to learn a hymn or a poem, and I know that hearing what one is studying assists the mere seeing. Then having other people in the room, talking and laughing, is very distracting to the attention. Try my method, and report results.
There is a good deal of useless luggage which one does not need to carry in one's memory. An engagement calendar, in which you enter explicitly the several things you have to do, the people you must meet, the places where you are to go—lunching on Monday with Emily, attending the Lookout Committee of the Christian Endeavor at five o'clock on Tuesday, going to the reception of the King's Daughters on Saturday at three—all these engagements may be recorded against their dates, and you need have no concern, beyond consulting your calendar every morning.
Genevieve W.—A short skirt answers every purpose of gaiety and convenience, though there is no objection to your wearing bloomers if you wish to do so.
A luxury is "Any thing which pleases the senses and is also costly or difficult to obtain."
Ivory Soap pleases the senses, but is neither costly nor difficult to obtain. Your grocer keeps it.
for Boys and Girls,
and the "grown-ups," too,
to earn a BICYCLE, dainty CAMERA, fine SEWING-MACHINE, and many other Choice Premiums,
By getting subscriptions to the children's favorite magazines,
BABYLAND and LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN.
BABYLAND is only 50 cents a year; many Pictures, dainty Stories. Every family with children, from baby up to the 7-year-old, wants BABYLAND.
LITTLE MEN AND WOMEN is a finely illustrated magazine, $1.00 a year. Edited especially for children from 7 to 11. A great favorite.
Weight of Bicycles, from 20 to 22 lbs. 1896 Models. Proper sizes for all ages.
We offer to every one this great opportunity. All the year, if necessary, in which to send names. FULL PARTICULARS AND SAMPLES FREE. Address
Dialogues, Speakers, for School, Club and Parlor. Catalogue free.
A Story of the Revolution. By James Barnes. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50.
This is a story for young readers, and recounts the adventures of twin brothers who are brought up, just prior to the Revolution, in an American Tory family. One of the brothers becomes imbued with the spirit of American patriotism, and is one of the first to enlist in the service of his country; while the other, having been taken to England, obtains a lieutenant's commission in the English army, and sails with his regiment to fight under the standard of King George. The story is a strong piece of character drawing, and the interest centres in the struggles of the two brothers—one in his loyalty to his country and the other in his loyalty to his king.
By Albert Lee. Illustrated by Peter S. Newell. Square 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.
A more entertaining collection of nonsense has rarely been penned.—Boston Traveller.
There is an endless amount of fun in "Tommy Toddles."—N. Y. Times.
Just the book for children, and grown people will find plenty of fun in it.—N. Y. Sun.
In Questions and Answers. By Mary Hastings Foote. With Map. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.
It is only occasionally in the book-market that we come across such a clear decantation of long and well-digested reading as may be found in this book.—Critic, N. Y.
Clear the way!
Clear the way!
This is the Moonfays' Racing Day;
And the terrapin will race the hare
From the oaken-tree to the dodo's lair;
And this is the end of the second heat,
To see which terrapin is most fleet;
For since that time, long years ago,
When the hare was covered with dreadful woe,
When terrapin beat
Brer Rabbit fleet,
The hares have been
So full of chagrin,
They've wanted another chance to win.
And now to-day, this afternoon.
They're going to race by the light of the moon,
For a golden prize—
Two pumpkin pies.
So clear the way!
Clear the way!
So that all hands may have fair play.
P.S.—Don't wager upon the hare
Till you have heard the conditions there;
Brer Terrapin carries his home with him,
And to make things even the rabbit slim
Must race shut up in a ragman's sack,
With his hind legs strapped up over his back.
A colored "auntie" seeing the child of a white acquaintance for the first time, exclaimed:
"Law, massa, how like she is to you! She done got all yore symptoms."
Two negroes were fighting on a wharf in a little Southern town, and although apparently desperate in their intentions, the actual fighting was rather mild. A timid bystander, not accustomed to the harmlessness of such fights, and fearing that the under man would be seriously hurt, called out:
"Let him up. Can't you see you'll hurt him?"
At this both the negroes burst out laughing, and the one on top cried:
"Yah! yah! Let him up! Why, boss, Ise had too much trouble to git 'im down. Hi! hi!"
Teacher. "What is the principal product of value derived from the seal?"
Johnny (unhesitatingly). "Sealing-wax."
"Ma, where is Atoms?"
"Athens, you mean, my boy; don't you?"
"No, ma'am; I mean Atoms; because when a person is in a boiler explosion, they always say he is blown to Atoms."
In England the "rules of the road" require foot-passengers to keep to the right, and horsemen and vehicles to keep to the left. Some years ago a learned justice looked into the matter, and thus explained it: "The foot-traveller," he observed, "in ancient times passed to the right in order that the shield, which was carried on the left arm, might be interposed to ward off a treacherous blow, while the right arm, or the sword-arm, was left free for action. Horsemen, on the other hand, were accustomed to wearing suits of mail for the protection of their bodies, and it was believed that there was greater safety in having the arm actively employed in defence and attack nearer to the enemy than to have to strike at him across the horse's neck; hence the horseman passed to the left, and vehicles were naturally required to do the same." This seems like a plausible reason, but in the United States it has been considered safer to have the rules of the road the same for pedestrians as well as for horsemen and vehicles; hence in this country the rule of the highway is to pass to the right. Possibly we choose the right in preference to the left on the simple proposition that if you turn to the right you cannot go wrong.
A portly old gentleman was with difficulty making his way down the street on a very windy day. The strong gusts occasionally carried him from side to side in a tacking sort of fashion, which finally brought him up with a crash against an Irishman who was plastering show-bills on a fence. The old gentleman very politely begged the bill-poster's pardon, and hoped he had not inconvenienced him much by getting in his way. So much politeness puzzled the bill-poster, and in a rich Irish brogue, he replied,
"Faith, if yez ain't in yer own way, yer not in moine!"
A DEEP VOICE.
a luckless bull-frog lost his voice while talking in his sleep,
and now he'll never fish it out—his voice it is so deep.
[1] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 857.
End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, May 5, 1896, by Various
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