The Project Gutenberg EBook of Harper's Round Table, May 19, 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 19, 1896 Author: Various Release Date: September 4, 2018 [EBook #57843] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, MAY 19, 1896 *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire
Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.
| published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 19, 1896. | five cents a copy. |
| vol. xvii.—no. 864. | two dollars a year. |
It was the critical moment in the famous sham battle of Easter Monday. The bicycle corps was a mile and a half away, and the signal post had been captured by the enemy. Unless the corps could be brought into the action the day was lost, and the wood road running back of the "Cardinal's Nob" offered the only possible means of communication. But could the message be conveyed in time? Colonel Howard turned to his son Jack, who stood anxious and silent at the front handle-bars of the Arrow, a modern racing quad, geared to 120, and stripped down to the enamel. The inspection seemed to satisfy him, and hastily scribbling a few lines on a page torn from his note-book, he handed the order to his son.
"Get this through if you possibly can," he said, briefly, and turned again to his field-glasses.
A moment later and Jack and his crew were carrying the Arrow down the steep sides of the "Nob" to the wood road that ran below. The road was in splendid condition, hard and smooth as a racing-track, and the boys were all picked riders, and bound to hold on to their grips until the tires began to smoke.
"It will be a scorch, fellows," said Jack, as he swung himself into his saddle; "but let her run off easily until we can get to pedalling all together. Now, then, hit her up!"
The Arrow jumped forward like a hare as the long chain tightened and the riders bent over to their work. It took Jem Smith, No. 2, a moment longer to find his left pedal, and then the eight legs began to go up and down with the mechanical regularity of so many piston-rods. Once fairly into the long rhythmical swing, every ounce of power told, and the tense spokes hummed merrily as the speed increased and the road-bed slipped away beneath the rapidly revolving wheels. Jack Howard had his cap drawn well down over his eyes, and his hands were tightly clinched on the front handle-bars. So long as the way was smooth and the crew were pumping in strict time the Arrow steered with the certainty and quickness of a racing sloop; but every now and then a shallow rut or a half-hidden stone would cause the long machine to swerve like a flying horse, and it would take all of Jack's strength, even with the assistance of No. 2, whose handle-bars were coupled to the steering head, to keep the Arrow steady on her course.[Pg 694] Above all, it was necessary that every rider should pay strict attention to the business in hand, or rather under foot. Uneven pedalling meant lost power and hard steering, while a slipped pedal might result in an ugly fall and a general smash-up.
Three-quarters of a mile from the "Nob" there was a gate across the road, with the approach on a curve that was also slightly down-grade. As was only prudent, speed was reduced, and the Arrow rounded the turn well under control. Luckily so, for the gate was closed. This was rather odd, for the bicycle corps had passed over the road only an hour before, and it had been understood that they should leave the gate open. The loss of time was vexatious, but there was nothing to do but to stop. The Arrow ran slowly up to the obstruction, and Jack called to Dick Long, the end man, to jump off and swing the gate aside.
"Hands up!" came with startling distinctness from the high, thickly wooded slope that bordered the road on either side, and Jack looked up straight into the barrel of a regulation army carbine that for the moment yawned as wide as the muzzle of a hundred-ton gun. It was the enemy, sure enough, a sergeant with a dozen men, and the Arrow had walked straight into the trap. Resistance was as impossible as it was hopeless, for the boys had strapped their carbines securely to the framing of the quad, and the surprise had been complete.
"You're captured," said the umpire, who had accompanied the ambuscade. "Hand over your despatches to the sergeant and stand at attention."
It was a dreadfully mortifying situation for the boys, but their captors were inclined to be magnanimous.
"It's not your fault, Jack," chuckled the jolly sergeant, as he took the precious despatch; "it was just a little game of strategy in which we happened to hold the high cards."
After all, it had been a desperate chance, and Jack was philosopher enough to abide by the result. And besides that he had faith enough in his father to feel assured that he would pull through somehow, and that his confidence was not misplaced those who have read "The Battle of Easter Monday" will remember.
The umpire hurried away for the actual field of battle, and the sergeant and his party took up their post again at the gate. It was stupid work playing prisoner, and Jack hinted as much to the sergeant. If they couldn't see the battle it was a pity to lose such a fine afternoon for a ride, and it was not likely that they would be able to borrow the quad again.
"Well," said the sergeant, good-naturedly, "I don't know that I have any right to do it, but I'll release you on parole, with the understanding that you go in the opposite direction from the battle-field, and that you report at the armory this evening and turn in your rifles and cartridge-belts."
The terms were too easy not to be accepted, and though the boys were naturally disappointed in not being able to see or take part in the fight, it was something in the way of consolation to have a twenty-mile spin on the Arrow.
"Let's go to Queenston," suggested Jem Smith, as the Arrow rolled slowly back along the wood road.
It was a good fifteen miles away to the old college town, but the roads were unusually good for so early in the year, and the scenery was more than enough to make up for the steepness of the hills.
"And take luncheon at Rock Hill," added Jack. "Is it a vote?" and no one dissenting, it was so ordered.
It was a glorious afternoon for a spin, and the boys enjoyed the novel experience of four-in-hand riding. But since the Arrow was geared up for racing on a level track, it was hard work hill-climbing, and nobody was sorry to see in the distance the gray towers of Queenston. A mile away from town and Jack called a halt. The stretch of road immediately before them had been broken up preparatory to macadamizing, and it was clearly unrideable. Nobody liked the idea of trundling the long machine into town; but, on the other hand, they had set out for a run to Queenston, and it would not do to give up within sight of port. And, moreover, through the town lay the shortest road back to Fairacre.
"What's that road?" asked Dick Long, pointing to a carriage drive that entered the woods at right angles to the highway.
Jack's eyes brightened. "I remember it now," he said. "It's a private road that runs back of the college and brings us out on University Square. There can't be any objection to our using it."
There was a locked gate to prevent intrusion, but the Arrow was quickly hoisted over the fence, and Jack and his crew were in the saddle again.
It was evident that the road had not been used for a long time, for it was overgrown with grass, and the old wheel-tracks were hardly discernible. But it was fair riding, for the turf was thick and firm, and as it was early in the spring, it had only just begun to grow. Half a mile in and the Arrow was running swiftly and noiselessly through the thickest part of the college wood. The university buildings were but a quarter of a mile or so away, but it was only occasionally that they showed through the leafless trunks of the great oaks and chestnuts. Here and there a chipmunk scuttled away through the dry rustling leaves, and once an early robin piped up with an original spring poem. The silence and stillness seemed almost primeval; it might have been the first Sunday morning after the creation of the world; a laugh or an idle word would have broken the spell. And then—
"Hold hard!" came in a tense whisper from Jack, and his crew mechanically bore back on their pedals. The Arrow had stopped at the brow of a gentle declivity that widened out at the bottom into a little glade, which was now the scene of a drama that looked perilously like a tragedy to the startled eyes of the new-comers. In the middle of the open space stood a rude structure of rough stones some three feet high and six long, and upon it was stretched the figure of a man bound and gagged. At a little distance were grouped a dozen masked forms armed with odd-looking axes, and listening attentively to an incomprehensible harangue on the part of the one who appeared to be their leader.
The boys looked at each other with white faces. Ku-Klux? White Caps? It was possible. Whatever it was, it looked ugly enough in all conscience.
Jack Howard began to unstrap his carbine from the framework of the Arrow.
"Our cartridges are all blanks," whispered Dick Long, hurriedly.
"I know it," returned Jack, fumbling with nervous haste at the mechanism of the breech-block, "but I'm not going to stand here and see murder done."
"But what can we do?"
"See that your magazines are full, be ready to ride the Arrow so as to get that stone pile between us and the crowd, and, above all, let nobody fire until I give the word. It's twelve to four, and the only chance is to bluff them."
It seemed like a dream to stand there waiting for the moment of action, the motionless figure stretched upon the stones, the sunlight flickering upon the grim-looking axes of the twelve masked men, the monotonous, unintelligible drone of the speaker. And yet there was a something in the picture that made it terribly alive, for all that this was the year of Our Lord 1896, and the bells in the college chapel were even now ringing the call for evening prayers.
Jack and his crew were sitting motionless in their saddles, Dick Long, the rear man, standing ready to give the necessary shove-off.
The speaker had stopped talking, and had taken his stand at the head of the line of masked men. In his hands he held an antique-looking urn, and at a signal the others advanced one by one. As the first man passed he dropped into the urn a small object that looked like a bean. But there could be no mistake about the color—it was black. Another followed, and then another, until all had passed and cast their vote, if vote it was. The chief solemnly emptied the contents of the urn upon the ground. Every bean was black.
The leader drew from beneath his cloak a long, glittering, crescent-shaped knife, and held it high above his head.
"Your sentence, then"—he looked inquiringly at the[Pg 695] immovable silent figures that stood about him in a circle.
"Death!" came in muffled tones from the first mask, and "Death!" echoed the next, and the next, until all had spoken.
The circle parted, and the executioner moved slowly towards the altar and the victim.
"Now!" shouted Jack, and the Arrow flashed down the slope as though sped from some gigantic bowstring. In an instant the boys had dismounted, and were kneeling under cover of the stone-work with their rifles at their shoulders. There was a moment of surprise and confusion among the masked figures, and the man with the knife pulled up sharply.
Jack snatched off his cap and tossed it into the air. It fell some twenty feet away, an improvised dead-line between the two parties.
"Keep back of that or we fire," he said, tersely.
The line of masked men wavered for an instant, and then the leader held up his hand and stepped forward.
"This doesn't concern you," he said, quietly.
"Maybe not," retorted Jack, "but we are going to make it our business. Keep back!" and he raised his rifle.
The masked man made an impatient gesture. "I tell you again," he said, coldly, "that this is no affair of yours. You had better take my advice, and hop the twig as fast as you can."
"And suppose we don't choose to profit by your friendly warning," returned Jack, jauntily. "What then?"
One of the masked figures stepped up to the leader, and whispered something in his ear. The chief nodded affirmatively, and turned again to Jack.
"We know well enough where you came from," he said, confidently, "and you can't bluff us with blank cartridges."
There was an involuntary movement of surprised consternation among the boys, which the masked man was quick to perceive and take advantage of.
"This isn't any sham battle," he continued, with a sneer. "I'll give you while I count ten to clear out. One, two—"
Jack turned hurriedly to the boys. "Remember, now, hold your fire, no matter what I do."
"Eight, nine, ten. Come on, you fellows!" and the man in the mask threw down his knife and jumped for Jack. There was a sharp report, and the leader stopped short, staggered, and fell.
It was all over in an instant. The masked figures had scattered in all directions, and Jack was cutting the cords that bound the prisoner. And by all that was wonderful, if it wasn't Tom Jones, a Fairacre boy, and a member of the Sophomore Class at Queenston College. The boys stared at him, open-mouthed.
"Take out the gag; he's trying to speak," said Dick Long, excitedly.
The gag was quickly removed, and Tom sprang to his feet.
"Well, you are a fine set of blooming wooden-heads," said Mr. Jones, reproachfully.
The boys looked at him in astonishment. Under the peculiar circumstances the remark savored of ingratitude, to say the least.
"Perhaps you would have preferred that we had not interfered," said Jem Smith, with sarcastic politeness.
"I wish to goodness you hadn't," was the disconcerting reply. "Well, old man, are you much hurt?" Tom Jones had hurried to where the wounded man was lying propped up against a tree, and was bending over him with anxious solicitude. His mask had fallen off, and his face looked familiar enough, though nobody could place him exactly.
"See here, Jones," said Jack Howard, with a desperate effort to shake off the growing conviction that the whole affair was nothing more than an ugly dream, "what does all this mean, anyhow? Haven't we just pulled you out of a pretty tight place—saved your life, I mean?"
"No, you haven't," answered Tom, snappishly.
"You've gone and interfered with my initiation into the Order of Ancient and Royal Druids, the best secret society in the college, and you shot in the leg the Captain of the university team, and the only decent half-back we have this year. That's what you've done."
"Oh, my leg!" groaned the sufferer, feebly. "There's a hole bored clear through it, and it's bleeding like one o'clock."
And then Mr. Jones, who had been examining the injured member, did a very remarkable thing. He deliberately bestowed upon his wounded superior a couple of hearty kicks, and then proceeded to assist him to his feet.
"Get up, Phil, and don't make an ass of yourself. Here's the fatal bullet that laid you low." He picked up something from the ground, and showed it first to Captain Phil and then to Jack. The latter nodded, took it, and stowed it away in his pocket. A few words in undertone followed, and then the football Captain laughed and held out his hand to Jack.
"I wish you fellows would come up to the college and have some tea," he said, heartily. "Sure you haven't the time? Well, then, remember that I'll expect you over for the first baseball game of the season next Saturday—and your friends too."
"You're sure that you're all right again?" inquired Jack.
Captain Phil turned a handspring with remarkable agility, and came up smiling, to the manifest astonishment of three or four of his late companions in crime, who were cautiously making their way back to the scene of battle, in the evident expectation of having to perform the last sad offices for their late leader.
"Straight as a string and sound as a bell," announced Captain Phil, cheerfully. "But just wait, young fellow, until you enter Fresh, in the fall, and I can get a chance to tackle you on the twenty-yard line. That ought to square things between us."
Jack laughed, and with another hearty shake of the Captain's hand, he sprang into his saddle, and the Arrow was quickly speeding towards Fairacre again.
"He ought to make a rattling quarter-back," said Captain Phil, reflectively, to Tom Jones. "A fellow with his nerve is just the man we want to fill Robinson's shoes."
And Jones nodded an oracular assent.
Half a mile down the pike, and Jem Smith's curiosity could no longer be restrained.
"Well, if you must know," said Jack, finally, "here's the fatal bullet. It just occurred to me to slip it in my rifle-barrel in the hope that it might do some execution if it came to actual hostilities. Of course it was only a bluff to make them think that your guns were really loaded with ball cartridge, and it worked just that way. Of course, when it broke against his leg, and he felt the ink running down—"
"What are you talking about?" said Jem, impatiently; "and what is this little rubber cap, anyhow?"
"All that's left of a brand-new stylographic pen," answered Jack, mournfully.
I know of a dry little, sly little man
Who comes o'er our threshold whenever he can;
Though little, he cares for the sunshine and light;
He haunts our big library when it is night.
When papa is reading his paper with care,
And I'm dozing all snug in the cushioned arm-chair,
When mamma looks up from her sewing—"My dear,
Perhaps you don't know that the sand-man's been here."
Then I hunt round the curtain, on top of the books,
'Neath table and sofa, and all sorts of nooks,
And out on the stairway, and down in the hall;
But I can't find the sly little sand-man at all!
"It fell upon a day in the balmy month of May" that the M. S. D's went for an out-of-door frolic.
Who were the M. S. D's? Merry Sons and Daughters. The society had been incorporated the year before; there were no dues, no president, secretary, treasurer, or by-laws; there was but one qualification—being merry. No long faces among the members of that society; no boys or girls who always want things done their way. No, that style of person was not eligible, nor selfish folks, or any other kind of disagreeable people.
The M. S. D's were stanch, true-hearted, and sunny, their greatest joy being forgetfulness of self. They were always merry because they were always happy; and they were always happy because they trod evil underfoot, and thought out great thoughts white and godlike, thoughts that shone with the clear and steady light that reflected good-will on all.
Therefore, when the society went for a day's fun it was the gayest of roving, a complete El Dorado of enjoyment; and an outing in the blithesome month of May to them meant a full and happy one.
For some reason the usual parties had been omitted this year, and therefore none of the girls had been crowned Queen, and none of the boys had paid their respects to the Court.
So when they reached the "happy independence grounds," as the boys dubbed them, because everybody was to do as they pleased when they got there, it was most amusing that each one seemed to have the same desire to gather handfuls of blossoms, weave crowns, hunt for four-leaved clover, and listen to bird calls. And thus it was that soon were gathered blue violets from the meadow, and dandelions, buttercups, and daisies from among the long waving grass that covered field after field through which these Merry Sons and Daughters laughingly ran.
And then followed the butterfly hunt; just to see if anybody could really catch one of these "ne'er-do-weel" fellows. But their fragile painted wings carried them so safe and rapid that when a hand was almost over the petal tip that held the happy fellow, he would up and away in the breezy blue, and ride on graciously out of sight, or sometimes, as through a desire to tempt his pursuer, skim over the clover blossoms, and finally light again on a bunch of daffadown-dillies, or possibly make a round of all the sweet May blossoms.
"What the Dandelions said" was then played, which is the old game so familiar to all from babyhood—that of blowing the soft down of the ripened dandelion to learn "How old am I?" Blow once, one year old; blow twice, two years, and so on, until all the downy stuff has gone. The number of times the blows have been given before the down has altogether disappeared indicates the age.
And then the players ran at utmost speed to the babbling brook, which was a short distance off; and having first torn the dandelion stems into quarters by splitting the tubular stem from tip to flower, they laid them in the cool flowing water, and watched them curl until all were tightly rounded; then shaking off the gathered drops, they firmly fastened these curls to their hats, together with the bunches of clover, buttercups, violets, strawberry blossoms, or whatever else fanciful taste dictated.
This pastime was soon followed by the "Daisy Catch." Both girls and boys stood in a group, with the exception of one girl, and to her was given a bunch of daisies. There was also a tree selected as a place of safety, after which the other girls then counted ten, allowing ten seconds for the count. During the counting the girl ran wherever she pleased, but the moment ten was spoken the boys raced after her. The idea was to "tag" her while the flowers were in her hand. If she was "tagged," the girl must then throw the daisies, as if they were a ball, to the boy tagging her. If he caught them, the game would proceed as before, by reversing the players; but if he did not catch them, the girl could try over again. The girl could also demand another chance if, when fearing she would be tagged, she threw her daisies away and caught them again before any of the boys did. Whenever the game was repeated it commenced regularly from the beginning, the players taking the same position as at the start. On the way back from the brook everybody's attention was drawn to a pair of yellow-birds that had braved the yet unsettled atmosphere, and were building a very pretty home for themselves near the top of a blackberry bush, when all of a sudden a cat-bird's song was heard, and knowing that he was very shy, all breathlessly kept quiet. And then how uneasy the little yellow-birds became! The young people wondered what it all meant; but afterwards they saw both the yellow-birds fly off for fern down or other soft stuff with which to line their nest, and this disappearance was evidently what the cat-bird desired, for no sooner had the birds gone than, quietly and cautiously, and yet rapidly, as if seizing opportunity much after the manner of other thieves, he approached and stole all the building materials he could possibly carry from their pretty home.
This sight reminded the boys of a game called "Keep It." It was nothing more nor less than an echo, and those who knew lightly closed each hand so that the first two fingers touched the thumb. Then putting one hand on top of the other, and calling through the column thus made, trumpet fashion, the noise was greatly accelerated, and, "Keep it, keep it," were the words over and over again repeated in the uncanny peculiar way that echo repeats sound. The children then ran in various directions, laughingly trying to get ahead of each other, and discover who could make the clearest and loudest echo.
But the great feature of the day was the boat-race, and this was an impromptu amusement, for the boys had planned the girls should botanize, tell stories, or anything that they liked, while they went fishing; and with fishing in mind the boys had many a secret conclave beforehand, as each one was trying to get all the fishing points possible, and many and various were the ones received, everybody agreeing, however, that all the fishermen must understand both shoving and sculling a boat before attempting to fish in that particular water, as it was winding, narrow, and full of all sorts of rushes, meadow grasses, and snags in variety, and if rowing was attempted, fishing would be impracticable. Then, too, there should be a slight wind blowing from the southwest, and a cloudy sky. So as fishing was the uppermost thought, the boys were sure the weather would be right when they got there, and therefore came laden with[Pg 697] bait, tackle, and fishing-baskets in abundance, for they had assured their mothers they would bring home a lot of shining fat fellows for supper. A few, too, of the more skilled had refused to bring bait, saying, with an important toss of the head, they only fished with flies; and no sooner had the M. S. D's gotten to their destination than these fishermen ran to the water to watch the sort and color of flies the fish were mostly jumping for.
So it was a genuine disappointment when, at ten o'clock in the morning, the sun shone unusually hot and the water was as smooth as a mirror, for not even a perceptible zephyr was stirring.
Therefore it was that the girls begged the boys not to attempt fishing, that it would be only a great waste of time, and to further quote their words, "when it gets cooler, as it's bound to after a while, let's have a boat-race"—for there was a clear space of water where such could be held.
This was a happy suggestion, and immediately the race was arranged. The girls who did not care to row were to act as umpires; and a grand stand was selected, which was nothing more nor less than a massive irregular rock over which a tangle of vines ran luxuriously, and for canopy there was a wide-branched locust-tree.
There would be three races—one between the girls, another between the boys, and the third between the girls and boys together, and they were to be given in the order indicated. Two willow-trees which conspicuously over-hung the water, and so could not be mistaken, were selected as the points that would start and end the race, the prow of the boat being even with the centre of the tree-trunk at starting, and the stern of the boat being even with the centre of the tree-trunk on closing. Only one person would be in a boat at a time, and no person could have a second chance. As the water was too narrow to allow for all the boys or all the girls to try at once, it was decided that two boats only should row, and then two more, and so on. After the race was over, the victors would be obliged to row again, two and two, as at the first, and so determine the winners. When the winning girl and the winning boy were known, they would race together, and thus the champion rower would be discovered. Whoever was champion was to be rewarded with a wreath of laurel, after the fashion of the great Roman victors; laurel was not very plentiful in this section, but the boys were confident that by a run of a mile or so they could find some, and if they couldn't they would use oak leaves, and tell the hero they were meant for laurel. In any case, the wreath must be made and at the grand stand before the race opened; at this stand, also, the coronation would take place.
Providing for the race led to the gathering of numberless flowers, with which the boats were decorated, and later, as they sped over the water, they seemed a part of a great picture—over and around them air and clouds, exquisite colorings of matchless reds, yellows, violets, pinks, and greens, soft reflections of the same in the water and the distance, and, added to all, the ambition of the rowers and the contending emotions of those who watched the pretty play. One boat was very simply trimmed. It was carpeted with mosses and wreathed around with fern leaves; another was so daintily decorated it seemed as if it was a fairy boat; and yet another style was richly and gayly covered, as though it was at the disposal of a grandly beautiful queen, and almost, unconsciously we turned to look if Cleopatra was near. This boat was canopied with apple blossoms; the branches were held in place between the narrow strip of wood that forms the border of the lining and the boat herself. But this boat was not among the winners; it was top-heavy, and therefore too difficult to steer and row. The shades of night were indeed fast falling when the M. S. D's reached home again. The sunburnt faces, joyous laughter, and light-hearted confusion of voices told their own story.
I've only a single quarter left
Of all my allowance, that looked so large
On last pay-day, when dear mamma
Said, "Now, you must neither borrow nor 'charge,'
But keep out of debt, and never forget
That dollars are made of single cents."
I'm sure I've tried, but it's very hard
To keep to the rule of your good intents.
There were creams and bonbons the other day,
And a box of paper, and, let me see,
A bunch of the dearest violets
Tucked into my jacket flap. Ah! me,
They faded and died, and I almost cried;
It seemed a shame with my funds so low;
But the wonderful thing is, do your best
To save, and still your money will go!
And where will my Christmas gifts come in?
Pray, what can I buy with this little bit
For papa and mamma and Fred and Nell?
Of course, I ought to have thought of it
A month ago, but I didn't, you know.
And here is my purse so flat and thin;
I'm just as discouraged as I can be,
For where will my Christmas gifts come in?
M. E. S.
note was brought to Mr. Grigsby at noon of the next day. It was from Major Duncombe.
"My dear Mr. Grigsby,—As you did not come to my house last night, I take it for granted that your negro man did not deliver the message sent to you by Mr. Tayloe, who met him on the road yesterday evening. I write now to ask you to meet Mr. Tayloe and myself at half past three o'clock to-day at the school-house, for the discussion of important and confidential business. As the days are short, may I suggest that you be punctual to the hour named?
"Yours truly, C. S. Duncombe."
Mr. Grigsby had not seen the Major in his morning round of the plantation, never omitted except in very stormy weather. He had made it to-day with a clouded brow and heavy heart. Dick had affirmed upon his knees, the tears bursting from his frightened eyes, that he had no idea how "Miss F'lishy" got into the cart, or when, or where. He also declared that he had not left the vehicle for a minute during the journey. Flea was raving in delirium. The doctor, summoned at midnight, said that she was on the verge of brain-fever. Except for the scratches and the wetting, she had apparently sustained no external injury. Dee was laid up with a violent sick headache. His mother was positive in the belief that both of the children had "ketched" some anonymous disease somewhere and somehow.
"It didn't stand to reason [her reason] that the two on 'em would 'a' come down at oncet in exac'ly the same way unless 'twas somethin' ketchin. Flea mus' 'a' been off her head when she run away into the woods and got into the cyart while Dick was a-noddin'. That nigger could sleep 's well a-walkin' 'long as a-lyin' down."
When Mr. Grigsby arrived at the school-house Major Duncombe's buggy was already there, Nell, his bay mare, standing patiently under an aspen-tree. Her master and Mr. Tayloe were in the house, the Major in his usual seat on the corner of the desk, the schoolmaster tramping from side to side of the room. He stopped at the overseer's entrance, and eyed him frowningly, without speaking. Major Duncombe said "Good-day'" civilly, but gravely. Something unpleasant was in the air, and Mr. Grigsby was certain it had to do with him before the Major opened the conversation.
"We asked you to meet us here, Mr. Grigsby, because, as I wrote to you, the matter we have in hand is confidential. I must request that, whatever may be the outcome of our talk, the facts of this interview shall remain confidential between us three."
"Your wishes shall be obeyed to the letter, Major Duncombe."
The employer was formal; the hireling was stiff. His conscience was void of offence, and he would not behave like a man on trial.
"To begin with what you are already aware of," continued the Major, "we have been annoyed of late by the discovery that a regular system of thieving is going on upon this plantation. You know, too, how unsuccessful have been our efforts to track the thieves. I told you yesterday, that besides the depredations in the poultry-yard and the loss of an occasional sheep or pig from the fields, one of the smoke-houses was entered Thursday night, and four or five hams stolen. Night before last the laundress carelessly left out in the garden a quantity of valuable lace and handkerchiefs which had been laid on the grass to bleach in the sun. In the morning everything was gone, also several linen pillow-cases and towels from the line in the yard."
"I had not heard of this last robbery," said Mr. Grigsby, when the speaker paused as for a reply.
The Major's gravity deepened. As he went on he avoided Mr. Grigsby's eye.
"The information was purposely held back for reasons that will appear presently. We agreed, you may recollect, that the guilty parties were most probably the Fogg family. Also that they were aided and abetted by some of my negroes who have access to the keys and are familiar with the habits of the household. My fear now is that the Foggs have made use of other and more unlikely tools. To speak plainly, Mr. Grigsby, I am afraid that they have tampered with your second daughter, and that the freedom she has been allowed in the Greenfield house and grounds has been used by them for their vile and wicked purposes—"
"Major Duncombe!"
The overseer's lank form was drawn up to full height; his deep-set eyes were alight with angry and resentful amazement.
"You are surprised and displeased, Mr. Grigsby, and no wonder. This is a most unpleasant task to me. I like the child. She has the elements of a noble character in her. But I have positive proof of her intimacy with the Fogg tribe. She stops at the house on her way to school; she sits upon the porch and chats familiarly with them on summer afternoons. The elder Fogg woman boasts of her intimacy with your family. Yesterday, after school, Mr. Tayloe asked your daughter, who had been kept in for insubordination and impertinence, to bring him a drink of water from the spring. I met Mrs. Fogg going to the school-house as I was riding by at the same hour, but thought no more of the circumstance until Mr. Tayloe came home last night and told me a shocking story. He was sitting at his desk writing, his watch and chain laid upon his silk handkerchief on the desk beside him, when your daughter, coming up behind him, dashed pail, water and all, over him, and ran away as fast as she could go to the woods. He gave chase, but could not overtake her. Returning to the school-house, he found that his watch and chain and his handkerchief were gone. There seems to be no doubt that your daughter snatched them when she[Pg 699] blinded him for the instant with the water. Her confederate must have been waiting for her outside."
The overseer's face was gray and rigid. He cleared his throat as he began to speak.
"I must have very strong evidence—direct evidence of my child's guilt before I believe all this, sir."
Mr. Tayloe spoke for the first time. He addressed the Major, not the last speaker.
"What more does the man want than my word?"
The father wheeled sharply upon him.
"Did you see her throw the water upon you? Did you look to see whether or not the watch was upon your desk when you started to run after the child? Might not the woman whom Major Duncombe saw have entered the school-house while you were in the woods? Major Duncombe, my daughter came home last night raving with fever, scratched by briers, and covered with swamp mud. She has raved all day of the cruelty and injustice of her teacher. There's another side to the story, sir"—the hand that held his cowhide whip went up above his head and came down hard upon the desk—"and as sure as I am a live man, and there is justice on earth or in heaven, I mean to get at the bottom of this thing!"
He turned abruptly and stalked to the door. Warm moisture hung upon his sandy eyelashes and made the lids smart. He could not have uttered another word to save his life or his child's reputation.
The Major looked perplexedly at his companion, who shrugged his shoulders and pursed up his mouth disdainfully.
"What else did you expect from him?" he asked, taking no pains to lower his voice.
Mr. Grigsby came back as abruptly as he had left. He had got himself in hand, and spoke in his usual dry, somewhat harsh voice.
"Major Duncombe, I am at your service as soon as I have your commands. Do you advise a search of the Fogg premises? As a magistrate, you can make out a warrant and qualify me to serve it. The son from Norfolk is at his mother's just now. It might be well to make the search before he gets away. As to my daughter—if there is any doubt as to her ability to appear as an accomplice, you can satisfy yourself on that head by a visit to my house. Perhaps a search of my premises might be expedient."
"By no means! It is not to be thought of!" cried the Major, impulsively. "I hope you understand, Grigsby, how plaguedly disagreeable this whole proceeding is to me—to us. I am so sick of it that I would not go a step further were I the only party that has been robbed. As to having the poor little girl up, it is all nonsense. I pledge myself for that."
"Even should her guilt be proved?" Mr. Tayloe jerked in the question, his horse-shoe smile sinking the roots of his nose into his face. "Would there be law or equity in such a course?"
"Pooh, pooh!" retorted the Major, impatiently. "We don't put the law upon babies in this part of the world. Mr. Grigsby, if you will ride along with us as far as my office, we will make out the necessary papers, and also send for a couple of constables. Dan Fogg is an ugly customer to handle."
The river mists were unfolding over the landscape as a cool evening crept stealthily upon the heels of a warm day. They lay low upon the meadows, and sagged over the banks of the sunken road beyond the school-house. The three men had gained higher ground where the carriage road was level with the surrounding country, when the eye of the horseman, who rode behind the gig, was attracted by a gleam of light twinkling across a wide field. It was like the glimmer of a fire-fly, but his quick wits told him it had no right to be there. He watched it keenly while it flashed and vanished, always at the same height from the ground. Hiding on a stone's-throw further, he caught sight of it again. It was stationary, and he had fixed the location in his mind. He rode up to the side of the gig.
"Major Duncombe, it is well at this time not to overlook anything suspicious. And a light in that old cabin over yonder is suspicious. If you please, I will alight when we get nearer, and go on foot across the fields to see what it means."
"Better pull down a panel of fence, and let us drive into the field," suggested the Major. "I'll go with you, leaving the horses with Mr. Tayloe."
About a hundred yards from the haunted house they alighted, and approached it cautiously from the back. The light twinkled at intervals through a crevice at the side of the chimney. Guiding their course by it, the men trod lightly upon the withered herbage until they stood at the front and only door. Here all was dark, but by laying their ears against the door they could detect muffled movements within, as of some one walking about and dragging something on the floor. The Major knocked loudly with his loaded whip. All was instantly still.
"Who is in here?" he called. "Open the door! I am Major Duncombe."
No answer.
"Do you hear me?" he said again. "Open the door, or we will break it down."
After another long minute, he whispered in Mr. Grigsby's ear: "Put your shoulder against it, and when I say, 'Now!' drive it in. Are you ready? Now!"
Under the force of their united strength and weight the crazy door went down as if made of pasteboard, and with such surprising suddenness that both men fell in with it on the floor. A man leaped over them as they lay there, and rushed off into the darkness. Mr. Grigsby was the first to find his feet. He struck a match and held it high to look around the room.
"There's nobody here!" he said. "That fellow was holding the door, and let it go purposely to throw us when we threw our weight against it. Ha! here's his lantern."
MR. GRIGSBY EMPTIED THE BAG UPON THE FLOOR.
It was on the floor, and, when lighted, revealed a disorderly heap of stuff collected about a big carpet-bag, open, and partly packed. Without further ado Mr. Grigsby picked it up by the corners and emptied it upon the floor. At the very bottom were the missing lace and handkerchiefs, and, rolled up carefully in a white silk handkerchief, Mr. Tayloe's watch and chain. A roll of pillow-cases and towels was near by. Beyond was a stout sack of oznaburg containing four hams. A roll of homespun flannel, a box half full of candles, a bag of corn and one of oats, with articles of lesser value, were piled in the corners of the cabin. The haunted house was the cleverly chosen hiding-place of the booty collected during several weeks, perhaps for months.
"I wonder how long this has been going on?" said the Major, giving a long whistle as he stared about him. "No need of a search-warrant now for the Fogg house. They were too smart to store their plunder there. They are a sharp set! Not a negro would come within gun-shot of this place after sunset. Did you get a glimpse of the rascal who played us such a shabby trick?"
"No, sir."
Mr. Grigsby was busy with the lantern that just at that moment went out, leaving them in total darkness but for the dying daylight that found entrance through the open door. When the candle in the lantern was rekindled, the blaze made the overseer's face look ghastly, and his high cheek-bones threw his eyes into shadows. They seemed to have sunken further back into his head. When he spoke his voice was husky, as if the yellow fog without had settled there.
"If you will take charge of the watch I'll ram the laces and linen into the bag and carry it to the gig"—stooping to gather them while he talked. "Then I'll prop up the door for to-night. The rest of the things can be sent for to-morrow."
After the place was closed he strolled on ahead of the Major and tucked the carpet-bag under the seat of the gig, making no reply to Mr. Tayloe's impatient queries.
"Have you any other orders for me to-night, Major?" he asked, looming up tall and dark in the twilight when his employer was in his seat.
"Nothing more, thank you, Grigsby," said the Major's lively, hearty voice. His good humor was thoroughly restored by the excitement of the adventure. "We may well[Pg 700] be satisfied with our evening's work. And, I say, Grigsby, if there's anything any of us can do for the little girl, you know how gladly we would do it. Emily will be down in the morning to see her."
"Thank you, sir."
The reply came back as he was moving toward his horse, and was hardly audible.
"An uncivil cur!" commented Mr. Tayloe, "I wonder that you keep him."
"I might go further and fare a million times worse. It's natural he should be sore and surly just now. If any man had said one-tenth of one of my girls that I said of that bright little daughter of his I'd be as savage as a bear."
"I submit that there is some difference between your daughters and his," observed Mr. Tayloe, dryly. "But what have you found?"
"For one thing, your watch and chain."
The schoolmaster heard the story to the end without interrupting the narrator. Then he sneered openly.
"I'll wager my head against a turnip that that impudent vixen put the watch there herself. I'm not sure that she isn't responsible for the laces and handkerchiefs too. Doesn't it strike you as rather odd that her father should ferret out the stolen goods on this particular evening?"
"Oh, come, now, Tayloe, that is carrying your detective genius too far! Grigsby is an honest man if ever there was one. It is more odd that this nest of thieves was not unearthed before. Grigsby only needed to be put upon the scent. A canny Scot has a nose like a pointer-dog's if once you wake him up."
The canny Scot was wide awake at this present moment, rolling his horse up in a part of the road where the banks shut him away from possible observation, he struck a match and examined more closely a piece of paper he had picked up, unnoticed by the Major, in the hut. It had lain open, the written side up, in the middle of the floor. At the first glance he had read nothing but his daughter's name, yet had recognized instantly the lost report, and instinctively secreted it. The match burned long enough for him to verify his first impression.
"October 31, 184-.
"Felicia Jean Grigsby: Lessons, usually fair. Conduct—room for improvement! James Tayloe."
The date was the day before yesterday, when her mother had scolded the girl for loitering on the way home. He recalled the haste and heat with which Flea had answered, while confessing that she had lost the report—she could not say where.
How came she to be inside of that locked door? He had vowed to get at the bottom of this matter. Was he there now?
Flea was worse when her father got home. Her cheeks were purple and glazed with fever, her eyes wild and sightless. Her head rolled restlessly on the pillow; her fingers picked tufts of wool from the blanket while she crooned over and over what her mother described as "outlandish stuff." Her aunt, who had established herself as head nurse, had learned the lines by heart already:
"It stands beside the weedy way;
Shingles are mossy, walls are gray:
Gnarled apple-branches shade the door,
Wild vines have bound it o'er and o'er.
The sumac whispers, with its tongues of flame,
'Here once was done a deed without a name.'"
At the fourth repetition, in her father's hearing, the girl laughed aloud—the hollow, mirthless peal of madness.
"I made that poem! It's all about the haunted house, you know. Mrs. Fogg says nobody but just we two dares to go there. She says the devil has been seen there. I say he lives in the school-house. Eighteen hundred and forty-four into three thousand six hundred and eighty-eight. Why, father, that's just twice and none over. Now I've got to climb to the top of the haunted house on a ladder made of noughts, noughts, noughts!"
Her rambling subsided into whispers. She fell to tracing figures and drawing lines upon the counterpane, her brows knitted, her lips moving fast.
"That is worse than the singing," said Mrs. McLaren, aside, to her brother. "She will work at that sum for an hour at a time. It is wearing her out. Heaven forgive that teacher!"
The father did not say "Amen."
"Where did you get that baseball?" asked Bonny Brooks, referring to one that Alaric was unconsciously tossing from hand to hand as they walked up town together.
At this the latter stopped short and looked at the ball in question, as though now seeing it for the first time.
"Do you know," he said, "I have been so excited and taken up with other things that I actually forgot I had this ball in my hands. It belongs to the fellow who gave me that breakfast and your dollar, besides telling me where to look for something to do. Not only that, but I really believe if it hadn't been for this ball he would never have paid any attention to me."
"Who is he? I mean, what is his name?"
"I don't know. I never thought to ask him. And he doesn't live here either, but has just come down from Alaska, and was going off on the one-o'clock train. I do know, though, that he is the very finest chap I ever met, and I only hope I'll have a chance some time to pay back his kindness to me by helping some other poor boy."
"It is funny," remarked Bonny, meditatively, "that your friend and my friend should both have just come from Alaska."
"Isn't it?" replied Alaric; "but then they are travelling together, you know."
"I didn't know it, though I ought to have suspected it, for they are the kind who naturally would travel together—the kind, I mean, that give a fellow an idea of how much real goodness there is in the world, after all—a sort of travelling sermon, only one that is acted out instead of being preached."
"That's just the way I feel about them," agreed Alaric; "but I wish I hadn't been so careless about this ball. It may be one that he values for association's sake, just as I did the one we left in that Siwash camp."
"Let me have it a moment," said Bonny, who was looking curiously at the ball.
Alaric handed it to him, and he examined it closely.
"I do believe it is the very one!" he exclaimed. "Yes, I am sure it is. Don't you remember, Rick, the burned place on your ball that came when Bah-die dropped it in the edge of the fire the first time you threw it to him, and how you laughed and called it a sure-enough red-hot ball? Well, here's that place now, and this is certainly the very ball that introduced us to each other in Victoria."
"How can it be?" asked Alaric, incredulously.
"I don't know, but it surely is."
"Well," said Alaric, finally convinced that his comrade was right, "that is the very most unexplainable thing I ever came across, for I don't see how it could possibly have come into his possession."
While thus discussing this strange happening, the lads approached the hotel in which one of them had been made to suffer so keenly a few hours before. He dreaded the very thought of entering it again, but having made up his mind that he must, was about to do so, when his attention was attracted to a curious scene in front of the main entrance.
A SMALL MAN WAS GESTICULATING TO A GROUP OF GRINNING BELL-BOYS.
A small wiry-looking man, evidently a foreigner, was gesticulating, stamping, and shouting to a group of grinning porters and bell-boys who were gathered about him. As our lads drew near they saw that he held a small open book in his hand, from which he was quoting some sentence, while at the same time he was rapidly working himself into a fury. It was a French-English phrase-book, in which, under the head of instructions to servants, the sentence "Je désire un fiacre" was rendered "Call me a hansom," and it was this that the excited Frenchman was demanding, greatly to the amusement and mystification of his hearers.
"Call me a hansom! Call me a hansom! Call me a hansom!" he repeated over and over at the top of his voice. "C'est un fiacre—fiacre—fiacre!" he shouted. "Oh, là, là! Mille tonnerres! Call me a hansom!"
"He must be crazy," said Bonny; "for he certainly isn't handsome, and even if he were, he couldn't expect people to call him so. I wonder why they don't send for the police."
Instead of answering him, Alaric stepped up to the laughing group and said, politely, "Pardon, monsieur. C'est Monsieur Filbert, n'est-ce pas?"
"Oui, oui. Je suis Filbert! Call me a hansom."
"He wants a carriage," explained Alaric to the porters, who stared open-mouthed at hearing this young tramp talk to the foreigner in his own "lingo." "Vous voulez une voiture, n'est-ce pas?" he added, turning to the stranger.
"Oh, my friend!" cried M. Filbert in his own language, flinging away the perplexing phrase-book as he spoke, and embracing Alaric in his joy at finding himself once more comprehended. "It is as the voice of an angel from heaven to hear again my own language in this place of barbarians!"
"Have a care, monsieur," warned Alaric, "how you speak of barbarians. There are many here who can understand perfectly your language."
"I care not for them! I do not see them! They have not come to me! You are the first! Can it be that I may engage you to remain and interpret for me this language of distraction?" Here the speaker drew back, and scanned Alaric's forlorn appearance hopefully.
"That is what I came to see you about, monsieur," answered Alaric. "I am looking for employment, and shall be happy—"
"It is enough!" interrupted the other, vehemently. "You have found it. I engage you now, at once. Come, the carriage is here. Let us enter."
"But," objected the lad, "I have a friend whom I cannot leave."
"Let him come! Let all your friends come! Bring your whole family if you will, but only stay with me yourself!" cried the Frenchman, impetuously, "I am distracted by my trouble with this terrible language, and but for you I shall go crazy. You are my salvation. So enter the carriage, and your friend. Après vous, monsieur. Do you also speak the language of beautiful France? No? It is a great pity."
"Does his royal highness take us for dukes?" questioned the bewildered Bonny, who, not understanding one word of the foregoing conversation, had, of course, no idea why he now found himself rolling along the streets of Tacoma in one of its most luxurious public carriages.
"Not exactly," laughed Alaric; "but he takes us for interpreters—that is, he wants to engage us as such."
"Oh! Is that it? Well, I'm agreeable. I suppose you told him that I was pretty well up on Chinook? But what language does he talk himself?"
"French, of course," replied Alaric, "seeing that he is a Frenchman."
"Are you a Frenchman too?"
"Certainly not."
"Well, I didn't know but what you were, seeing that you talk the same language he does, and just as well, for all that I can make out. Really, Rick Dale, it is growing interesting to find out the things you know and can do."
Under Alaric's direction, the carriage first bore them to the railway station, where a number of strange-looking boxes and packages, all belonging to M. Filbert, were gathered in one place, and given in charge of a porter, who was instructed to receive and care for any others that might come marked with the same name. Then the carriage was again headed up town, and driven to shop after shop until it seemed as though the entire resources of the city were to be drawn upon to supply the multitudinous needs of the mysterious Frenchman.
Among the things thus purchased and ordered sent down to the station were provisions, cooking utensils, axes, medicines, alcohol, tents, blankets, ammunition, and clothing.
Of course Alaric accompanied M. Filbert into each store, where his knowledge of languages was invaluable in conducting the various negotiations; but the Chinook interpreter, as he called himself, finding that his services were not yet in demand, was content to remain luxuriously seated in the carriage.
During the whole afternoon M. Filbert talked incessantly with his new-found interpreter, and Alaric seemed almost as excited as he. At length the former, casting a dubious glance at the lads, asked, with an apologetic manner, if they were well provided with clothing.
"Only what you see, monsieur," answered Alaric. "Everything else we have lost."
"Ah! Is it so? Then must you be provided with the habiliments necessary. If you will kindly give the instructions?"
So the carriage was ordered to a shoe-shop and an outfitting establishment, where both lads, to Bonny's further bewilderment, were provided with complete suits of rough but warm and serviceable clothing, including two pairs of walking boots, one of which was very heavy and had hob-nailed soles.
These last purchases were not concluded until after sunset, and with them the business of the day was ended. With many parting injunctions to Alaric, and a polite bonne nuit to both lads, M. Filbert was driven back to the hotel, leaving his newly engaged assistants to their own devices for the time being.
"Now," said Bonny, "if you haven't forgotten how to talk United States, perhaps you will explain what all this means—what we are engaged to do, what our wages are to be, and where we are bound? Are we to turn gold-hunters or Indian-fighters, or is it something in the exploring line?"
"I expect," laughed Alaric, "it is to be more in the climbing line."
"Climbing?"
"Yes. Do you see that mountain over there?" Here Alaric pointed to the lofty snow-capped peak of Mount Rainier, still rose-tinted with sunlight, and rising in awful grandeur high above all other summits of the Cascade range, nearly fifty miles from where they stood.
"Certainly. I can't help seeing it."
"Do you think you could climb it?"
"Of course I could, if it came in my line of business."
"Would you undertake it for thirty dollars a month and all expenses?"
"Rick Dale, I'd undertake to climb to the moon on those terms. But you are surely joking. The Frenchman will never pay that just for the fun of seeing us climb."
"Yes he will, though, and I have agreed that we shall start with him for the top of that mountain to-morrow morning."
Monsieur Jean Puvis Filbert was a Frenchman of wealth, a distinguished member of the Alpine Club, an enthusiastic mountain-climber, and had for an especial hobby the making of botanical collections from high altitudes. He was now on a leisurely tour around the world, and had recently arrived in Tacoma on one of the Northern Pacific steamships from Japan. This was his first visit to America, and he was filled with enthusiasm by the superb mountain scenery that greeted him on all sides as his ship steamed through the Strait of Juan de Fuca and up the glorious waterways of Puget Sound.
As his knowledge of English was very limited, our mountain-climber began his preparations for this arduous undertaking by engaging an interpreter. The only one whom he could find was a Canadian, who spoke French nearly as badly as he did English, and whom his employer was quickly obliged to discharge for drunkenness and utter incompetence. Then it seemed as though the expedition on which M. Filbert had set his heart must be given up, and he was in despair. At this critical moment Alaric Todd appeared on the scene seeking employment, though never dreaming that it would come to him through his knowledge of French, and was received literally with open arms.
Of course he was engaged at once, and was able to secure a situation for Bonny Brooks as well, though the precise nature of the young sailor's duties were not defined. Thus Bonny was allowed to regard himself as also holding the rank of an interpreter, whose services would be invaluable in the event of an encounter with Indians, who, for all he knew, might contest every foot of their way up the great mountain.
M. Filbert wished the boys to spend the night with him at the hotel, but Alaric was still so sore over his morning's experience that he begged to be excused. So when they were left to themselves they carried their recently acquired belongings down to the railway station, and persuaded the agent to allow them to sleep in that corner of the baggage-room devoted to their employer's collection of chattels. Here they put on their new suits, and then, feeling once more intensely respectable, and well content with their own appearance, each invited the other to dine with him. Had they not two whole dollars between them, and was not that enough to make them independent of the world?
They procured a bountiful dinner in the restaurant where Alaric had breakfasted, and with it ate up one of their dollars. The place was so associated in their minds with the fine young fellow to whom they owed all their present good fortune that they thought and talked much of him during the meal. Recalling what he had said concerning his father reminded Alaric of his own parent, and caused him to wonder if he were yet aware that his younger son was not travelling around the world with the Sonntaggs as he had planned.
"If the dear old dad has heard of my disappearance," reflected the boy, "he must be a good deal worried, for he has no idea of how well I can take care of myself. I'll write to Cousin Esther, and ask her to tell dad all about me. She is sure to see him on his way home, for he always visits Uncle Dale's when he is in Boston."
So after supper, Alaric, who was beginning to have a lively appreciation of the value of money, as well as of fathers, cautiously invested four cents in a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a stamp, all of which he was able to procure from the proprietor of the restaurant. The boy smiled, as he carefully pocketed his one cent of change, to think on what a different scale he would have made a similar purchase less than a month before. Then he would have ordered a box of note-paper, another of envelopes, and a whole sheet of stamps. As for the change, why, there wouldn't have been any, for he would simply have said, "Charge it, please," and it would have been charged to his father's account.
When Bonny saw that Alaric was about to write a letter he decided to write one to his aunt Nancy at the same time, "For," said he, "she probably imagines that I am in China by now, and would never think of sending word to me here in case she got any news of father." So Bonny also invested four cents in stationery; and the restaurant man good-naturedly allowing them to use a table, besides loaning them pens and a bottle of ink, they sat down to compose their respective epistles. When Alaric's letter was finished it read as follows:
"Dear Cousin Esther,—I have taken your advice and run away—that is, I have done what amounts to the same thing, for I just sat still and let the other folks run away. By this time I expect they are in China, while I am here in the very place you said you would be if you were a boy. I wish you were one so you could be here with me now, for I think you would make a first-class boy. I am learning to be one as fast as I can, a real truly boy, I mean, and not a make-believe. I have already learned how to smuggle, and catch a baseball, besides a little batting, and to swim, sail a boat, paddle a canoe, talk some Siwash, and have had a good deal of experience besides.
"Now I am an interpreter and engaged in the mountain-climbing business. We start to-morrow.
"I have a partner who is a splendid chap, about my age, and named Bonny Brooks. I know you would like him, for he is such a regular boy, and knows just how to do things.
"When you see my dear dad, please give him my warmest love, and tell him I think more of him now than I ever did. Please make him understand that it was the Sonntaggs who ran away, and not I. Tell him that when I am through experimenting with my heart, and have become a genuine boy like Bonny, I am coming back to him, to learn how to be a man—that is, I will if I can afford to pay my way to San Francisco. But you have no idea how much money it takes to travel, especially when you have to earn it yourself, and so far I haven't earned any. Still I have not starved—that is, not very often—so far, and am in hopes of having plenty to eat from this time on. Now I must say good-by because we are going to sleep in the station to-night, and it closes early.
"Ever your loving cousin, Rick."
"P. S.—The principal reason I let the Sonntaggs go was because they called me 'Allie.' Please tell this to Dad."
Bonny's letter was not so long as Alaric's, but it described the situation with equal vagueness. He wrote:
"Dear Aunt Nancy,—I am not in China, as you may suppose, having quit the sea after rising to be first mate. Have also been a smuggler, but am not any more. Am now engaged by the French as interpreter, and so far like the business very well. Have also gone into the climbing trade. We are to do our first mountain to-morrow. Have for a chum one of the cleverest chaps you ever saw. He can talk most any language except Chinook, and is a daisy ball-catcher. His name is Rick Dale, and I am trying hard to be just like him. If you have any news from father, please let me know. You can send a letter in care of Mr. P. Bear, Hotel Tacoma, which is our headquarters.
"Ever your loving nephew,
B. Brooks, Interpreter."
Both these letters were sent to Massachusetts, Alaric's being addressed to Boston, and Bonny's to Sandport. After they were posted, and our lads were on their way back to the railway station, they began for the first time to realize how very tired and sleepy they were. They were so utterly weary that as they snuggled down in their corner of the baggage-room, on a bed made of M. Filbert's tents and blankets, Alaric remarked,
"This is what I call solid comfort."
"Yes," replied Bonny, "we certainly have struck a big streak of luck. Do you remember how we were feeling about this time last night?"
"No," answered Alaric, "I can't remember. It's too long ago. Good-night." And in another minute both boys were fast asleep.
They had taken "through tickets," as Bonny would have said, and slept so soundly that they hardly stirred until the agent flung open the baggage-room door at six o'clock the following morning, and caused them to spring from their blankets in a hurry by shouting, "All aboard!" A dash of cold water from the hydrant outside drove all traces of sleep from their eyes, and so filled them with its fresh vigor that they raced all the way up town to the restaurant. Here, although their appetites were keen as ever, they managed to fully satisfy them with a ninety-cent breakfast, "and left the place with money still in their pockets," as Alaric expressed it.
"That's so," responded Bonny. "We've just one cent apiece. Let's toss up to see who will have them both."
"No," said Alaric, "for that would be gambling; and I promised my mother long ago at Monte Carlo never to gamble. She said more fortunes were lost and fewer won in that way than by any other."
"But one cent isn't a fortune," objected Bonny.
"Why not? A man's fortune is all that he has, and if you have but one cent, then that is your fortune."
"I guess you are right, Rick Dale," laughed Bonny. "I hate gambling as much as you do; but it never seemed to me before that tossing pennies was gambling. I expect it is, though, so I'll just keep my fortune in my pocket, and not risk it on any such foolishness."
As the lads hastened back to the station, where they were to meet their employer, the glorious mountain that was now the goal of their ambition reared its mighty crest, radiant with sunlight, directly before them. So wonderfully clear was the atmosphere that it did not seem ten miles away, and Bonny, shaking a fist at it, cried, cheerfully, "Never you mind, old fellow, we'll soon have you under foot."
The greatest spectacles the world ever sees are the most solemn; consequently, when a nation places upon a man, chosen by God as they often believe, the symbols of sovereignty, the occasion is celebrated with ceremonies of the most impressive character.
The last important crowning of a King occurred in Moscow on the 27th of May, 1883, and by that event Alexander III. was created Czar of all the Russias.
For two centuries the Russian imperial coronations have taken place in Moscow, within the Kremlin, an enclosure in the heart of the holy city in which are gathered the cathedrals and palaces whose walls have witnessed all the celebrations of the great events of Russian history for centuries. The coronation programme carried out nearly one hundred and seventy-five years ago has remained unchanged in its important details. Just before the coronation the sovereign retires from public life, and spends a few days in fasting and prayer to fit and prepare him for the occasion that is to be the grandest and most solemn in all his lifetime.
On the present Czar's birthday, the 18th of May, began the official and non-official ceremonies by which Nicholas Alexandrovich will be proclaimed supreme ruler over a nation numbering one hundred and twenty millions of people.
The actual crowning of this twenty-seven-year-old monarch will take place on the 26th of May, and under conditions far happier than those which made his father's coronation, though one of the grandest spectacles in history, a festival clouded with a dreadful gloom that fell upon the Russian people at the untimely death of the second Alexander.
The royal procession starts from the palace, and, approaching the Cathedral of the Assumption, is met by a party of the clergy led by the archbishop of the realm. The latter carries a cross that is kissed by the royal pair; then the Emperor and Empress, and the road upon which they walk, are sprinkled with holy water. Entering the cathedral, where the decorations vie with the brilliant robes and uniforms of the assembled priests and officers, their Majesties tread upon the richest Persian carpets, and, passing through a balustrade of gold, seat themselves in two ancient arm-chairs beneath a scarlet canopy ornamented with golden emblems, and yellow, black, and white ostrich feathers.
The services at the cathedral are essentially of the highest religious order, and are performed by the leading ministers of the Greek Church, of which the Czar himself is the exalted head.
THE CORONATION CEREMONY.
A banner, called the Holy Banner of Russia because the pole is surmounted by a spear-head made from a piece of the true cross, is blessed and handed to the Emperor, who waves it three times before the assembled congregation, and restores it to the primate. His Majesty kneels, and the imperial mantle of silver and ermine is thrown over his shoulders; the sword of John III., King of Poland, is fastened to his side, while in his right hand is placed the sceptre, and in his left hand the orb; rising in his place he then crowns himself with the imperial crown, which is made in two parts, representing the Eastern and Western empires. The Empress kneels before her husband, and for an instant he rests the crown upon her brow. Another and smaller crown is then given to Her Majesty by the Emperor, and at the same time the ladies in waiting cover her with a robe similar to the Czar's. While all this is going on, prayers are offered for the welfare of the new ruler, and for the land during the reign just begun, and a great company of singers chant the canticles; but as yet the people have made no demonstration—they wait until the new Czar has been anointed.
The most important part of the ceremonials is now to be performed. The Archbishop of Moscow holds a silver bowl filled with holy oil in which a fragment of the crown of thorns has been immersed, and dipping a golden palm branch into the liquid, touches the Czar's brow, his eyelids, ears, lips, and the palms of his hands. Opening the monarch's vestments, the priest traces, in holy oil, the cross upon the royal breast, pronouncing at the time sentences of the greatest solemnity. Immediately after this sacred act, cannon, trumpets, and drums announce to the people without the church that from now and forever the person of the Czar is consecrated, that he is a man anointed of God and the delegate of His power.
In the mean time the Empress comes forward and is anointed by the high-priest on the forehead only. The Holy Sacrament is then administered to both their Royal Highnesses. While the Czar and Czarina stand upon the platform of the throne a great chorus of joy is sung, after which a mass is celebrated. At the moment the Czar receives back the sceptre and globe the priest proclaims the imperial titles, and this is hailed by a great outburst of cannon and bells, and everything that can aid the people in a hearty acknowledgment of their new sovereign's absolute right and power to rule them as long as his life shall last.
This concludes the holy service, and the splendid assemblage proceeds to the Cathedral of St. Michael, where the royal pair kneel before the tombs of their ancestors, and receive more sprinklings with holy water. The procession is then formed and faced towards the Church of the Annunciation, where still further religious services close an event which is the grandest and most brilliant ever witnessed.
A PUTTING GREEN.
Up to this point all of our hitting has been free, and our one object has been to drive the ball the longest possible distance. But now, with the hole within the reach of practical politics, the problem takes on a new feature, and it is the right distance that becomes the important thing. If we know by practice that we can drive on an average 110 yards with the brassy, and the putting green is about that distance away, we will of course take that club and do our best. But supposing that it is ninety yards, it would be a great mistake to try and make an easy swing with the brassy, and the attempt would probably result in a "top" or some other form of "foozling" or missing. It would be much better to play the full cleek stroke, which is generally from fifteen to twenty yards shorter in carry. Or, again, if it is too near for the cleek, we may use the medium iron or the lofter. But when we are inside of a full stroke with the lofter or iron, we must devise some method of making a shorter shot than the full swing, for the ground is probably too rough for the putter, or there may be a bunker just in front of the green.
The books on golf go into the subject of approach-shots in a most elaborate fashion, and we are told that the three-quarter, the half, and the quarter shot must now be brought into play, and the different positions for making these strokes are described in a most minute and yet confusing and contradictory manner. As a matter of fact, although everybody talks of half and three-quarter shots, yet very few authorities will agree on what they really are, or can clearly explain how to make them. Is there any definite ground upon which to stand?
You remember that in discussing the full drive we arrived at the conclusion that it must be a swing and not a hit, and that in a swing the force is derived from velocity rather than from weight. Now the same principle applies in this case. Supposing that we use exactly the same effort of muscle for one swing that we do for another, but that the club head at one time swings back to our shoulder, and at another time only half-way. Evidently in the shorter swing it will be travelling at a lower rate of speed when it strikes the ball, and consequently with less power, and consequently again the ball will not go so far. Well, this is about as close as we can get to the secret of how to measure distance. The shorter the swing the shorter the carry, provided always that our grip is the same. And it should be always the same—that is, close and firm, particularly with the left hand. If we tighten it more than usual it means that we are about to hit instead of swing at the ball, or, in other words, we are "forcing" or "pressing." If our grip is too loose it means that we are about to flop at the ball in a feeble, uncertain way that is neither hit nor swing, and this is called "sparing." Both forcing and sparing are equally wrong, and sure to lead to unsteadiness and all kinds of misses. The grip should always be about the same, certainly always firm, and we should endeaver to reduce yards of carry to simple inches of swing. Of course this is not an easy thing to do, and in fact the "short game," as approaching is called, is generally the weak point in most people's play. These strokes that are short of a full swing are often called "wrist" strokes; but do not be deceived into thinking that the term implies a free use of those joints. On the contrary, the left wrist in particular can hardly be kept too stiff. These strokes, again, are never played with a brassy or wooden driver, their use being confined to the iron clubs, and particularly the lofter or mashie, whichever weapon you may use habitually in approaching the hole.
The stance, or position of the feet, is one point upon which all the doctors are agreed. A few players approach off the left leg, but the great majority stand half-facing the hole, with the right leg very much nearer the line of fire than the left one; in fact, the position is just the opposite of the one advised for the full driving swing. Moreover, the arms are drawn closer in, and in the case of a very short stroke the right arm should be lightly pressed against the body to insure steadiness. Get the general position right, and the rest will follow in due course.
Two strokes may be specially considered—the high lofting[Pg 706] shot, and running the ball up with the iron. The first is used when there is some obstacle directly in front of the green which must be cleared, and at the same time there is danger on the other side. The problem, then, is to loft the ball high into the air so that it may fall dead on the putting green with little or no run. The position is still half-facing the hole, and the swing should be almost straight up and down. And in this one particular stroke you may allow the wrists to be as flexible as possible, for the problem is to describe a small ellipse with the club head, and not, as before, the segment of a circle. Of course you will use a lofter or a mashie for this stroke.
The running-up stroke is very useful when there is rough ground between you and the green, but no bunker to clear. To make this stroke the player should have his hands well in front of the ball, which tends to make the face of the lofter more upright than is its natural lie. This is called turning in the face, and the effect is to skim the ball close to the ground. The club should be carried back close to the ground, and then brought forward with a slow dragging motion, both wrists being kept perfectly stiff. It is worth while practising this stroke, for it is a very effective one in its results.
PUTTING—FRONT VIEW.
And now, after all our trials and misadventures, we are at last on the putting green, and it only remains to hole out. Putting is not particularly interesting, but you must remember that a stroke wasted at the hole counts just as much as a foozle from the tee. Carefulness and concentration are especially necessary, and although putters, like poets, are said to be born, not made, you should at least aim at going out in two strokes from any part of the green three times out of five.
Putting may be done in almost any position, but whatever stance you do adopt, stick to it, and go in for results rather than for theoretical experiments. The position shown in the illustrations is a sound one, and you cannot do better than to adopt it. You will notice that the ball is comparatively near the right foot, and that the right arm is lightly steadied on the hip. Let the stroke itself be as near to a push as you can manage it without actually committing that offence, and it will aid you in controlling your distance if the club head is allowed to "sclaff" along the turf or scrape it lightly. Remember, too, that after getting your direction you must look at the ball and not at the hole.
PUTTING—REAR VIEW.
Putting is divided into approach puts and holing out. In the first-named the distance is the important thing. Of course you will play directly for the hole in the hope that you may go out in one; but failing in that, your ball must remain in such a position that the next stroke shall be a dead certainty. The great tendency is not to be up with the hole—i.e., you are so afraid of going too far past that your ball stops that much short. It is an old St. Andrews maxim that the hole will not come to you. Harden your heart, therefore, and play for the back of the hole rather than attempt a dribble just over the edge. In other words, use enough strength to run your ball at least a foot and a half beyond the hole in case it fails to drop in. You are in no worse position than if you had stopped that distance short, and you have had the extra chance of a "gobble."
"Holing out" is, in nine cases out of ten, simply a question of keeping your eye on the ball rather than on the hole. If you cast a glance at the promised land the fraction of an instant before the ball is struck, you will be sure to put off the line. Remember also that the precept of always being up with the hole applies with equal force to your approach-shots to the green. Always play for the hole itself the instant that it comes within practical range of any club, and you will save many a put.
The "stymie" demands just a word. In a match, or hole, game the one farthest from the hole must always play first, and this rule holds good on the putting green. If the balls are in line with the hole and within six inches of each other, the nearer ones may be lifted, to be replaced after the shot; but if more than six inches separate them, the ball farthest away must be lofted over if it is to have any chance for the hole. The stroke is not difficult with a little practice, but you must have your grip firm, and your calculations must be based chiefly on your distance from the hole. If properly hit, the club will loft your ball over the other one, and if the strength be right it will drop or run into the hole. In medal, or score, play the ball in line and nearest the hole is always holed out, and the stymie is never played.
And here and now and always—
Keep your eye on the ball.
he largest slave-holder and manager in this country in 1856 was said to be Mr. J. Hamilton Cowper, of Darien, Georgia, who was reputed as directing the labor of 1500 slaves. On our way home from Cuba, in April of that year, where we had been inspecting the system of slave labor, we had the good luck to meet Mr. Cowper on one of the sea islands of South Carolina. He was a remarkable man physically and mentally, and it was said he could throw up two apples into the air and hit both with his two single-barrelled pistols.
A few years before the date of our meeting him he had been wrecked off Cape Hatteras, an account of which we drew from him as follows: He had embarked at Charleston, South Carolina, on the paddle-wheel steamer Pulaski, bound to New York, having under his care a Mrs. Nightingale and her young baby, and another lady with a small child. Before turning in he had inspected the small boats, as was his custom in those dangerous voyages before ocean navigation by steam had been perfected, and when about midnight the boiler burst he went straight to the ladies, told them to hurry on their clothes and wait for him while he ran to explore. Seeing that the steamer was absolutely wrecked by the explosion, he took the two women to the nearest boat, lowered them and their two children into it, and, with half a dozen sailors, pushed off from the sinking ship. They pulled all next day, in company with another small boat, towards the surf-beaten shore of Hatteras, he taking command of the boat. They pulled along the surf for an opening, and saw the other boat try to land, and swamp. At last his crew, without food or water, refused to pull any further, and insisted on trying to land. After trying in vain to show them the danger, he had to submit, but made one of the best men promise to help save the women when they turned over, as he told them they were sure to do. The boat capsized, and his comrade made for the shore; but Cowper called him back. One woman Cowper gave to him; the other had sunk, but he caught her by her long hair, raised her, and the baby under her shawl smiled as she came up. It was Miss Isabella Nightingale, now a bright girl of eighteen, with whom we had just breakfasted. Mr. Cowper managed to get all of his protegées above the surf, and then fell exhausted. All this was drawn out of him without any boasting or exaggeration. It shows what a cool head and firm hand can do in an emergency.
Space will not permit me to give here Mr. Cowper's opinions on the rebellion, and of the relative value of free and slave labor. He was a man of remarkable intelligence and executive ability, and it was said that he kept a record of the work done and the produce gathered on each field of his large domain during his long life. He told me that he considered the popular notion that the white men could not work at the South a mere fallacy. He, however, believed in the economy of slavery, and doubtless, under his skilful administration, it worked better than elsewhere.
here are two classes of people—those who are forehanded and provident, and those who neglect to look out for the future. One is wise, the other foolish. Our Mother Nature, as she is sometimes called, belongs to the wise class. She constantly and most wonderfully provides for the future. Plants are her children, and foreseeing the winter, she does what she can to preserve them from the severe cold, so that they may revive in spring. She has several ways of doing this. In summer, to provide for new growth of branches and leaves, the next season's buds are formed under the bark. You can only find them by cutting into the bark.
Buds are the beginnings of leaves, branches, or flowers. They are tender babies, and need to be cradled and blanketed. Here is a tough old shagbark-tree. In the coziest manner possible the next year's buds are tucked away under gummy and thick scaly leaves. Frost and icy wind cannot injure them. Many forest trees protect their buds with scales. A locust and buttonwood form their new buds under the hollow stem base of the old leaf. Dr. Gray likens the old leaf to a "candle-extinguisher." You have only to pull off a locust leaf any day in summer to see next year's bud. It grows under the old leaf till it has strength to take care of itself when the leaf falls in autumn.
We cannot tell at first, and from the outside, just what the bud is going to produce. Some buds contain a whole branch, with all its leaves, in embryo, curled up and tucked into a very small space. Often a flower bud grows beside a leaf bud, and it may come out first in spring. Some of the maples do that. The forsythia is a shrub which is covered with yellow flowers in the early spring before a leaf appears on the bush.
Some plants protect their buds by keeping them underground. Plants have stems running along or under the surface as well as straight up. The horizontal stems are root-stocks. The pretty prince's-pine, the sour-leaved wood-sorrel, peppermint, and indeed many of the common flowers, have a horizontal main stem, with ascending branches. One of the most curious is the Solomon's-seal. A new leaf is sent up every year from the tip end of the root-stock, and the old, dropping off, leaves a sear, which is the "seal." Buds formed on these underground stems are protected from too great changes of temperature by a few inches of soil. Those buds that lie on the surface must be protected by the dead leaves which fall in autumn. They, the buds, are the real "babes in the wood," you see.
Our baby bud, just like children, must have nourishment as well as protection in order to grow in spring. This is provided by the thick leaves that cover, or by the stem, or in some other way. The story of an Irish potato is the most curious of them all. The potato is a collection of underground buds and starch. The eyes of potatoes are true buds, and each one can make a new plant. Have you ever seen the potatoes sprouting in the cellar? Back of the eye is a scale, which is a sort of leaf. The place for buds is just within the old leaf—that is, in the axil, or space between the leaf and stem on the upper side. So that potato buds are axillary. When our cooks pare potatoes for boiling they have to dig these buds out with a sharp-pointed knife. But they are a boon to the farmer. If he had to plant seed of potatoes he would wait two years for his crop. But now he cuts a potato in pieces, taking care to leave an eye on every piece. It would be wasteful to plant a whole potato with several buds in one hill. Plenty of starch, the nourishment necessary for the growing bud, is in one potato for all of its buds.
Propagation by buds and shoots is very common. More vegetation appears from buds than from seeds, although most plants are none the less anxious to produce seeds. They provide in both ways for the perpetuation of their species.
It is for this reason that the spring, once started, comes on so rapidly. One week there are only bare trees and brown fields; the next, everything is in leaf and bloom. Every leaf of a horse-chestnut-tree seems to grow an inch in a single night. The buds are all ready just as soon as mild weather sets the sap running, and they almost jump into active life.
hat do you think, mamma," said Johnny, the other day. "I have just read a real funny story in the paper, and it is all about a goose."
"Well, what did the goose do?" asked Johnny's mother, with a smile of expectation.
"Why, this goose didn't do anything, but she is being taught her letters with big red blocks, and after awhile I suppose she'll be able to read Mother Goose. Won't she be surprised to find out that there was ever a poet in the family?" As Johnny's mother made no reply, he continued, pleasantly:
"I hope the poor goose won't ruin her eyes when she does know how to read, because it would be awful if she had to wear eye-glasses like grandmamma. I suppose she is now studying hard and going to school just like a little girl."
"There isn't any school for geese, is there, Johnny?"
"No; I forgot when I said she was going to a regular school. She is being taught at home by her owner. Don't you think it very kind of this good man to teach the poor goose to read?"
"It is, Johnny; but I can't see the use in it."
"There may be no use in it," replied Johnny, who was not a little surprised at his mother's view; "but I think it will be very nice for the goose to be able to enjoy picture-books and read fairy tales, especially when the pond's frozen and she cannot go swimming, and when the snow is so deep that she can't go rooting around. Besides, when the lawn is nice and green she can read the sign 'Keep off the Grass,' and, of course, she will do it, because when she is educated she will be more polite and refined. And then when the goslings crawl under her at night she can put them to sleep by singing to them little songs, and she can also tell them pretty stories about giants and fairy princesses when they are swimming around the mill-pond, and then she will teach the goslings to read. But there's one thing they will never do."
"What's that, Johnny?"
"Why, if they ever learn to write they won't do it with goose-quills. But I suppose they will wander into the house, and sit on the sofa in the library, and read books. Now suppose you were a goose, mamma, wouldn't you like to be able to read?"
"I don't know, Johnny."
"Well, I would; but I would never like to read anything about the goose having his head chopped off and being stuffed with potatoes and onions. But I suppose when the goose can read she will be worth too much to eat, because she can be used as a nurse, and read stories to little boys on rainy days. And she may be able to teach little boys to read by using blocks, and I can tell you that would be just fine, and a great deal better than going to school, because the goose couldn't keep us in. Do you know what I'd do if I were an educated goose?"
"No. What would you do, Johnny?"
"I'd start a swimming-school, and I could teach every kind of swimming except swimming on the back. I think I know why the chicken can't swim."
"Why, Johnny?"
"Why, because she is afraid to try. Now, mamma, which would you rather be, a wild goose or a tame goose?"
"Johnny, why do you ask so many questions?"
"Because, mamma, I have to answer questions all day at school, and the only chance I have to ask them is at home."
"Then I wish you would hurry off to school now."
Johnny took his books and started; but when he was on the street he looked back inquiringly at his mother. She opened the window and asked him what he wanted, and he replied:
"Say, mamma, if the goose ever does have to go to school, and it is too far to walk, how do you suppose she'll ever be able to fly with her blocks and books under her wings?"
Paris.
DEAR JACK,—Had a fine time yesterday. We hired a great big open wagon that used to belong to Napoleon the Third and drove out to Versailles. If it wasn't wrong to bet I'd bet you a quarter you can't pronounce that word. Two to one you'd call it Ver-sales, which it isn't at all, but Vare-sigh. That's a queer thing about French. It isn't spelt the way it's pronounced, which I can't see the good of, and people who don't know it get lost. Take the word Luxemburg for instance. We'd pronounce it Luks-um-berg, but these people here wouldn't recognize it if we did it in their hearing, but if we said Loo-ksaun-boor they'd understand right away. And all the streets are Roos or Boolyvars. Boolyvars is French for Boulevards, and it's all right to call them that if they want to because that's what they are, but what's the sense of changing an easy word like streets into a silly little word like roos I can't even guess, and I'm generally a good guesser.
I sat next to the driver going out and it was very interesting. He couldn't speak English and I couldn't speak French, so we spent most of our time laughing. He'd say something to me and laugh and then I'd get one of my jokes at him and laugh, and I must say it was just about as good as if we understood what we were saying to each other—anyhow, it was more successful than Pop's attempts to talk to him. Pop said something to him in his patent French, as Aunt Sarah calls it; he asked him what a certain building was and as far as we could make out his answer, he replied that he thought it might before night, though it was clear enough when we started.
Speaking of Pop's patent French, it sounds quite as good to me as real French. He just takes an English word and Frenchifies it. For instance if you don't know French for building, you say bildang. Kesserkersay cet bildang la, in Pop's patent French means what building is that there. In some cases it works without your knowing it, like Pudding. If you take pudding and Frenchify it into Pooh-dang it's near enough for a Frenchman to understand, and if there is any, and there generally is, he'll bring you some.
It's a beautiful drive from Paris out to Versailles and you see lots all the way. The first thing we passed was the obelisk. It's kept cleaner than the one in Central Park and I don't like it as well. It doesn't seem so old, because it is so clean. Ours always looks as if it was on its last legs as it has a right to be, while this Paris one is as spick and span as it would be if it had been polished up with tooth-powder that very morning. The next thing to be seen on the drive was the Arc de Triomphe. That means Arch of Triumph and was put up when the French people used to triumph. It's got a fence around it now so that nobody can wear it out by walking under it. That's sarcasm as Aunt Sarah calls it, which is saying what you don't think with your nose turned up. The real reason why it's fenced in I guess is that the French people aren't triumphing as much as they were when they had a man like Napoleon at the hellum. France isn't any Yale College nowadays and hasn't won anything for a long time, and I don't see how she can expect to with the funny looking soldiers she has. Pop says they're all fuss and red pants, but Aunt Sarah thinks they're fine because there isn't any pomp about them, they're content to be plain soldiers of the Republic and wear what the government thinks is good for 'em. Pop says they make up in vanity what they lack in pomp, and when it comes to a question between Pop and Aunt Sarah I always side with Pop because he's a man and knows more. Anyhow I don't think much of the French soldiers. They haven't got great big chests like the English soldiers have and somehow their uniforms make me think of hand-organs. I wish we had a few arches like that Arc de Triomphe about New York or even America.
You can see this particular one from all over the city and there's no use of talking about it it makes you think more of the people and you learn more of their history looking at arches than when you don't see anything but elevated railroads and big sky-scraping office buildings. That's one thing Paris hasn't got and I guess it's one reason she's such a bright sunshiny looking city. All your light and air and sunbeams aren't shut out by life-insurance companies and newspapers. Elevated railroads, and life-insurance companies and newspapers don't teach you much but arches of Triumph do and I sort of think if we Americans would put up a few arches like that even if they cost a lot of money and took ten years to build there'd be more patriotism around about. I know this: I've learned more history over here in a week from what I've seen, than I could learn home in forty years from books, which is all we Americans can learn from except the newspapers which don't even agree and leave us worse off after we've read 'em than we were before.
Then we went through the Bois de Bologne which as I told you before is French for Central Park and it was great. They have woods and lakes and avenues all through it and best of all you don't have to keep off the grass either. What good grass is if you can't enjoy it is a thing I never understood. Pop says he can't understand it either except that people who can't make anything else like to make rules which accounts for all the signs in Central Park forbidding you to do everything you want to do, like "Don't tease the monkies," and "keep off the grass" and so on. In our American parks all you can do is walk where you're let, but here you can do anything you please in the parks and no one's any the worse off. What's more the folks that enjoy parks go to 'em and get all the fun out of 'em there is to be had, here. You see Frenchmen pushing two baby-carriages at once and smiling all over even if it isn't easy work, and you can't ride a mile without seeing a half a dozen picnics going on right square on the grass, any day of the week; only a French picnic isn't a bit like an American one. It lacks lots of things that makes an American picnic pleasant, particularly lemon pie. It's queer these people over here don't seem to know how good real pie is—but anyhow they all come out and sit on the grass and sing together and have a good time. That's what I like. Pop says I like it because it's something I never saw before, but he's only half right. I like it because I like to see people having a good time and that's what they have in the Bois de Bologne. Then there are caffys where you can get ice-cream and cake all through it with bands and fountains playing all day.
T. M. EDWARDS,Although there was a larger number of entries for the New England Interscholastic Tennis Tournament this year than last, the standard of play was considerably lower. But it is hardly to be expected that every season will develop such men as Ware and Whitman. The winner of this year's tourney, T. M. Edwards, shows more promise than ability just now, but he is made of good material, and is bound to develop. To win the National Interscholastics, however, he will have to work hard between now and Newport, for Fincke, I think, could defeat him to-day.
The matches were very uneven in the early part of this Cambridge tournament, the winners, as a rule, taking two straight sets. In the preliminaries only eleven three-set matches were played. The four men left for the semi-finals were Edwards of English High to play Howe of Cambridge Latin, and Seaver of Brookline High to play Cummings of Newton High. Both matches were won in two straight sets, Edwards defeating Howe, 8-6, 6-4, and Seaver getting the better of Cummings easily, 6-1, 6-3. The final match between Edwards and Seaver created considerable interest and developed some good tennis. Seaver took the first set, 6-3. After that Edwards drew himself together, and showed some good up-hill work. His winning score was, 3-6, 6-1, 8-6, 7-5.
REGINALD FINCKE, SHERMAN L. COY,The standards of performance which must be attained by the athletes who are to represent the New England I.S.A.A. at the National Games were fixed by the Executive Committee at a recent meeting. They are as follows: For the 100, 10-2/5 sec.; for the 220, 23 sec.; for the quarter, 53-2/5 sec.; for the half, 2 min. 6 sec.; for the mile, 4 min. 40 sec.; for the walk, 7 min. 40 sec.; for the 1-mile bicycle, 2 min. 40 sec.; for the high hurdles, 18 sec.; for the low hurdles, 28 sec.; for the shot, 37 feet; for the hammer, 115 feet; for the pole vault, 10 feet; for the high jump, 5 ft. 7 in.; and for the broad jump, 21 feet. These are very high standards indeed, and a team composed of two men in each event with records represented by these figures will be a hard crowd to beat.
At this same meeting the Executive Committee passed a very good rule, to the effect that contestants at the association's games shall pay the regular admission of fifty cents, like spectators. This course was adopted because in the past complimentary tickets have frequently failed to reach contestants; sometimes they have not even been printed, and the result has been that men have come to the games, and have had to pay a fifty-cent admission anyway. This money is supposed to be returned after the games, but seldom is. Under the new rule contestants will be sure of not having to pay more than fifty cents.
J. K. Robinson, c.f. Johnson, 2d b. Hill, l.f.The St. Paul's, Garden City, baseball nine promises to be a strong team this year, although, with the exception of four men, it is made up of inexperienced players. Hard training, however, begun in February, has developed strong team play and excellent base-running. Sidney Starr, captain and catcher, is a first-class back-stop and a speedy and accurate thrower. Hall, who did such good work last year, has made great improvement in form and effectiveness. He has been troubled with a lame arm, but will soon be in good condition. Everett Starr at first base is playing a much better game than he did last year. Second base is covered satisfactorily by Johnson, while Arthur Robinson, the young sprinter, is proving himself a clever short-stop, good batter, and excellent base-runner. George Robinson at third is new at the position, but fills it acceptably. Hill, left field, and J. K. Robinson, centre field, will, before the season is over, be in a class by themselves. Goldsborough, right field, is slower, but makes up for this by his stick-work. The substitutes are Sheffer and O. E. Robinson. (This nine seems to be largely a Robinson family affair.)
The important games thus far have been with Berkeley and Brooklyn High. The former resulted in a victory for St. Paul's by 7 to 4. The St. Paul's vs. Brooklyn High-school game was a fine exhibition of scholastic baseball. Although the teams were very evenly matched and the game was close from start to finish, St. Paul's, by steadier play at critical points and superior base-running, won by the score of 3-2. The probability is that this victory secures the L.I.I.S. championship to St. Paul's, as Brooklyn High is certainly the strongest school team in Brooklyn.
Hastie, r.f. Watson, 1st b. Eddy, sub. Righter, 2d b. Cheyney, c.f.The Lawrenceville nine is slowly getting into trim for its important games. So far the team is not noteworthy in any special particular, although the general work is of a high order. The coaches have been trying new men at first and third bases, short-stop, and centre field; and[Pg 710] yet with many of the old players back the team has been slow in getting into form. Cadwalader, who played third last year, is alternating with Arrott in pitching, and is doing fairly well. Arrott is stronger than he was last year. Kafer, the Captain and catcher, is a valuable man, and does the back-stop work satisfactorily, though his throwing to bases is not yet sure or reliable. Watson, a new man at first, is only fair. Jones, at short-stop, is a short, lively fellow, who develops slowly, but surely and steadily. When not pitching, Cadwalader fills third base well. In the out-field all the men are quite sure on the high flies, though not at all reliable on the running catches, and are slow in fielding in line drives.
As a whole the men may realize that success in a game is due to hard work and determination and everlasting perseverance, but they surely do not show it by their actions. They show little judgment in batting, being puzzled continually by the pitchers; and many of them simply wait, hoping to get a base on called balls. When on the bases the men have thus far not shown their ability to seize every opportunity offered to advance the bases. The coaches keep hammering away, however, and hope for good results against the Hill School and Andover later on.
Lawrenceville has had some valuable practice games with the Princeton consolidated team, which is the next to the 'Varsity, and beat them twice in four games. The school team also did better in the second game with the Princeton 'Varsity, 15-1, in nine innings; the first game resulting 16-1, in five innings. Princeton has a strong batting team this year. Eight of the fifteen runs in the second Lawrenceville game were made in the first inning, but after that the school team steadied down, and shut the 'Varsity men out for several innings.
Andover and Worcester will again this year have a dual track-athletic meet. The probable date is May 23, at Andover. Both schools are getting their men in condition, and much new material is being developed. Andover has only a few of last year's men to count on. Senn, Dunton, and Jones are doing good work in the sprints, and Lindenberg, although a new man at the quarter, promises well for that distance. Gaskell in the half, and Richardson and Palmer in the mile, are expected to score points for Andover. Crouse is showing excellent form in the walk, and will give the Worcester man a hard push for first place. Tyler will not run in the half, which will be a severe loss to the team. Stone ought to take a place in the bicycle-race, and Perry seems good for at least second in both the pole vault and the high jump. An unusually large number of men at P. A. are working at the broad jump, and some good material ought to be developed for that event. Andover's principal weakness is in the weights, the hammer and shot men all being new to the work. Cady, who came up from Hartford this year, is a fast man over the high hurdles, and Newcombe[Pg 711] may be counted on for points in the low hurdles.
The date for the National Interscholastic Games, which has been under discussion for some time, has finally been set for June 20. Unless something unforeseen occurs to prevent, the events will be run off on the Berkeley Oval.
The Interscholastic League which was recently formed by Lawrenceville, St. Paul's, the Hill School, Hotchkiss Academy, and Westminster has fallen to pieces. For one reason or another, more or less valid—mostly less—the three last-named schools withdrew, leaving only Lawrenceville and St. Paul's. These two schools decided to continue in the League, and will hold their games at Lawrenceville on May 23, extending to the other three schools the privilege of joining at any time they may desire.
At the Pacific Coast championships, held on an improvised track at Central Park, San Francisco, Saturday, May 2, the Academic Athletic League's team took second place with 26 points, first honors going to the University of California with 35, and the next highest score, 18, being made by Stanford University. The A.A.L. captured all the sprints—the 100, the 220, the 440, and also the 100-yard novice.
Drum took the 100-yard dash in 10-3/5 seconds, after winning two trial heats in 10-4/5 and 10-3/5 respectively. The track was very slow, being practically a course of soft sand. If the races had been run on a hard track all the figures would undoubtedly have been much lower. Drum also won the 220, which was run in one heat in 25 seconds. The 100-yard novice went to Lippman of Hoitt's in 10-4/5 seconds, and the quarter was taken by Woolsey, B.H.-S., in 57 seconds. Woolsey had a big crowd about him, and seemed to be lost at the beginning of the last hundred yards; but he made a great finish, and won. His time is excellent, considering the track, which, besides being heavy, is seven laps to the mile, with three turns in the 440.
The star scholastic performer of the day, however, was Cheek, O.H.-S. He
won the shot with a put of 41 feet 8½ inches, which breaks the
Pacific coast record of 40 feet 5 inches. This winning put was his
third, the first being over 38 feet, and the second nearly 42 feet; but
he stepped out, unfortunately, and this was not measured. Edgren, the U. of C.
crack, was second in the event, and nine inches behind Cheek.
Cheek also went into the pole vault, and cleared 10 feet 5 inches,
although he weighs over 190 pounds, and has been in training only three
weeks. He competed in the broad jump too, doing 19 feet 8 inches, and in
the high jump he cleared 5 feet 4 inches, dropping out before he was
disqualified, in order to save himself for the vault.
Hoffman, O.H.-S., did good work too. He vaulted 10 feet 5 inches, and jumped 5 feet 6 inches, securing second in the former event. Warnick took his heat in the low hurdles in 29-4/5 seconds, and got third in the finals. The walk was an exciting contest between Walsh of Lowell H.-S. and Merwin, U. of C. The college man took the lead for two laps, when Walsh forged ahead and led until the last hundred yards, when Merwin spurted and crossed the line only a few yards to the good. The California school athletes may well feel proud of the records made by their representatives.
The Graduate.
It was in the car of one of those narrow-gauge railroads that penetrate the wilds of the Maine woods. The yelps of the dogs in the baggage part of the smoker brought the conversation of the hunting party around to pointers. Many wonderful tales of these excellent animals had been told, when an old veteran with grizzled whiskers who had remained silent remarked:
"That last story of yourn, neighbor, puts me in mind of my dog. We were up near the border, precious nigh onto civilization, and I had played in pretty good luck, bagging a couple of brace before noon. All of a sudden I missed the dog, and I whistled and stamped round, but I couldn't raise him nohow. Finally I gave it up. I knew he must be pointing somewhere about, and thought he'd show up when I went into camp. Well, he didn't, and I finally left the region.
"I happened to get up there again 'bout three weeks later, and striking in near the same place, what did I stumble over but the dog, rigid as stone, and pointing up a tree. Yes, gentlemen, he had a bird there, and kept it till I came. When I shot it, the dog keeled over, couldn't stand it any longer. Well, three weeks is a pretty good stretch for a dog, but he was a wonder."
And the old veteran quietly puffed his pipe and silence reigned.
Peignoirs, Chemise de Jour,
Pantalons, Jupons, Robes de Nuit.
Hand-made Dresses, Mull Caps,
Pique Coats.
Reader: Have you seen the
It is a Collection which no one who loves music should fail to own; it should find a place in every home. Never before, it may truthfully be said, has a song book been published at once so cheap, so good, and so complete.—Colorado Springs Gazette.
This Song Collection is one of the most notable enterprises of the kind attempted by any publisher. The brief sketches and histories of the leading productions in the work add greatly to the value of the series.—Troy Times.
Sold Everywhere. Price, 50 cents; Cloth, $1.00. Full contents, with specimen Pages mailed, without cost, on application to
This Department is conducted in the interest of Bicyclers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject. Our maps and tours contain 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.
Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.
For the present leaving the long run from New York westward at Buffalo, we will turn, in response to many inquiries from Connecticut and western Massachusetts, and give a few routes in those two States. This week we give the first stage of the run from Poughkeepsie on the Hudson to Hartford, Connecticut, by way of Waterbury. We have already given in Nos. 810 and 817 of Harper's Round Table the route from New York to Poughkeepsie, and by reversing other maps already published in the Round Table it will be a simple matter to make out the road from Albany to Poughkeepsie.
Leaving Poughkeepsie from the Nelson House, make for the big turnpike-road that runs to Hackensack, which is seven miles away. In the middle of the town keep to the left and run a mile out, where a fork will be reached. Turn here to the left at Kyers Corner, and run on to Fishkill Plains. The road is well marked from Fishkill Plains to Hopewell, three miles further on, except that at one point, a little less than two miles from Fishkill Plains, the rider should keep to the right at the fork in the road. From Hopewell to Poughquag there are two routes. The shorter and reasonably good road in dry weather keeps straight on beside the railroad after leaving Hopewell, crosses it about two miles out, and meets it again at Sylvan Lake, eventually running into Poughquag by bearing generally to the right after leaving Sylvan Lake. In wet weather, however, it will be very unwise to take this direct route, as the road is then in bad condition. The wheelman is therefore strongly advised to turn to the right and cross the railroad track shortly after leaving Hopewell, taking a somewhat stiff hill before running into Stormville, and keeping to the left on leaving Stormville, but being careful to bear sharp to the left less than a mile out, and thus continuing along a straight road to Poughquag.
The run from Poughquag to Pawling is direct over a good route; thence the proper route continues through Cowls Corners and Balls Pond—the New York-Connecticut line being crossed about a mile before the latter place is reached—to Danbury. From Danbury to Hawleyville is a more or less difficult road to find. It can only be said in general that on leaving the hotel in Danbury bear to the left—that is, the northeastward—and having crossed the Norwalk railroad, keep to the right at the fork just beyond it. Do not cross the New York and New England Railroad until you are running into Hawleyville, but keep straight on after reaching the fork for about two miles over a pretty stiff hill, and thence some four miles further to Hawleyville. From Hawleyville to Newtown is a short three-mile run, and the rider is advised to put up at one of the hotels there for the night. The run will be a mile or so under fifty, and the hotels in Newtown are good.
Note.—Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford, Connecticut in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814. Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816. Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie id No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No. 818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No. 820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822. Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City—First Stage in No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland—First Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to Boston—Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833. Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839. Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843. Philadelphia to Washington—First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in No. 854; Albany to Fonda in No. 855; Fonda to Utica in No. 856; Utica to Syracuse in No. 857; Syracuse to Lyons in No. 858; Lyons to Rochester in No. 859; Rochester to Batavia in No. 860; Batavia to Buffalo in No. 861.
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.
During the past year watchmakers, jewellers, carriage-builders, livery-stable-keepers, piano manufacturers, and other industries have been complaining that the bicycle has seriously interfered with their business; but until of late stamp-dealers have had no reason to complain. At present there is some grumbling in the trade, and a disposition to blame the bicycle for it. The real reasons seem to be twofold: first, the large number of new dealers, and secondly, the innumerable auctions. The first cause will probably soon cease, as the difficulty in getting good stamps to sell will probably soon weed out the superfluous dealers; the second will probably have to run its course. Collectors find that in many cases they bid against each other, in the excitement of the auction-room, until the stamps cost them more than they could buy them from dealers for by a little patience, and awaiting their opportunity.
New Zealand offered a prize of $1000 for the best designs for the contemplated issue of a new set of twenty-two stamps. No one artist was successful, therefore a selection was made of the best designs, and the prize divided.
For many years the scarcest European stamp was the 81 paras, Moldavia, first issue. So scarce was the stamp that a clever swindler made a few which he sold at a high price. Later on genuine copies were discovered, and the leading philatelists discarded the counterfeits, and competed with each other for the few copies which were undoubtedly genuine. Recent research in the archives of the principality showed that the entire issue was as follows: 27 paras, 3691; 54 paras, 4772; 81 paras, 709; 103 paras, 2584.
Plate numbers are still booming. Collectors are now trying to make up sets of the earlier issues, and prices naturally advance. The demand for Plate No. Albums still continues.
The U.S. government still refuses to sell the Periodical stamps of the current issues, and yet at least two collectors have complete unused sets, from 1c. to $100, of the stamps in blocks of three, bearing imprint and plate No. Sets are still coming to the United States from all quarters of the globe. The government would secure a large revenue by allowing philatelists to buy these stamps.
The freemasonry existing between stamp-collectors is evidenced by the reports of a number of leading philatelists who have been going around the globe during the past few years. They met a warm welcome in every land, civilized, semi-civilized, barbarous, and even savage. Having parts of their collections with them operated as an "open sesame" in every country.
Despite the wide-spread knowledge of stamps curious cases of ignorance still occur. A few days ago the veteran J. W. Scott received in his mail a copy of the very scarce "Danville" envelope, with a request to exchange it for a few common stamps. The holder was much surprised to receive with the stamps a check for a large sum.
F. Nicoll.—The prices quoted in this column are always those at which the stamps can be bought of dealers. What dealers pay I do not know.
L. Perkins.—There are several dies of the 1861 3c. envelope stamp. Only a few collectors care for these slight varieties of envelopes.
F. A. Childs.—No value except as bullion.
M. R. Wise.—The 5c. and 10c. Colombian envelopes can be bought of dealers for 15c. and 25c. respectively; if used, for about half these amounts.
C. S.—The coin can be bought of dealers at 75c.
Mrs. W. T. Woods.—We neither sell nor buy stamps or coins.
E. C. Wood, 156 School Lane, Germantown, Pa.—No premium on the coins to sell, but dealers charge a premium on all the coins sold by them, whether rare or common. Compound perforations are those stamps perforated on different scales on two or more sides; for instance, many of the Swedish Official stamps are perforated top and bottom 13½, sides 14.
J. N. Carter.—Your coin is Spanish, and is worth bullion only. Many millions of them were used throughout this country up to 1834, and in the South up to 1861.
B. W. Leavitt.—Your three stamps are U.S. Revenues. All common.
H. M. Robinson.—No premium on the 1857 U.S.
R. I. P.—They are all war tokens issued in 1862 and 1863. Very interesting and worth collecting, but they have no monetary value.
W. W. S.—The quarter, 1892, can be bought of dealers for 50c.
H. S. Johnson.—Your stamps are catalogued, Bavaria, 1 kr., yellow, 5c.; Greece, 1 lept., brown, 5c.; New South Wales, 8d., yellow, surcharged O.S. in red, $4.50; Hawaii, 5c., blue, 30c.; Bavaria, 5 pf., red, is a revenue stamp.
T. L. Watkins.—There are about five hundred different "Private Proprietary" stamps issued by the U.S. for revenue purposes. Some of them are very common, others very rare. They are printed on four varieties of paper, viz.: Old, silk, pink, and water-marked. Some of the stamps were issued both perforated and unperforated.
Philatus.
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saddles are recommended by riders and physicians as proper in shape and adjustment, and every detail of equipment contributes to comfort and pleasure.
The Columbia Catalogue, handsomest art work of the year, is free from Columbia agent, or is mailed for two 2-cent stamps.
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To the Prince of Timbuctoo:
Monarchs good and monarchs famous,
Monarchs short and monarchs tall;
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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.
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.
A few words to Founders, members, and all who have contributed to the Round Table Industrial School Fund:
Some time since, as you recollect, you voted to try to raise $3000 with which to erect a brick structure at Good Will Farm to be known as the Round Table Industrial School. Although in Maine, Good Will Farm takes poor and homeless boys from every part of the country, so far as it has accommodation, gives them a Christian home, an education, and a start in the world.
Since you undertook the raising of this Fund, Good Will Farm has prospered wonderfully. A part of this prosperity has been due, it is but just to say, to the wider knowledge of its work and merits afforded by the Table and its large membership. Generous men have built new cottages as homes for more boys, and money has been given for the support of girls, so that the place is soon to be not alone Good Will Farm for boys, but Good Will Farm for girls as well. One citizen of New York has bought a tract of land across the Kennebec River from the farm, and in the grove on this land is to be held the summer school and annual July gathering.
In memory of a deceased brother some kind ladies have built a school-house—not an industrial, but a literary school, equipped with every convenience. The cost has been nearly if not quite $25,000, not including a proposed museum of natural history in one of its largest rooms.
With such gratifying prosperity Good Will has grown quite beyond the expectation held at the time we began our task. An industrial school large enough to meet its present and immediate future demands would cost at least $10,000—a sum far beyond the Table's ability to raise, and one that it never thought to undertake.
There are many things to be considered in connection with our work to date; 1, The times, which have been far from good; 2, The fact that young persons, not grown-ups, undertook the task; 3, And most important of all, our effort to earn, not to beg, the money we contributed—to be generous with what was ours, not with other people's money.
Of our Fund at date, amounting to $1682.35, all cash in hand, we have no reason to be ashamed. It is a handsome sum, and one that many an institution besides Good Will would be glad to receive at our hands.
If, now, we change our plans we ought to bear in mind that we are not the only persons who, finding that circumstances change, alter their minds and their acts to fit them. Especially ought we to be gratified, since the change that makes us alter our minds and acts is one of wonderful prosperity for the splendid charity which we started out to help.
After looking over the whole ground, and consultation with the supervisor and one of the leading trustees, we beg to make to the Founders this suggestion:
That the money now in hand be turned over to the trustees of Good Will Farm, to be invested by them according to their best judgment, the same to be known as the "Round Table Fund," and the income of it to be used to help educate at Good Will any boy or girl, or boys and girls, as the supervisor or trustee, or both, decide to be most worthy of such help.
Included in the amount of the Fund as given is money to pay for twelve Memorial Stones, which were to form part of the base-line of the school building. We suggest that the donors of this money be given the privilege of withdrawing it if they so desire; but if they do not wish to withdraw it, that the papers making the formal transfer contain "codicils" or "minutes" mentioning the names of the persons or Chapter, the same to forever form a part of the "Round Table Fund" foundation.
The method of deciding Round Table questions is by vote of the Founders—postal-card votes. In this case we think it the part of generous wisdom to allow all contributors, as well as all Founders, to vote. And so the request is made that all of you give us opinions. Shall we make the disposition of the matter here suggested? Remember, dear Knights and Ladies, that we are to rejoice that we have a gift so handsome in amount to bestow, rather than to sigh for the thousands of dollars we haven't in hand to give. The Good Will trustees will gladly accept the Fund in the form proposed. Shall we give it to them?
We were six in the little party which started to go to the mountain to camp out. We trudged along with our bundles up the steep road and through woods until we came to our hut. This hut was made of poles interlaced with brush-wood. When we got there the first thing we discovered was that some cattle had been there and eaten the green leaves off, but that was soon put right. We had a lot of food with us, and when we ran short a native boy we had engaged brought up some more. All our crockery was of tin, as all other kinds would break, and these always stood just outside the door.
One night three of us decided to go to town. The other three would not come, so they staid and looked after the things while we were away. We started at eight and got back at ten. When we went down we were all dressed in our mountain suits, which were composed of football jerseys and strong trousers, and these were pretty full of mud. Our visit to town was shortened by the mist coming down, and we had to hurry up for fear of it catching us at a very rocky place we had to climb; but we got up just as it reached the top. Meanwhile the three in the cave were having some fun. We were just gone when they heard something in the tin mugs. One took up the gun and shot as the thing jumped away, but only succeeded in wounding it, as we discovered next morning by the blood-stains on the bough of the tree. We staid ten days in the hut, and enjoyed the time thoroughly. The last day it drizzled, so we gave up the plan we had of going down in the night, and went at mid-day.
I am a stamp collector, and would like to exchange stamps with any one who would do so.
R. MacWilliam, Jun.
Gill College, Somerset East, Cape Colony, South Africa.
The family referred to in the "Guessing Contest" of two weeks ago is the "Berry," and the numbered lines describe them:
1, Elder; 2, Goose; 3, Checker; 4, Knot; 5, Hack; 6, Box, 7, June; 8, Hop; 9, Candle; 10, Poke; 11, Prince; (12, Wax, 13, Snow;) 14, Straw; (15, Coffee, 16, Wine;) (17, Bane, 18, Bramble;) (19, Dog, 20, Bear;) (21, Pigeon, 22, Partridge, 23, Crow;) 24, Bog; 25, Cloud; 26, Dew; 27, Mul, 28, Blue; 29, Black; 30, Bil; 31, Bay; (32, Bar, 33, Choke;) 34, Dangle; 35, Wintergreen; 36, Cran (crane); 37, Huckle; (38, Holly, 39, Mistletoe;) (40, Soap, 41, Thimble;) 42, Rasp; 43, Yew.
James Nichols asks if we have a story contest open now, and he sends a tale for a prize. We reply, not now, and return his story. Louise Hall, secretary of the Broken Bow Chapter, 216 Thirteenth Street, Oakland, Cal., says members of her society want to hear from persons who can describe famous places and homes of famous men. Kathleen Kent, 1162 Harrison Street, is the member in charge, and she desires pictures of famous men. The Chapter members promise to answer all letters on the subject. Herbert C. Davis, Box 87, Carthage, O., plays chess, and wants to play some games by mail.
Roberta Esther Conley was much interested with that touching letter from Broussa, describing the hardships of Armenians, and she hopes everybody who can will help Miss Barton and others in relief work. The Red Cross Society is an international one, organized some years ago in Geneva, Switzerland. Miss Clara Barton is president of the American branch only. It has special privileges, as that it is, in time of war, to be permitted to go into both armies to do relief work, and that all generals shall recognize its officers and permit them to pass. It does relief work in times other than war, as during floods, famine, hurricanes, etc. "Why does it not go to Cuba?" We do not know.
"J. A. M." writes: 1. How can a boy seventeen years of age obtain a position as cabin-boy or something else on board a sailing vessel to California or thereabouts? 2. What are the duties involved in such a position? 3. How much could he earn that way, and how would it be paid to him? He does not intend to be a sailor, but wishes to regain his health and strength and earn some money to help pay his expenses at a preparatory school, for college, about a year and a half from now. 1. Apply at office on board the ships. There is no general rule. Cases of this kind are not numerous. A friend of the Table, aged 19, applied recently and was promptly taken, mainly because he was big and strong. He was offered $8 per month and board, and was required to ship for a year's cruise. One going for his health would not be likely to get much salary. 2. The duties of cabin-boy are those of a general boy of all work. 3. The pay, even for a well boy, is very small, say from $4 to $6 per month, with board.
J. L. P. and H. E. A.: All readers may send original puzzles for "Kinks." They may also send short stories when competitions are open. Short stories, other than in competition for prizes, are not desired. But the Table wants morsels, descriptive of interesting but not too well known places. Perhaps this latter phrase needs explaining. A morsel about Mt. Auburn, describing the tombs of Sumner, Burlingame, and Longfellow, would be interesting, while one describing Niagara Falls would be too hackneyed to warrant space being given it. Round Table Chapters are societies of young persons, sometimes of schools, often of churches or neighborhoods, organized to study natural history, to make collections, or perhaps merely to have a good time.
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.
Among the qualities most to be desired in a young girl's character is a high sense of honor. I wish I could impress on every reader the need of being always above everything petty or small, so that one would not for a single moment ever be tempted to do a mean or underhand thing, to speak unkindly of a friend, or to repeat a conversation which was confidential.
It may happen to you, for instance, to be visiting in the home of a relative or friend, where there may be a little friction at the table, or where some anxiety arises about the course of a member of the family. No matter what you see or hear, in such circumstances you are bound, if you are an honorable person, to be silent about it, neither making comments nor looking as if you could tell something if you chose, nor in any way alluding to what is unpleasant, at any future time. A guest in a home cannot be too careful to guard the good name of those under its roof, for it is an honor to be a guest, in the first place, and honor is demanded in return.
Again, a nice sense of honor in matters connected with money is very important. Polly is treasurer of a society, and has the care of the funds. She must never for an instant, or in an emergency, lend these funds to other people, or borrow them for her own use. I knew a girl—Polly was her[Pg 715] name, by-the-way—who was induced, being treasurer of a certain guild, to lend her brother, for one day, the money she had in her care. The brother was older than Polly, and a very persuasive person. He said: "Why should you hesitate? I'll bring it back to you to-night, and it will oblige me very much if I can take that fifty dollars and pay a bill I owe before noon to-day." Foolish Polly permitted her scruples to be overruled. The money was not brought back, and but for her father's kindness in making it good she would have been disgraced as a dishonest treasurer. She told me long afterwards that the lesson had been burned in on her mind never to take liberties with money which she held in trust.
A nice sense of honor will keep a girl from making a confidante of her maid or of any person in an inferior situation. One's mother is a girl's natural adviser and her safest intimate friend. A nice sense of honor will hinder all prying into other people's affairs, and will lead one to turn a deaf ear to the gossip of the idle and malicious.
Sometimes one becomes accidentally aware of a state of things which she knows her friend must prefer to keep to herself. The honorable girl will never hesitate here; she will be as thoughtful for her friend's interests as if they were her own.
This little talk may be too old for some of my younger readers, so I will conclude it by telling them a little story. Once upon a time in a small New England village there was a district school. The boys and girls went to this from the country homes for miles, some of them not minding a very long walk over snowy roads in winter, and under the trees in summer. The master was very grave and stern, and if he laughed behind his grizzled beard, the children looking up to him from their benches seldom saw it. A big ruler always lay on his desk, and they were very much afraid of that; so that when one morning at recess, in a game of ball, Charley B—— had the misfortune to break a window in the school-house, it required no little courage in the eight-year-old boy to march straight into the room, up to the desk, and confess that he had been careless and had done the mischief. Mr. True was very kind, and said, consolingly, that the window could be mended. So Charley rushed off with a light heart.
Later in the day a girl, I am ashamed to say, stole up to the desk and told her tale. "Mr. True," said this disagreeable little being, "I can tell you who broke the window! I saw—"
"Hush, Nancy!" said the master, in an awful voice. "I know who did it. An honorable person did it. Which you are not. You may remain after school and write out ten pages of history as a punishment for tale-telling."
Lottie W.—Strawberries served for breakfast need not be hulled. Eat them, instead, one by one, dipping each into powdered sugar.
Ivory Soap is white and pure; it is a clean soap and it washes clean.
The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.
Made only by The Charles E. Hires Co., Philadelphia.
A 25c. package makes 5 gallons. Sold everywhere.
The celebrated and effectual English Cure without internal medicine. Proprietors, W. Edward & Son, London, England.
A Story of the American Revolution. By James Barnes. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50.
The story is one of adventure and abounds in vivid description. The author has evidently made a careful study of the New York of a century ago, and of the history of the secret patriot societies which were formed in the city under the British rule, and the story in many of its descriptions has marked historical value.—Boston Advertiser.
Gives a series of striking pictures of social and military life in and about the city of New York during the period of British occupation.... Filled with exciting incidents, and will have a strong fascination for young readers.—Boston Transcript.
A very stirring story of the early years of the American Revolution.—Brooklyn Times.
Abounding in adventure, and those chapters in which the young soldiers play the part of spies are particularly enthralling.—Buffalo Courier.
Full of movement and full of surprises.... Will instruct as well as interest the average boy who reads it.—Boston Journal.
A Sequel to "The Fur-Seal's Tooth."
Brimful of adventures admirably recorded. The young folks will take delight in it.... We confess to having read every word of the journal with as much interest as we once read "Robinson Crusoe" or the "Swiss Family Robinson."—Christian Intelligencer, N. Y.
A book that will hold the interest of its readers from beginning to end.—N. Y. Evening-Post.
There is plenty of moving incident in the tale, and the atmosphere, redolent of seals and the life of that stormy clime, will delight all boys.—Spectator, London.
An entertaining story for boys, and will usefully enlarge their knowledge of our great Atlantic peninsula.—N. Y. Evening Post.
The story has a strong, wholesome tone, and will hold the interest of boy readers from first to last page.—Churchman, N. Y.
Capitally written and admirably illustrated.... An excellent record of the early development of certain Western cities and of certain Indian tribes now fast disappearing.—Critic, N. Y.
A wholesomely exciting tale of adventure which any bright boy might consider a valuable addition to his library.—Christian Intelligencer, N. Y.
Each one volume. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25.
The "Mates" Series, Four Volumes in a Box, $5.00.
"I git good measure," said Mrs. Jones, "but, I declare, the milk Henry brought me yesterday mornin' was more'n half water."
The art of painting pictures so near to life as to deceive the naked eye is very old. Pliny relates that Zeuxis once painted some grapes so naturally that birds used to come and peck at them, and that Parrhasius once painted a curtain so artfully that Zeuxis desired it drawn aside that he could see the picture it hid. Discovering his error, he confessed himself outdone, as he had only imposed on birds, whereas Parrhasius had deceived the human intellect. Another time Zeuxis painted a boy with some grapes, and when the birds again flew at the grapes he was very angry, saying that he was certainly at fault with the picture. He reasoned that had it been perfect the birds would have been frightened away by the boy.
Caius Valerius Flaccus says that Zeuxis's death was occasioned by an immoderate fit of laughter on looking at the comic picture he had drawn of an old woman.
"The reason why the British want to swallow up half of Venezuela," asserted Pat, "is because of the gold there is down there."
"Sure," replied Mike, "they're always after gold, the English. If they were landed on an uninhabited island, they would not be there an hour before they'd have their hands in the pockets of the naked savages!"
Baron Rothschild was once caught in a predicament that many people experience daily, and that is getting into a conveyance of some kind, and then not having the money to pay the fare.
The driver of the omnibus into which Rothschild entered demanded his fare, and the Baron, feeling in his pockets, discovered that he had no change. The driver was very angry. "What did you get in for, if you had no money?"
"I am Baron Rothschild," explained the great capitalist, "and there is my card."
The driver scornfully tossed the card away. "Never heard of you before," said he, "and don't want to hear of you again. What I want is your fare."
The banker was in great haste. "Look here. I've an order for a million," he said; "give me the change." And he proffered a coupon for that amount.
The driver stared and the passengers laughed. Fortunately a friend of the Baron entered the omnibus at the moment, and taking in the situation, immediately paid the fare. The driver, realizing his mistake, and feeling remorseful, said to the Baron,
"If you want ten francs, sir, I don't mind lending them to you on my own account."
It's time to put the lessons by,
The fields are full of daisies;
When summer blue is in the sky,
Who cares for sums and phrases?
Deep in his heart, his highest joy,
The boy I know is wishing
To leave the school-room's strict employ,
And just to go a-fishing.
He'll find a grand old willow-tree,
Above brown waters dipping,
Where catfish glide and pickerels be,
And dainty birds are sipping.
There, waiting long, with earnest pluck,
At last his line will quiver,
And you and I will wish him luck
Beside that bonny river.
Willie. "I think I know why Ponto wags that stump of a tail so very hard."
Aunt Jane. "Why does he do it, Willie?"
Willie. "Because it is only half a tail, and he wants to enjoy a sense of wagging a whole one."
Manufacturers are always pleased to turn out the product of their establishments in less than the average time, and many have made records to which they point with pride. In the issue of the Round Table for December 10, a short article was published on making a coat in thirteen and a half hours, from shearing the sheep to putting the finished garment on a man's back. This was done at Greenham Mills, in England, in 1811. Mrs. James Lyon, of Bath, New York, writes that a similar feat took place in that town in 1816, and was accomplished in less than nine hours by one George McClure, who asserted that it could be done in ten hours. The record of each step of the work still exists, with the exception of the shearing. The wool was colored in thirty-five minutes; carded, spun, and woven in two hours and twenty-five minutes; fulled, warped, and dyed in one hour and fifty-one minutes; carried to the tailor in four minutes, and was turned into the finished coat by him and his journeyman in three hours and forty-nine minutes. The shears used in the work are still preserved, and can be seen at the Steuben Agricultural Society's Fair Grounds, at Bath.
This feat, at the time, doubtless attracted as much attention as a record-breaking railroad train or steamship does to-day. It is probable that many of our present manufacturers make such trials for their own edification, which, if described, would prove interesting.
[1] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 857.
End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, May 19, 1896, by Various
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