Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, September 22, 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, September 22, 1896 Author: Various Release Date: April 29, 2019 [EBook #59387] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S ROUND TABLE, SEPT 22, 1896 *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire
Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.
| published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1896. | five cents a copy. |
| vol. xvii.—no. 882. | two dollars a year. |
Little Lady Daffany had just been betrothed to the Prince, and there were great rejoicings all over the town in consequence. The people were allowed to cheer as much as they liked, and every child in the country had a whole holiday and a penny bun, and nobody had an unhappy moment from sunrise to sunset. All the Fairies were invited to a magnificent banquet in the palace that lasted five hours and a half; and the betrothed couple sat at one end of the table, and talked to one another; and the King and Queen sat at the other end, and hoped that everything would go well. The Queen fanned herself, and murmured at intervals. "The wish of my heart"; and the King grumbled to himself because he could not get enough to eat. The King had a very healthy appetite, and he always gave a banquet whenever there was the least occasion for one.
"I really don't think we have left any one out this time," said the Queen, in a satisfied tone. One of the Fairies had been left out at the Prince's christening, and the usual misfortunes had followed in consequence.
"That is because I sent out all the invitations myself," replied the King, crushingly. "These things require only a little management."
The words were hardly out of his royal mouth when a sudden darkness fell upon the room, just as though a curtain had been drawn across the sun. One ray of sun continued to shine, however, and that was the one that shone over Lady Daffany's head; and down this one something[Pg 1134] came sliding at a terrific pace, and tumbled into a dish of peaches just in front of her. The conversation stopped with a jerk, and the people in the street ceased cheering at the same moment, though they could not have told any one why they did not go on.
"I am going to faint!" the Queen was heard to exclaim; but no one was sufficiently unoccupied to attend to her. The eyes of every one were fixed on the one ray of sunlight that shone over Lady Daffany's head into the dish of peaches on the table.
"Now that's a stupid place to keep peaches," said the cause of all this disturbance; and the funniest little man imaginable clambered out of the dish of peaches and looked inquisitively down the long table. He was very small and of a misty appearance, and he was dressed from head to foot in dull yellow fog, and his face was brimful of mischief. He looked as though he had done nothing all his life but make fun of people; for he had very small eyes that twinkled, and a very large mouth that smiled, and the rest of his face was one mass of laughter wrinkles.
"So you thought you were going to leave the Wymps out, did you?" he said, sitting down comfortably on the edge of a large salt-cellar, and swinging his legs backwards and forwards. "You will say you never heard of the Wymps next, I suppose!"
That was just what every one in the room was thinking, but no one had the courage to say so.
"To be sure! to be sure! How stupid of us not to recognize you at once!" said the Queen, who had not fainted, after all.
"Most absurd! Why, the children in the schools could have told us that, eh?" added the King, glancing at the Royal Professor of Geography, who sat on his right hand.
"No doubt; no doubt. Though it does not belong to my branch of learning," said the latter, looking cheerfully at the Royal Professor of History, who was trying, for his part, not to look at anybody at all.
"Then if you know such a lot about us, how was it you didn't ask us to the banquet, eh?" shouted the little Wymp in a most disagreeable manner.
"Dear me!" said the Queen. "Is it possible you never had the letter?"
"I have no doubt," added the King, "that it was never posted."
"Or perhaps it was not properly addressed," suggested Lady Daffany, politely.
The Wymp looked from one to the other and winked; then he stood on his head and burst into a fit of laughter.
"It is no use, dearest," said the Prince, gloomily. "We have never heard of the Wymps, and we had better own it at once. I suppose that means another bad gift, and I had quite enough of that at my christening. It is enough to set one against banquets altogether. There's always some one left out. First, it's Fairies, then it's Wymps. Now, then, Mr. Wymp, just tells us where you came from, and why you are here, and get it over, will you?"
"Now that's sensible. I think I'll shake hands with you," said the Wymp, coming down on his feet again, and standing on tiptoe to grasp the Prince's hand. The Prince felt it was like shaking hands with a very damp sponge.
"Now I'll tell you what it is," continued the Wymp, climbing up a decanter, and standing with one foot on the stopper and the other tucked up like a stork's; "the Wymps have been left out of this banquet altogether, and Wymps are not people to be trifled with. Why people make such a fuss about Fairies I never can make out. Now if you'd left some of them out, it wouldn't have made any difference. They just overcrowd everything, and it's not fair."
The Fairies fluttered their wings indignantly at this, but the Fairy Queen reminded them that it was not polite to make a quarrel in somebody else's house, and the Wymp went on undisturbed.
"So I have come down from the land of the Wymps, which is at the back of the sun, just to remind you that you mustn't leave us out again. However, I see I am spoiling the fun, so I will be off again. But I may as well mention"—here he looked straight at the Prince and burst out laughing again—"that in future you will always tell people what you think of them. Ha! ha! ha! that is the Wymps' gift to you. Good-by!"
And away he sped up the sunbeam again, and the curtain fell away from the sun, and the people in the street went on cheering just where they had left off, and the conversation broke out again at the very place it had been interrupted, and no one would have thought that anything had happened at all. But the Prince heard nothing but the Wymp's mocking laughter, and he sat silent for the rest of the day.
"Are you ill, dear Prince?" asked the Queen.
"Of course not! You are a tiresome old fidget," said the Prince, crossly. Now the Prince was noted for his excellent manners; he was even known to speak politely to his horse and his spaniel; so when the courtiers heard his reply to the Queen, they began to whisper among themselves, and the guests made ready to depart.
"It is the heat; you must really excuse him," said the King, getting up from the table with a sigh.
"What nonsense!" said the Prince. "It is not hot at all. It is your fault for having such a stupid long banquet."
"We have enjoyed ourselves so much," said the guests, as they filed past him.
"Oh no, you haven't," retorted the Prince; "you have been thoroughly bored the whole time, and so have I."
"It is the Wymps' gift," whispered the courtiers.
Two large unshed tears stood in Lady Daffany's eyes when she bade the Prince good-night.
"Do you think I have been bored the whole evening?" she asked him, softly.
"No, dearest," said the Prince, kissing her white fingers; "for you have been with me all the time."
And that, of course, was the truth, so she went away happy.
The days rolled on, and everybody began to wonder at the change in the Prince. He had always been considered the most charming Prince in the world, but now he had suddenly become one of the most unpleasant. He told people of their faults whenever they were introduced to him, and although he was generally right, they did not like it at all. He said the Royal Professor of Geography was a bore, and although no one in the kingdom could deny it, the Royal Professor of Geography naturally felt annoyed. At the state ball he told the King he could not dance a bit, and though the King's partners certainly thought so too, that did not make it any better. But when he told the Queen, in the presence of the Royal Professor of History, that her hair was turning gray under her crown, the Queen said it was quite time something was done.
"The dear fellow cannot be right in his head," she said; "he must have a doctor."
So the Royal Physician was sent for, and he came in his coach-and-four and looked at the Prince; and he coughed a good deal, and said he must certainly have a change of air.
"The Royal Physician always knows," said the Queen.
"But what is the matter with me?" asked the Prince.
"That," said the Royal Physician, coughing again, "is too deep a matter for me to go into just now. In fact—"
"In fact, you don't know a bit, do you?" said the Prince; and he burst out laughing just as unpleasantly as the Wymp had done when he stood on his head.
So the Royal Physician drove away again in his coach-and-four, and the Prince went on telling people exactly what he thought of them. The only person to whom he was not rude was the little Lady Daffany, for he thought nothing but nice things about her, and therefore he had nothing but nice things to say to her. But for all that, she was most unhappy, for she could not bear hearing that other people disliked the Prince; and all the people were beginning to dislike him very much indeed. So one day she slipped out of her father's house quite early in the morning, and went into the wood at the end of the garden. Now she was so kind to all the animals and flowers, that the Fairies had given her the power of understanding their language; so she went straight to her favorite squirrel, who lived in a beech-tree in the middle of the wood, and she told him all about the Prince and the Wymps' gift.[Pg 1135] The squirrel stopped eating nuts, and ran after his tail for a few moments without speaking. Then he winked his eye at her very knowingly, and nodded his smart little head several times, and spoke at last in a tone of great wisdom.
"You must go to the Wymps and intercede for the Prince," he said, and cracked another nut.
"But would they listen to me?" asked Lady Daffany, doubtfully.
"Go and try," said the squirrel. "The Wymps are not bad little fellows, really. They like making fun of people, that's all; and they saw the Prince was a bit of a prig, so they thought they would give him a lesson, don't you see?"
"Perhaps they will think I am a prig too," said Lady Daffany, sadly.
"My dear little lady," laughed the squirrel, "the Wymps never make fun of people like you. Just you go and find the biggest sunbeam you can, and climb up it until you come to the land of the Wymps at the back of the sun. Only you must go with bare feet and with nothing on your head. Now be off with you; I want to finish my breakfast."
The biggest sunbeam she could find was the one that came in at the library window and sent her father, the Count, to sleep over the state documents. And there she took off her little red shoes and stockings, and pulled the golden pins out of her hair, and let it fall loosely round her shoulders, and she began to climb slowly up the ray of sunlight. At first it was very hard work, for it was very slippery, and she was frightened of falling off; but she thought of the Prince, and went on as bravely as she could. And then it seemed as though invisible hands came and helped her upwards, for after that it was quite easy, and she glided up higher and higher and higher until she came to the sun itself—the big round sun. And she went straight through the sun, just as though it were a paper hoop at the circus, and she tumbled out on the other side into a land of yellow fog. There was no sunshine there, and no moon, and no stars, and no daylight—nothing but a dull red glow over everything, like the light of a lamp.
"Why," said Lady Daffany, feeling her clothes to see if they were singed, "I always thought the sun was hot!"
"I have no doubt you did; it is quite absurd what mistakes are made about the sun," said a familiar voice, and, looking round, she saw the identical Wymp who had come to disturb the betrothal banquet.
"Hullo! I've been expecting you," he said, as he recognized her. "Why didn't you come before?"
"Because you didn't send me an invitation," said Lady Daffany, merrily; and she made him a court bow. Now it is true that the Wymps spend their lives in laughing at other people, but they are not accustomed to being laughed at themselves; so when Lady Daffany continued to be amused at her own joke the Wymp drew himself up very stiffly and looked offended.
"I don't see anything whatever to laugh at," he said, severely, "and you had better come along and explain to the King why you've come."
Then he led her through the dimly lighted land of yellow fog, and they passed crowds of other little Wymps who were all so like himself that it was difficult to tell one from another; for they were all dull yellow and misty in appearance, and they all had small eyes and large mouths, and their faces were all covered with laughter wrinkles. They seemed to be spending their time in turning somersaults and tumbling over one another, and laughing loudly at nothing at all. But the Wymp who was with Lady Daffany did not laugh once; he just trotted along in front of her and did not speak a word, so that she really was afraid she had hurt his feelings, and she began to feel sorry.
"Please, Mr. Wymp, I didn't mean to laugh at you at all," she said, very humbly.
"That's all very well," said the Wymp, sulkily, "but no Wymp ever allows any one else to make a joke. Come along to the King."
"But it wasn't a joke!" cried Lady Daffany.
"Oh, well, if it wasn't a joke, that's another matter. Not that I should have called it a joke myself, but I thought you meant it for one," said the Wymp, more cheerfully. "Now why have you come up here at all?"
She hastened to tell him about the Prince, and how much he had been changed by the Wymps' gift, and how she wanted to intercede for him; and her voice grew so sad as she thought about it all that the Wymp had to turn round and shout at her.
"Don't get gloomy," he cried, turning several somersaults in his agitation. "Nobody is ever gloomy in the land of the Wymps. Make another bad joke if you like, but stop being dreary—do."
At this moment they suddenly came upon the Wymp King, who was sitting asleep on his throne all by himself. He was just like the other Wymps, except that he looked too lazy to turn somersaults, and he had no laughter wrinkles at all.
"Is that the King? He doesn't look much like a King," whispered Lady Daffany.
"He hasn't got to look like a King," said the Wymp. "We choose our Kings because they are harmless, and don't want to make jokes, and will keep out of the way. We once had a King who looked like a King—we used to live in the sun then—but he did so much mischief that the sun people turned us out, and we have had to live at the back of the sun ever since."
Lady Daffany felt glad that the kind of King she was accustomed to did look like a King, but she had no time to say so, for just then the Wymp jumped on the throne and woke up the King by shouting in his ear.
"Does any one want anything?" asked the Wymp King, waking up with a jerk, and putting on his crown and his spectacles.
Lady Daffany dropped on her knees in front of the throne and tried not to feel frightened.
"Please, your Majesty—" she began, timidly.
"Who is she talking to?" cried the Wymp King. He had a very gruff voice, through living in a yellow fog all his life; and he spoke so loudly that he completely drowned the rest of her speech.
"Say what you want, and don't give him any titles; he's not used to them," whispered the Wymp.
"Why, I don't believe he is a King at all," said Lady Daffany, standing up again.
"Who says I'm not a King at all?" shouted the Wymp King, angrily.
"If you make any more of your bad jokes, I won't try to help you at all," said the Wymp. "Why don't you say what you want at once?"
So Lady Daffany set to work and told the whole of her story, and begged the Wymp King to take back his fatal gift so that the Prince should no longer tell people what he thought about them until they all came to dislike him.
When she had finished, the King gave a great yawn and took off his crown.
"Doesn't he tell them the truth then?" he asked, sleepily.
"Yes, I—I suppose so," she answered, doubtfully.
"Then why should they mind?" said the Wymp King.
Lady Daffany shook her head. "They do mind," she said.
"Then it's very stupid of them," said the Wymp King, very drowsily. "However, if that's all, the gift can be passed on to you instead. Now go away; I am going to sleep again."
He was already sound asleep, and not another word could be got out of him. Lady Daffany tried not to cry, and turned away.
"I suppose every one will dislike me now," she said, sorrowfully; "but of course that is better than their disliking the Prince."
"Nonsense," said the Wymp, as he led her to the back of the sun; "that would be too good a joke for the King to make. You wait and see. Good-by."
And away she went through the sun again, and came out on the bright side once more, for the sunbeam had moved on since the morning, and then she ran in-doors to find her shoes.
"That's all right," said the Count, putting away the state documents with a great show of relief; "you're just in time for tea. Where have you been all day?"
"I've been for a walk, at least a fly—no, I mean a ride," stammered Lady Daffany. "I'm not quite sure which it was."
"Never mind," chuckled the Count; "I expect you were with the Prince, and didn't notice, eh? Then of course you have heard the wonderful news of the Prince's recovery."
"Then the Wymp did speak the truth!" cried Lady Daffany, clapping her hands for joy.
"What Wymp?" asked the Count. "This has nothing to do with the Wymps. It was a strange physician who came from a far land, and he touched the Prince's tongue, and made him every bit as polite as he used to be. So you can be married at last, and the Prince can go into society again."
"A strange physician?" said his daughter. "I wonder where he has gone now?"
"That's just it," said the Count, pouring out his sixth cup of tea; "he didn't go anywhere. He turned three somersaults down the palace steps, and when they ran to pick him up there wasn't anybody to pick up."
"Then it must have been a Wymp," thought Lady Daffany, and she wandered out into the garden to think it all over.
"I wonder if I have really got the Wymps' gift instead of the Prince," she said to herself. Just then the Prince himself came through the bushes to find her. He no longer looked grave and unhappy, and there was a radiant look on his face.
"Don't you think I have been a very disagreeable Prince lately?" he whispered, as he stooped to kiss her.
"I think you are the dearest Prince in all the world," she answered, softly.
"All the same, the Royal Professor of Geography is an old bore, isn't he?" said the Prince.
"Oh no, I don't think so. He is only clever," answered Lady Daffany.
"But the Queen-Mother's hair is turning gray. Haven't you noticed it?" persisted the Prince.
"I really think you are mistaken, dearest," said Lady Daffany.
And she never found out whether she really had the Wymps' gift or not. But the Prince and the people loved her to the end of her days.
t was at one time supposed that the railroads would be able to carry freight so much cheaper and quicker that the canals would gradually become useless, and only the heaviest and most unimportant class of goods would be sent from place to place over the all-water inland routes. One of the reasons for this was that the canals had not advanced in any way since they were first built—that is, the mechanism of locks had not been improved, and no other methods had been devised by which canal traffic might be made speedier. But about six years ago an American engineer, Mr. Chauncey N. Dutton, invented a lock which many experts think will probably revolutionize canal traffic, and make it possible to build a waterway from New York to the Great Lakes, following the line of the Hudson and using Lake Champlain and the St. Lawrence River.
DIAGRAM OF LOCKS.
The lock invented by Mr. Dutton is founded upon the already well-known and widely utilized principle of compressed air, and although at first it looks complicated to the average person, it is said by mechanics and engineers to be a very simple affair. The lock is called a pneumatic balance lock. It is made up of two sections, each of which may very well be compared to elevators. These elevators are in reality huge tanks, each about 510 feet long, 65 feet wide, and capable of holding 26 feet of water. These tanks are placed in other steel tanks which correspond to the shafts of an elevator, and these shafts are placed alongside of one another. Of course the shafts of these great elevators are sunk as deeply into the earth as it is necessary to raise a ship into the air, or up to the higher level of the canal. The sunken portions of the shafts are filled with water, and the tanks, or elevators, are arranged so that they work up and down like balanced scales—that is, when one is at the higher level the other is at the lower level. Compressed air does all the work. Perhaps by looking at the diagram this may be more clearly made apparent.
The two tanks are connected by a great pipe 21 feet in diameter. Where it connects immediately with the locks this pipe is flexible and moves up and down with the tanks, and looks very much like a huge elephant's trunk. Through it the compressed air shifts, at the will of the operator, from one shaft to the other.
Therefore, supposing one of the tanks is at the highest point of one of the shafts, the other will naturally be at the lowest level of the other shaft. The upper tank is supported by compressed air resting on a body of water which fills the lower portion of the shaft—that is, the part sunken down into the earth. All that it is necessary to do now in order to bring the upper tank or elevator down to the level of the lower tank is to open a valve, and allow the compressed air to run out of one shaft into the other, which it will do at a velocity twenty-eight times that of water. The weight of the descending tank, of course, is the power which forces the air through the pipe from one shaft into the other, and as soon as the two tanks reach the balancing-point they will stop. In order to get the elevator down to the bottom level, therefore, it is necessary to allow[Pg 1137] water to run into that compartment which needs to be made the heavier and to allow water to run out of the other. It is plain to be seen, therefore, that this invention is bound to crowd out the old-fashioned stationary canal lock if it can be constructed cheaply enough.
PNEUMATIC LOCKS IN OPERATION.
The canal lock of to-day is a very slow working affair, as we all know, and is such a clumsy piece of mechanism that only ships of a limited tonnage can pass through it. When a canal-boat comes along it is let into the first lock, and if that is on the higher level the gates are closed, and the water is allowed to run out until the boat is floating on a level equal to that in the other portion of the lock. Then the gates are opened, and the boat passes on. If it is necessary, on the other hand, to raise the vessel from the lower to the higher level, much more time has to be consumed in order to pump the lock full of water.
By Mr. Dutton's method, however, the vessel comes along the canal, and it may be as large a ship as an ocean freighter, and it may carry as great a cargo as 12,000 tons, and yet it can slip into one of the great steel tanks 510 feet long, and a boy can open the compressed-air valve, and let the great ship travel gently down the elevator shaft until it reaches the lower level of the canal. The operation requires perhaps fifteen minutes, instead of hours; and no more time is necessary for ships of equal tonnage going in the other direction, since a much greater weight of water can be run into the upper tank from the higher level of the canal than could be counterbalanced by any kind of steamship that would need to be lifted from the lower level.
A company has been organized to build a canal from the Atlantic to the Great Lakes, and it is its intention to use Mr. Dutton's locks along the way; not more than two or three will be necessary. But as it will cost about one hundred million dollars to carry out the enterprise, it may be some years before they will be able actually to begin work.
It is the belief of those interested in the construction of this great canal that there is no economy in cheap construction. Good results may only be obtained by good work. The Suez Canal, for example, is cheaply constructed; it is only 72 feet wide at the bottom, and large ships may pass one another only when one goes into a sort of siding, where it usually runs aground. The expense of getting ships out of the sand, since the traffic was first opened through the canal, has far surpassed the sum for which the canal could have been constructed so as to avoid such delays and accidents. Therefore it is proposed that any maritime canal to be built should be fully 250 feet wide, and 30 feet deep at least.
One of the great undertakings which would be connected with the construction of such a canal would be the reversion of the current of Lake Champlain, in order to deepen the water in the upper Hudson. This would be done by diverting a portion of the waters of the St. Lawrence River into Lake Champlain, and such a condition of affairs would develop at Waterford an immense water-power, nearly equal to one-third that of Niagara Falls. This water-power could be used for developing electric-power, and the canal could be illuminated with electric-light at night so as to make traffic almost as easy in the dark hours as in the daytime.
The effects of such an enterprise would be far-reaching. An open-water route from the Atlantic to Buffalo, Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago, and Milwaukee would make those great inland cities practically seaports, and therefore the people who live in those cities would be able to purchase all sorts of commodities more cheaply than they can now, because the charges of transportation by water directly from foreign countries would be much cheaper than it is now, when there has to be a transshipment of the goods on the coast, and transportation by rail, which is expensive. On the other hand, the people of those other cities would also be able to sell more of their own products, and to greater advantage to themselves, because they could deliver them in foreign countries more cheaply than they can now.
When the tocsin sounds a rally, over hill and over valley
You will hear a sudden rushing and the tramp of marching feet;
From the lowland to the highland, swift through continent and island,
When the tocsin sends its thrilling call, shall answer willing feet.
For the young folks will be ready, rallying with faces steady,
At the moment when vacation slips with laughing haste away;
Dear old books for weeks neglected will be joyfully collected,
Borne with looks of purest pleasure to the school on opening day.
In the fortress of the mountains, by the gentle falling fountains,
Elves and fays will miss the army late who made the forests ring,
But the school-house will be swarming, teachers' hearts for gladness warming,
When the gallant host is gathered and again the children sing.
Soon will sound for instant rally, over hill and over valley,
That old tocsin which so often we have heard in days of yore,
And with merry faces beaming, to the same dear places streaming,
At a quick-march will the pupils hurry through the school-room door.
"Come into the drawing-room," said Miss Herrick in her most commanding tones.
Valentine and Elizabeth obeyed. They remained standing while she seated herself in the identical carved chair from which so short a time before had dangled the shabby shoes of Eva Louise Brady.
"Who were those children?"
"Eva Louise and Bella Brady," replied her niece.
"And what were they doing here?"
"They—they have been playing jack-stones, and—and eating."
"Eating! Playing jack-stones! And how, may I ask, did they happen to come?"
"We were giving a party, Val and I, especially for the Bradys, Aunt Caroline. I was afraid you might not exactly like it, and so I think if I explain you will understand better."
"It certainly requires an explanation," said Miss Herrick, stiffly. "I suppose that if I had not returned unexpectedly early I should have known nothing of it. I find that you are not to be trusted at all."
"Oh, Aunt Caroline, don't say that! Indeed I am to be trusted; only Val and I—"
"Leave Valentine out of the question. It is you who are responsible."
"But Val thought of it," began Elizabeth, eagerly. "At least he thought of part of it."
Then she stopped. Valentine thus far had said nothing. Was he not going to stand by her? She looked at the boy, but still he remained silent.
"I am waiting for your explanation," said her aunt.
"Well, we saw Eva Louise from the window, and Val said—at least we both thought we would go down and see her. And then on the way I told Val I was so sorry for them, and would like to have a party for them, and he said—at least we both thought it would be very nice to ask them over, and I remembered about that feast in the Bible. Don't you remember, Aunt Caroline, where people are told what kind of parties to give? Perhaps you have never read just that part of the Bible, for you never do give that kind of a party. Your people are all so rich and come in carriages, but it really does say somewhere something about inviting the poor and the lame and the halt and the blind. Well, of course I know the Bradys are poor, and I thought very likely they were halt, and so I decided to ask them."
Miss Herrick was becoming interested in spite of herself. There was something very original about her niece, she thought, and she certainly was beautiful to look at as she stood before her with the earnest look in her great dark eyes, and her high-bred manner of carrying her head.
"Continue," she said, as Elizabeth paused for breath.
"There is not much more to tell except that Val went out and got the things to eat. Of course we had to give them something to eat, Aunt Caroline, and we didn't like to ask the servants."
"And where were the servants all this time?"
"I don't exactly know."
"This must be looked into. I leave you in Marie's charge when Miss Rice is not here."
"I never see much of Marie," remarked Elizabeth, composedly.
"You should have told me of this before. But where did you have the party? In which room?"
Again there was silence. Elizabeth looked once more to Valentine for assistance, but none was forth-coming. A faint color spread over her face and she clasped her hands tightly behind her back, but she gazed steadfastly into her aunt's eyes as she replied, "In the locked room."
"What do you mean?" asked Miss Herrick, not in the least comprehending.
"The locked room in the third-story back buildings. The room with the padlock."
"Elizabeth!"
The child was frightened at the effect of her words. Miss Herrick's face grew very white. It was some minutes before she could control her voice sufficiently to speak.
"Have you been there before?" she asked at last.
"Yes, often," faltered the little girl.
"How did you get in?"
"I—I found the keys one day when I was looking for them in your little Chinese cabinet."
"AND DO YOU CALL THIS AN HONORABLE PROCEEDING?"
"And do you call this an honorable proceeding?"
"No, not so very."
If Aunt Caroline would only scold her, thought Elizabeth. She was so calm. The child attempted to excuse herself.
"I had wondered about that room so long, Aunt Caroline. I really did want to know something about my own family, and you and Aunt Rebecca never would tell me. I—I am very sorry."
Miss Herrick did not reply. Presently she turned to Valentine.
"Have you anything to say for yourself?"
"Why, no, not exactly. I didn't really understand about the room. Elizabeth had been there lots of times before I came, and it was her idea about the party in the first place."
"I see," said his aunt, with faint scorn in her voice; "it is merely another case, repeated from time immemorial, of 'the woman tempted me and I did eat.'"
"I don't understand you, Aunt Caroline," said Elizabeth.
But Valentine did understand, and he blushed scarlet.
Miss Herrick, after her last remark, relapsed into thought.
"There is another thing," said Elizabeth, presently; "we broke one of your plates."'
"So we did," said Valentine. Then, with evident effort—"at least, I did. Elizabeth had nothing to do with it. I broke it."
His little sister looked at him gratefully. At last he[Pg 1139] was coming to her rescue. But this final bid of information made small impression on Miss Herrick. She was leaning back in her chair lost in thought.
"Is—is that room still open?" she asked at length.
"Yes, Aunt Caroline."
"Go up and close it; and then, Elizabeth, come to my room. I wish to speak to you alone."
The children, glad to escape, ran up stairs. The door of the room stood wide open, the plates containing the few remnants of the feast were piled recklessly together—everything was in disorder.
They carried the dishes down to the pantry, and put the table back into its accustomed place. They straightened things up as best they could, and then they pulled in the blinds and closed the windows.
Elizabeth locked the door and descended with the keys to her aunt's room. Her party had been a failure from beginning to end. It was very hard for her to keep from crying, but she was determined not to do it—in Valentine's presence, at least.
She found Miss Herrick still in her bonnet. She was standing by the dressing-table, and she held the little cabinet in her hand. She took the keys without a word, put them in the drawer, and shut it with a snap. Then she opened her desk, the key of which she always carried on her person, and placed the cabinet inside.
"I should have done this before," she said. "Is there anything else that you have been prying into?"
Elizabeth's tears refused to be suppressed another moment. She covered her face with her hands.
"I never pry!" she cried. "It was only that one room, and I did so want to know about it. I wouldn't have done it if you had only answered more questions. I have such a stupid time. You won't let me go to school, and you won't tell me anything. And I was all alone, and my father doesn't come home, and I want him—I want him so much! Aunt Caroline"—suddenly drying her eyes and fixing them upon her aunt—"don't you really think my father will come home soon?"
"I doubt if he ever comes home."
"Aunt—Caroline!" Then, after a moment's silence: "But I wrote to him and begged him to come. I said if he couldn't afford it, I would pay for him when I got my money. I really did, Aunt Caroline."
Miss Herrick laughed harshly. She was too much disturbed with the discovery about the closed room to be careful of her niece's feelings.
"Quite unnecessary on your part, Elizabeth. Your father has all the money he needs, and much more. That is not the reason he does not come. I will explain to you, since you are so insistent. I have refrained from doing so before, but I see there is nothing else to do now. Your father left home immediately after the death of your mother. He was deeply attached to her. Your mother, you know, died shortly after you were born, and your father simply could not bear the sight of you."
"Could not bear the sight of me?"
"No. In fact, his one desire was to get away from everybody and everything connected with his former life. He has lived abroad ever since, and I doubt if he ever comes home."
"What will he say when he gets my letter?" asked the child.
"I don't know, I am sure. You ought never to have written that letter. I don't know what he will say."
"Aunt Caroline, would you mind if—if I went up to my room now?"
"Not yet. I have not finished. You deserve a severe punishment for prying into that room, Elizabeth. I have not yet decided what it shall be. Your curiosity must be controlled. What difference need it make to you if forty rooms in the house are locked?"
"I don't know."
"I should think not. That room is connected with the tragedy of my life. I doubt if you ever know about it. Perhaps when you are a woman you may be told of it, but that cannot be decided now. And I ask you never to mention the subject to me again."
"No, Aunt Caroline, I won't."
"You may go now."
"Yes, Aunt Caroline."
Elizabeth walked across the large room to the door. Then she paused a moment, and turning abruptly, she flew back to her aunt's side.
"Aunt Caroline, you said my father could not bear the sight of me when I was a baby. Perhaps I was not a nice baby; some are not—the Brady baby, for instance. Don't you think—don't you really think, Aunt Caroline, that if my father were to meet me now he might like me just a teeny-weeny bit? Is there nothing nice about me, Aunt Caroline? Val, my own brother, likes me. The Brady girls used to like me, only they don't seem to now. I never know whether you and Aunt Rebecca do or not, but I hope you do. But don't you think, Aunt Caroline, dear Aunt Caroline, that if my father ever does come home he might grow to like me a little?"
Her aunt looked at her. Then she stooped and kissed her. "Yes, my dear. Yes, I think he might."
"Then I am going to hope more than ever for him to come. Yes, I am going to pray for it. Every night and morning of my life I am going to ask God to send my father home to me, and I really think, Aunt Caroline, that some day he will come."
And then she went up to her room and cried for an hour.
Valentine returned to Virginia in a few days. He felt sorry for Elizabeth, forced to remain forever in the stiff old house with those stiff old aunts, as he designated them.
"And she is not half bad," he said to himself, as he was being whirled rapidly homeward in the train; "she is really a good sort, though she does get herself into such mighty scrapes. She is a plucky one, though. You don't catch her shirking any of the blame. Well, neither would I with anybody but that dragon of an Aunt Caroline. Elizabeth is more used to her, I suppose."
And then he gave himself up to thoughts of the coming football match, for which he would get home just in time.
With Elizabeth life went on about as usual. She missed Valentine sadly, and she felt almost jealous of her cousin Marjorie, who would always have the pleasure of his society.
Miss Rice was engaged to stay all day now. It was shown to the child plainly enough that she was not to be trusted. She resented this, although she knew there was reason for it. She did hate to be watched, she said to herself.
For months the child brooded over her lonely existence, and the strange fate of having a father who did not wish to see her, and a brother who did not live with her, and who, she was quite sure, preferred his cousin to his sister.
Day after day when the postman rang the door-bell she looked for an answer to her letter, and day after day she was disappointed, until she grew thin and pale, and her aunts at length became alive to the fact that she was not well. Thoroughly alarmed, they sent for the family physician.
He knew something of the state of affairs in Fourth Street, and of the unnatural life which the little girl had thus far lived, and he determined to seize this opportunity for improving matters.
"The child should live in the country," he said, when Elizabeth had been sent from the room.
"Just what I thought," said Miss Herrick, in a relieved tone. "She will go out to our place next week. It is nearly April, so it will not be unbearable."
"But that won't do. Does she have any playmates there?"
"No, not many."
"I thought not. And does her governess go too?"
"Certainly. We could not get along without Miss Rice. My sister and I are away so much."
"Precisely. And now, my dear Miss Herrick, I am going to speak plainly to you. Unless you send that child away she will die before your very eyes. She should be in some happy home where she would have companions of her own age. Boarding-school would be better than nothing. Send her to boarding-school."
"My dear doctor! My niece at a boarding-school? Never!"
"Why not? There are plenty of good schools where she would be happy and well cared for. Then she must go somewhere else. Send her to her mother's relatives in the South. They live in the country, don't they? Let her grow up with Valentine. The brother and sister had much better be together."
"It is out of the question, doctor. I do not want to give up my niece, and I cannot consent to her being brought up in that large family of boys and girls. She would grow very rough among them."
"The rougher the better, say I," said the doctor, rising to go, "and I tell you plainly, Miss Herrick, unless you do something of that sort there is no saving the child. Drugs won't keep her alive. She needs no medicine, but a natural, free child's life, and the sooner you send her to get it the better. She behaves precisely as if she had something on her mind. What is it?"
"I don't know, I am sure," cried Miss Herrick, who was deeply alarmed. "I can't imagine what it is, unless it is about her father. Miss Rice says she talks in her sleep about his not coming home to her."
"And he ought to come home to her," said the doctor, who had been a friend of Edward Herrick's when they were boys. "What right has a man to shirk his responsibilities in this way?"
"Poor Edward!" began Miss Herrick.
"Fudge and fiddlesticks for 'poor Edward'!" exclaimed the doctor, walking about the room. "You have much more reason to say 'poor Elizabeth.' But I had better take myself off before I say anything to be sorry for. Good-morning."
And the front door slammed before Miss Herrick had recovered from her astonishment at his last speech.
She repeated his opinion of Elizabeth to her sister, and then she wrote, though much against her will, to Mrs. Redmond. She could not understand why the life with her father's sisters should not be the best thing in the world for Elizabeth, but apparently it was not.
Several letters passed between Miss Herrick and Mrs. Redmond before matters were finally arranged, and until they were Elizabeth was told nothing. When everything was settled, even to the day and the train by which she was to go, Miss Herrick announced to her that she was to pay a visit of indefinite length to her aunt in Virginia.
"Oh, I don't want to!" exclaimed Elizabeth.
"That makes no difference," returned her aunt. "You must."
"But I won't!" cried the child, stamping her foot. "You have no right to send me away from home."
"Be quiet, Elizabeth! Your temper is becoming quite ungovernable. I hope your aunt Helen will be able to control you."
"She will never have a chance, Aunt Caroline. Rather than go there I will run away from here—I will!"
"Nonsense!" said Miss Herrick, and thought no more of the threat.
Elizabeth left the room, pondering deeply. It would be quite impossible for her to go among strangers, and so far away. Her father might come home any day. She must be at home herself to receive him.
And besides, she could not possibly go to live at her aunt Helen's house, where there were so many boys and girls, among them the incomparable Marjorie of whom Val had spoken so much. Elizabeth remembered all about her, although several months had elapsed since his visit. Her lonely life with its burden of grief and disappointment in regard to her father had told upon her even more than the doctor suspected. She dreaded going among people whom she did not know, and at this distance Valentine also seemed a stranger.
Anything would be preferable to going to Virginia, even life at the Bradys', her only friends.
And this suggested something to her. She would disappear from her home and take refuge with the Brady family. She had read in the newspaper of people disappearing from their homes, therefore it would be quite possible. Life at the Bradys' would not be altogether desirable, but anything was better than being sent away off to Virginia to live with Marjorie.
And if she were at the Bradys' she would be near enough to hear of her father's return, if he ever came. She would ask them to say nothing about her being there, and she would be careful not to go near the back of the house, so there would be no chance of her being discovered, for her aunts would never think of looking for her there.
Her mind was fully made up. She would take refuge with the Brady family.
George's second summer's work was less like a pleasure expedition than his first had been. He spent only a few days at Greenway Court, and then started off, not with a boy companion and old Lance, but with two hardy mountaineers, Gist and Davidson. Gist was a tall, rawboned fellow, perfectly taciturn, but of an amazing physical strength and of hardy courage. Davidson was small but alert, and, in contradistinction to Gist's taciturnity, was an inveterate talker. He had spent many years among the Indians, and, besides knowing them thoroughly, he was master of most of their dialects. Lord Fairfax had these two men in his eye for months as the best companions for George. He was to penetrate much farther into the wilderness, and to come in frequent contact with the Indians, and Lord Fairfax wished and meant that he should be well equipped for it. Billy of course went with him, and Rattler went with Billy, for it had now got to be an accepted thing that Billy would not be separated from his master. A strange instance of Billy's determination in this respect showed itself as soon as the second expedition was arranged. Both George and Lord Fairfax doubted the wisdom of taking the black boy along. When Billy heard of this, he said to George, quite calmly,
"Ef you leave me 'hine you, Marse George, you ain' fin' no Billy when you gits back."
"How is that?" asked George.
"'Kase I gwi' starve myself. I ain' gwi' teck nuttin' to eat, nor a drap o' water—I jes gwi' starve twell I die."
George laughed at this, knowing Billy to be an unconscionable eater ordinarily, and did not for a moment take him in earnest. Billy, however, for some reason understood that he was to be left at Greenway Court. George noticed, two or three days afterwards, that the boy seemed ill, and so weak he could hardly move. He asked about it, and Billy's reply was very prompt.
"I 'ain' eat nuttin' sence I knowed you warn' gwi' teck me wid you, Marse George."
"But," said George, in amazement, "I never said so."
"Is you gwi' teck mo?" persisted Billy.
"I don't know," replied George, puzzled by the boy. "But is it possible you have not eaten anything since the day you asked me about it?"
"Naw, suh," said Billy, coolly. "An' I ain' gwi' eat twell you say I kin go wid you. I done th'ow my vittles to de horgs ev'ry day sence den—an' I gwi' keep it up, ef you doan' lem me go."
George was thunderstruck. Here was a case for discipline, and he was a natural disciplinarian. But where Billy was concerned George had a very weak spot, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that the simple, ignorant, devoted fellow might actually do as he threatened. Therefore he promised, in a very little while, that Billy should not be separated from him—at which Billy got up strength enough to cut the pigeon-wing, and then made a bee-line for the kitchen. George followed him, and nearly had to knock him down to keep him from eating himself ill. Lord Fairfax could not refrain from laughing when George, gravely, and with much ingenuity in putting the best face on Billy's conduct, told of it, and George felt rather hurt at the Earl's laughing; he did not like to be laughed at, and people always laughed at him about Billy, which vexed him exceedingly.
On this summer's journey he first became really familiar[Pg 1142] with the Indians over the mountains. He came across his old acquaintance Black Bear, who showed a most un-Indian-like gratitude. He joined the camp, rather to the alarm of Gist and Davidson, who, as Davidson said, might wake up any morning and find themselves scalped. George, however, permitted Black Bear to remain, and the Indian's subsequent conduct showed the wisdom of this. He told that his father, Tanacharison, the powerful chief, was now inclined to the English, and claimed the credit of converting him. He promised George he would be safe whenever he was anywhere within the influence of Tanacharison.
George devoted his leisure to the study of the Indian dialects, and from Black Bear himself he learned much of the ways and manners and prejudices of the Indians. He spent months in arduous work, and when, on the 1st of October, he returned to Greenway, he had proved himself to be the most capable surveyor Lord Fairfax had ever had.
The Earl, in planning for the next year's work, asked George one day, "But why, my dear George, do you lead this laborious life, when you are the heir of a magnificent property?"
George's face flushed a little.
"One does not relish very much, sir, the idea of coming into property by the death of a person one loves very much, as I love my brother Laurence. And I would rather order my life as if there were no such thing in the world as inheriting Mount Vernon. As it is, I have every privilege there that any one could possibly have, and I hope my brother will live as long as I do to enjoy it."
"That is the natural way that a high-minded young man would regard it; and if your brother had not been sure of your disinterestedness you may be sure he would never have made you his heir. Grasping people seldom, with all their efforts, secure anything from others."
These two yearly visits of George's to Greenway Court—one on his way to the mountains, and the other and longer one when he returned—were the bright times of the year to the Earl. This autumn he determined to accompany George back to Mount Vernon, and also to visit the Fairfaxes at Belvoir. The great coach was furbished up for the journey, the outriders' liveries were brought forth from camphor-chests, and the four roans were harnessed up. George followed the same plan as on his first journey with Lord Fairfax, two years before—driving with him in the coach the first stage of the day, and riding the last stage.
On reaching Mount Vernon, George was distressed to see his brother looking thinner and feebler than ever, and Mrs. Washington was plainly anxious about him. Both were delighted to have him back, as Laurence was quite unable to attend to the vast duties of such a place, and Mrs. Washington had no one but an overseer to rely on. The society of Lord Fairfax, who was peculiarly charming and comforting to persons of a grave temperament, did much for Laurence Washington's spirits. Lord Fairfax had himself suffered, and he realized the futility of wealth and position to console the great sorrows of life.
George spent only a day or two at Mount Vernon, and then made straight for Ferry Farm. His brothers, now three fine tall lads, with their tutor, were full of admiration for the handsome, delightful brother, of whom they saw little, but whose coming was always the most joyful event at Ferry Farm.
George was now nearing his nineteenth birthday, and the graceful, well-made youth had become one of the handsomest men of his day. As Betty stood by him on the hearth-rug the night of his arrival, she looked at him gravely for a long time, and then said:
"George, you are not at all ugly. Indeed, I think you are nearly as handsome as brother Laurence before he was ill."
"NEVER WILL YOU BE HALF SO BEAUTIFUL AS OUR MOTHER."
"Betty," replied George, looking at her critically, "let me return the compliment. You are not unhandsome, but never, never, if you live to be a hundred years old, will you be half so beautiful as our mother."
Madam Washington, standing by them, her slender figure overtopped by their fair young heads, blushed like a girl at this, and told them severely, as a mother should, that beauty counted for but little, either in this world or the next. But in the bottom of her heart the beauty of her two eldest children gave her a keen delight.
Betty was, indeed, a girl of whom any mother might be proud. Like George, she was tall and fair, and had the same indescribable air of distinction. She was now promoted to the dignity of a hoop and a satin petticoat, and her beautiful bright hair was done up in a knot becoming a young lady of sixteen. Although an only daughter, she was quite unspoiled, and her life was a pleasant round of duties and pleasures, with which her mother and her three younger brothers, and above all, her dear George, were all connected. The great events in her life were her visits to Mount Vernon. Her brother and sister there regarded her rather as a daughter than a sister, and for her young sake the old house resumed a little of its former cheerfulness.
George spent several days at Ferry Farm on that visit, and was very happy. His coming was made a kind of holiday. The servants were delighted to see him; and as for Billy, the remarkable series of adventures through which he alleged he had passed made him quite a hero, and caused Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey to regard him with pride, as the flower of their flock, instead of the black sheep.
Billy was as fond of eating and as opposed to working as ever, but he now gave himself the airs of a man of the world, supported by his various journeys to Mount Vernon and Greenway Court, and the possession of a scarlet satin waistcoat of George's, which inspired great respect among the other negroes when he put it on. Billy loved to harangue a listening circle of black faces on the glories of Mount Vernon, of which "Marse George" was one day to be King, and Billy was to be Prime Minister.
"You niggers livin' heah on dis heah little truck-patch 'ain' got no notion o' Mount Vernon," said Billy, loftily, one night, to an audience of the house-servants in the "charmber." "De house is as big as de co't-house in Fredericksburg, an' when me an' Marse George gits it we gwi' buil' a gre't piece to it. An' de hosses—Lord, dem hosses! You 'ain' never seen so many hosses sence you been born. An' de coaches—y'all thinks de Earl o' F'yarfax got a mighty fine coach—well, de ve'y oldes' an' po'es' coach at Mount Vernon is a heap finer'n dat ar one o' Marse F'yarfax. An' when me an' Marse George gits Mount Vernon, arter Marse Laurence done daid, we-all is gwine ter have a coach lined wid white satin, same like the Earl o' F'yarfax's bes' weskit, an' de harness o' red morocky, an' solid gol' tires to de wheels. You heah me, niggers? And Marse George, he say—"
"You are the most unconscionable liar I ever knew!" shouted George, in a passion, suddenly appearing behind Billy; "and if ever I hear of your talking about what will happen at Mount Vernon, or even daring to say that it may be mine, I will make you sorry for it, as I am alive."
George was in such a rage that he picked up a hair-brush off the chest of drawers and shied it at Billy, who dodged, and the brush went to smash on the brick hearth. At this the unregenerate Billy burst into a subdued guffaw, and looking into George's angry eyes, chuckled,
"Hi, Marse George, you done bus' yo' ma's h'yar-bresh!" Which showed how much impression "Marse George's" wrath made on Billy.
"I went to the animals' fair,
The birds and beasts were there"—
at any rate it was the animals' hospital, and there were enough birds and beasts for a fair. The hospital is in charge of the New York College of Veterinary Surgeons, and that, if you please, is part of the University of New York; so if you wanted to send your dickey-bird there for the pip, he would be in a manner under the sheltering wing of all the D.D.s and LL.D.s that shine as the regents of that noble institution.
New York people are apt to call this the dog hospital, but that must be because they take more interest in the[Pg 1143] dogs than in its other inmates, for here you can get medical treatment for any living thing except a human being. Horses, cows, dogs, and cats form the steady bulk of its beneficiaries, but elephants and white mice are among them too.
And not only animals are brought here, but the doctors go out and make them professional visits. One of the doctors is now attending the curious dreadful-looking Gila monster at the Zoo in Central Park; he comes—the monster, not the doctor—from Arizona, near the Gila River, and he is two feet long, with a body like an alligator and a head like a snake; he is in a low state of health, and neither food nor drink has passed his lips for seven months. How is that for a poor appetite?
The doctor does not have much hope of him; the matter seems to be that he was kept too warm and fed too much (on raw eggs) last winter, when he ought to have been hibernating, or something like it.
A great deal of the hospital's most interesting practice is among the animals kept in zoological gardens or in travelling shows. An old circus lion was brought here not long ago to have his ulcerated tooth pulled. Now if the toothache makes you feel as "cross as a bear," how cross does the toothache make a live lion feel?
To tell the truth, no one at the hospital wanted to know how cross that lion did feel—they thought it was a case in which it would be folly to be wise. The first thing to be done was to drop nooses of rope on the floor of his cage, and then draw them up when he put his foot in one—he knew he had "put his foot in it" when he found himself snared—and so, step by step, get him bound and helpless. If you will think how particularly hard it is to tie up a cat, you may guess that it is no joke to make a lion fast; he is just like a stupendous cat in his agility and slipperiness. The only way to render him helpless is to get his hind quarters tied up outside his cage, and his head bound fast within it; the next thing, for dental work, is to put a gag in his mouth; that is the easier because there is no trouble at all about getting him to open his mouth—he does it every time any one goes near him.
When they have these beasts of the jungle at the hospital their keepers have to stay with them; but even then they can't always prevent mischief. A baby elephant from a big circus was about the most disorderly patient they ever had there, though, in spite of her naughtiness, she became quite a pet with everybody about. She had a cold and the sniffles when she first came, and was subdued and patient, just like some stirring children when they are sick; but as she got better she almost pulled the whole place down in her efforts to get something to play with. She reached out of her stall and took a large office clock off the wall. No one had supposed she could reach it, and she had broken it to what her keeper called smithereens before he could stop her. If she could find a crack anywhere, destruction began; if it was in the plaster, the plaster was ripped off; if between boards, up came a board. But the baby was not so likely as some of her grown-up relatives to just knock down the side of the house and walk out, which is an occurrence always possible when you have an elephant come to see you. Elephants are poor sailors; they get dreadfully seasick, and often when they are just landed they are brought to the hospital to recuperate. Gin is the great remedy in that case; they particularly love gin, and all their medicine is usually given to them in gin.
When medicine cannot be given disguised in drink or food, it is usually squeezed down the patient's throat with a syringe. The horses are very good about that operation, but the dogs are often troublesome at first; but both dogs and horses soon learn that they are with friends, and then they are wonderfully good and grateful even when the doctors have to hurt them.
For many dogs little can be done until they have been in the institution several days and the doctors have made friends with them; after that they almost always turn out good patients—not always. Do you want to know why some dogs can't be treated there at all? Because they are so homesick; they pine and fret so that their masters, or oftener in these cases it is their mistresses, have to come and take them away, and they must needs have medical attendance at home. One of the most aristocratic patients ever treated here was a French poodle supposed to be worth a thousand dollars. He wore a little diamond bracelet on one paw, and he could do tricks enough to earn his living on the stage; but he did not have to earn his living. He came to the hospital to have his teeth attended to, and some of them were filled with gold. One of his tricks was to laugh, and when he did that all his gold fillings showed.
Many of the pet lap-dogs, particularly those that belong to women, come to the hospital because they have been overfed. The doctors tell a bad story about pugs particularly being little gluttons. On the other hand, they say that many fine and valuable dogs don't get meat enough. Dogs need meat, but some mistaken people think it's better to try to make vegetarians of them, and then the dogs are apt to get the ricketts. The big baby St. Bernards suffer much in this way; it takes a great deal of meat to make a grown St. Bernard out of a young one, and if he does not have enough the job won't be properly done.
The cats and dogs stay in one big ward, each one in its own iron cage, and the cats must understand that the cages are strong, for they don't seem to mind being near the dogs at all. In fact, one of the doctors says he put his own cat in this ward for a while, and when she came home she showed an entire change of heart about dogs; instead of the terror she had always felt of them, she was ready to be good friends with the canine members of her own family. There is a big tin roof railed in that makes an exercising-ground for the convalescent dogs, but the cats have to take the air in a big cage some six feet square that is built on the roof; they can climb too well to be trusted loose.
One of the most cheerful patients in the place now is a canary that has had a leg amputated; he gets on much better than you would if you had only one leg; he chirps, and hops about comfortably, and the doctors think he will soon take to singing again—the brave little bird.
All the appointments of the place are as careful and scientific as they can be anywhere; there are special wards for contagious diseases, and in all operations hands, towels, bandages, and instruments are sterilized after the most approved modern methods. Ether and cocaine are frequently used to save pain, but best of all is the way everybody in the place seems to have a genuine kind feeling, sometimes a warm affection, for the poor yet lucky sufferers.
"Come, stir out of that and get the camels ready for the desert!"
This was Jack's cheery way of warning Ollie and I that it was time to get up on the morning of our start into the sand hills.
"Any simooms in sight?" asked Ollie, by way of reply to Jack's remark.
"Well, I think Old Browny scents one; he has got his nose buried in the sand like a camel," answered Jack.
It was only just coming daylight, but we were agreed that an early start was best. It was another Monday morning, and we knew that it would take three good days' driving to carry us through the sand country. We had learned that, notwithstanding what our visitor of the first night had said, there were several places on the road where we could get water and feed for the horses. We should have to carry some water along, however, and had got two large kegs from Valentine, and filled them and all of our jugs and pails the night before. We also had a good stock of oats and corn, and a big bundle of hay, which we put in the cabin on the bed.
"Just as soon as Old Blacky finds that there is no water along the road he will insist on having about a barrel a[Pg 1144] day," said Jack. "And if he can't get it he will balk and kick the dashboard into kindling-wood."
A little before sunrise we started. It was agreed, owing to the increase in the load and the deep sand, that no one, not even Snoozer, should be allowed to ride in the wagon. If Ollie got tired he was to ride the pony. So we started off, walking beside the wagon, with the pony just behind, as usual, dangling her stirrups, and the abused Snoozer, looking very much hurt at the insult put upon him in being asked to walk, following behind her.
For three or four miles the road was much like that to which we had been accustomed. Then it gradually began to grow sandier. We were following an old trail which ran near the railroad, sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other; and this was the case all the way through the hills. The railroad was new, having been built only a year or two before. There were stations on it every fifteen or twenty miles, with a side track, and a water-tank for the engines, but not much else.
There was no well-marked boundary to the sand hills, but gradually, and almost before we realized it, we found ourselves surrounded by them. We came to a crossing of the railroad, and in a little cut a few rods away we saw the sand drifted over the rails three or four inches deep, precisely like snow.
"Well," said Jack, "I guess we're in the sand hills at last if we've got where it drifts."
"I wonder if they have to have sand-ploughs on their engines?" said Ollie.
"I've heard that they frequently have to stop and shovel it off," answered Jack.
As we got farther among the sand dunes we found them all sizes and shapes, though usually circular, and from fifteen to forty feet high. Of course the surface of this country was very irregular, and there would be places here and there where the grass had obtained a little footing and the sand had not drifted up. There were also some hills which seemed to be independent of the sand piles.
We stopped for noon on a little flat where there was some struggling grass. This flat ran off to the north, and narrowed into a small valley through which in the spring probably a little water flowed. We had finished dinner when we noticed a flock of big birds circling about the little valley, and, on looking closer, saw that some of them were on the ground.
"They are sand-hill cranes," said Jack. "I've seen them in Dakota, but this must be their home."
They were immense birds, white and gray, and with very long legs. Jack took his rifle and tried to creep up on them, but they were too shy, and soared away to the south.
OUR FIRST CAMP IN THE SAND HILLS.
We soon passed the first station on the railroad, called Crookston. The telegraph-operator came out and looked at us, admitted that it was a sandy neighborhood, and went back in. We toiled on without any incident of note during the whole afternoon. Toward night we passed another station, called Georgia, and the man in charge allowed us to fill our kegs from the water-tank. We went on three or four miles and stopped beside the trail, and a hundred yards from the railroad, for the night. The great drifts of sand were all around us, and no desert could have been lonelier. We had a little wood and built a camp fire. The evening was still and there was not a sound. Even the blacksmith's pet, wandering about seeking what he could devour, and finding nothing, made scarcely a sound in the soft sand. The moon was shining, and it was warm as any summer evening. Jack sat on the ground beside the wagon and played the banjo for half an hour. After a while we walked over to the railroad. We could hear a faint rumble, and concluded that a train was approaching.
"Let's wait for it," proposed Jack. "It will be along in a moment."
We waited and listened. Then we distinctly heard the whistle of a locomotive, and the faint roar gradually ceased.
"It's stopped somewhere," I said.
"Don't see what it should stop around here for," said Jack. "Unless to take on a sand-hill crane."
Then we heard it start up, run a short distance, and again stop; this it repeated half a dozen times, and then after a pause it settled down to a long steady roar again.
"It isn't possible, is it, that that train has been stopped at the next station west of here?" I said.
"The next station is Cody, and it's a dozen miles from here," answered Jack. "It doesn't seem as if we could hear it so far, but we'll time it and see."
He looked at his watch and we waited. For a long time the roar kept up, occasionally dying away as the train probably went through a deep cut or behind a hill. It gradually increased in volume, till at last it seemed as if the train must certainly be within a hundred yards. Still it did not appear, and the sound grew louder and louder. But at the end of thirty-five minutes it came around the curve in sight and thundered by, a long freight train, and making more noise, it seemed, than any train ever made before.
"That's where it was," exclaimed Jack. "At Cody, twelve miles from here, and we first heard it, I don't know how far beyond. If I ever go into the telephone business I'll keep away from the sand hills. A man here ought to be able to hold a pleasant chat with a neighbor two miles off, and by speaking up loud ask the postmaster ten miles away if there is any mail for him."
We were off ploughing through the sand again early the next morning. We could not give the horses quite all the water they wanted, but we did the best we could. We were in the heart of the hills all day. There were simply thousands of the great sand drifts in every direction. Buffalo bones half buried were becoming numerous. We saw several coyotes, or prairie wolves, skulking about, but we shot at them without success. We got water at Cody, and pressed on. In the afternoon we sighted some antelope looking cautiously over the crest of a sand billow. Ollie mounted the pony and I took my rifle, and we went after them, while Jack kept on with the wagon. They retreated, and we followed them a mile or more back from the trail, winding among the drifts and attempting to get near enough for a shot. But they were too wary for us. At last we mounted a hill rather higher than the rest, and saw them scampering away a mile or more to the northwest. We were surprised more by something which we saw still on beyond them, and that was a little pond of water deep down between two great ridges of sand.
"I didn't expect to see a lake in this country," said Ollie.
I studied the lay of the land a moment, and said: "I think it's simply a place where the wind has scooped out the sand down below the water-line and it has filled up. The wind has dug a well, that's all. You know the operator at Georgia told us the wells here were shallow—that there's plenty of water down a short distance."
We could see that there was considerable grass and quite an oasis around the pond. But in every other direction there was nothing but sand billows, all scooped out on their northwest sides where the fierce winds of winter had gnawed at them. The afternoon sun was sinking, and every dune cast a dark shadow on the light yellow of the sand, making a great landscape of glaring light covered with black spots. A coyote sat on a buffalo skull on top of the next hill and looked at us. A little owl flitted by and disappeared in one of the shadows.
"This is like being adrift in an open boat," I said to Ollie. "We must hurry on and catch the Rattletrap."
"I'm in the open boat," answered Ollie. "You're just simply swimming about without even a life-preserver on."
We turned and started for the trail. We found it, but we had spent more time in the hills than we realized, and before we had gone far it began to grow dark. We waded on, and at last saw Jack's welcome camp-fire. When we came up we smelled grouse cooking, and he said:
"While you fellows were chasing about and getting lost I gathered in a brace of fat grouse. What you want to do next time is to take along your hat full of oats, and perhaps you can coax the antelope to come up and eat."
The camp was near another railroad station called Eli. We had been gradually working north, and were now not over three or four miles from the Dakota line; but Dakota here consisted of nothing but the immense Sioux Indian Reservation, two or three hundred miles long.
The next morning Jack complained of not feeling well.
"What's the matter, Jack?" I asked.
"Gout," answered Jack, promptly. "I'm too good a cook for myself. I'm going to let you cook for a few days, and give my system a rest."
"HE WOULD SOMETIMES GET HIS RECIPES MIXED UP."
This seemed very funny to Ollie and I, who had been eating Jack's cooking for two or three weeks. The fact was that the gouty Jack was the poorest cook that ever looked into a kettle, and he knew it well enough. He could make one thing—pan-cakes—nothing else. They were usually fairly good, though he would sometimes get his recipes mixed up, and use his sour-milk one when the milk was sweet, or his sweet-milk one when it was sour; but we got accustomed to this. Then it was hard to spoil young and tender fried grouse, and the stewed plums had been good, though he had got some hay mixed with them; but the flavor of hay is not bad. We bought frequently of "canned goods" at the stores, and this he could not injure a great deal.
We did not pay much attention to Jack's threat about stopping cooking. He got breakfast after a fashion, mixing sour and sweet milk as an experiment, and though he didn't eat much himself, we did not think he was going to be sick. But after walking a short distance he declared he could go no farther, and climbed into the cabin and rolled upon the bed.
Ollie and I ploughed along with the sand still streaming, like long flaxen hair, off the wagon-wheels as they turned. In a little valley about ten o'clock Ollie shot his first grouse. We saw some more antelope, and met a man with his wife and six children and five dogs and two cows and twelve chickens going east. Ho said he was tired of Nebraska, and was on his way to Illinois. At noon we stopped at Merriman, another railroad station. Jack got up and made a pretense of getting dinner, but he ate nothing himself, and really began to look ill.
We made but a short stop, as we were anxious to get out of the worst of the sand that afternoon. We asked about feed and water for the horses, and were told that we could get both at Irwin, another station fifteen miles ahead. We pressed on, with Jack still in the wagon, but it was dark before we reached the station. We found a man on the railroad track.
"Can we get some feed and water here?" I asked of him.
"Reckon not," answered the man.
"Where can we find the station agent?"
"He's gone up to Gordon, and won't be back till mid-night."
"Hasn't any one got any horse feed for sale?"
"THERE ISN'T A SMELL OF HORSE FEED HERE."
"There isn't a smell of horse feed here," said the man. "I've got the only well, except the railroad's, but it's 'most dry. I'll give you what water I can, though. As for feed, you'd better go on three miles to Keith's ranch. It's on Lost Creek Flat, and there's lots of hay-stacks there, and you can help yourself. At the ranch-house they will give you other things."
We drove over to the man's house, and got half a pail of water apiece for the horses. They wanted more, but there was no more in the well. The man said we could get everything we wanted at the ranch, and we started on. The horses were tired, but even Old Blacky was quite amiable, and trudged along in the sand without complaint.
Jack was still in the wagon, and we heard nothing of him. It was cloudy and very dark. But the horses kept in the trail, and after, as it seemed to us, we had gone five[Pg 1146] miles, we felt ourselves on firmer ground. Soon we thought we could make out something, perhaps hay-stacks, through the darkness. I sent Ollie on the pony to see what it was. He rode away, and in a moment I heard a great snorting and a stamping of feet, and Ollie's voice calling for me to come. I ran over with the lantern, and found that he had ridden full into a barbed-wire fence around a hay-stack. The pony stood trembling, with the blood flowing from her breast and legs, but the scratches did not seem to be deep.
"We must find that ranch-house," I said to Ollie. "It ought to be near."
For half an hour we wandered among the wilderness of hay-stacks, every one protected by barbed wire. At last we heard a dog barking, followed the sound, and came to the house. The dog was the only live thing at home, and the house was locked.
"Well, what we want is water," I said, "and here's the well."
We let down the bucket and brought up two quarts of mud.
"The man was right," said Ollie. "This is worse than the Sarah Desert."
"Fountains squirt and bands play 'The Old Oaken Bucket' in the Sarah Desert 'longside o' this," I answered.
It was eleven o'clock before we found the wagon. We could hear Jack snoring inside, and were surprised to find Snoozer on guard outside, wide awake. He seemed to feel his responsibility, and at first was not inclined to let us approach.
We unharnessed the horses, and Ollie crawled under the fence around one of the stacks of hay and pulled out a big armful for them.
"The poor things shall have all the hay they want, anyhow," he said.
"I'm afraid they'll think it's pretty dry," I returned, "but I don't see what we can do."
Then I called to Jack, and said, "Come, get up and get us some supper."
After a good deal of growling he called back, "I'm not hungry."
"But we are, and you're well enough to make some cakes."
"Won't do it," answered Jack. "You folks can make 'em as well as I can."
"I can't. Can you?" I said to Ollie. He shook his head.
"You're not very sick or you wouldn't be so cross," I called to Jack. "Roll out and get supper, or I'll pull you out!"
"First fellow comes in this wagon gets the head knocked off 'm!" cried Jack. "Besides, there's no milk! No eggs! No nothing! Go 'way! I'm sick! That's all there is," and something which looked like a cannon-ball shot out of the front end of the wagon, followed by a paper bag which might have been the wadding used in the cannon. "That's all! Lemme 'lone!" and we heard Jack tie down the front of the cover and roll over on the bed again.
"See what it is," I said to Ollie.
He took the lantern and started. "Guess it's a can of Boston baked beans," he said.
"Oh, then we're all right," I replied.
He picked it up and studied it carefully by the light of the lantern.
"No," he said, slowly, "it isn't that. G—g, double o—gooseberries—that's what it is—a can of gooseberries we got at Valentine."
"And this is a paper bag of sugar," I said, picking it up. "No gout to-night!"
I cut open the can and poured in the sugar. We stirred it up with a stick, and Ollie drank a third of it and I the rest. Then we crawled under the wagon, covered ourselves with the pony's saddle-blanket, and went to sleep. But before we did so I said:
"Ollie, at the next town I am going to get you a cook-book, and we'll be independent of that wretch in the wagon."
"All right," answered Ollie.
Now we must put our heads together and think of the outfit necessary for our explorations. It is not a small undertaking to explore the great equatorial African forest, and a great many things are required.
It troubles me when I think of our outfit, for I dislike luggage, and I have learned that the less luggage a man has with him the better off he is; the fewer wants he has the better off he is; the fewer people he has round him the more independent he finds himself; and the more he can help himself the freer and the happier he is. But when he has to buy the right of way in Africa, he cannot travel with little luggage, for he is obliged to get a lot of things and goods, not only to give to the Kings who send him forward, but also for the men who are to be his followers and carry his goods and outfit. He has to give presents to his hunters, who face dangers and sometimes death with him.
An explorer has also to take care of his followers, and to have a fellow-feeling for them when they are ill, so he must take quantities of medicine for his people and for himself.
If he expects to have some big hunting and to kill birds, he must have lots of powder and small shot and bullets. He must have shot-guns and rifles. If he wants to stuff the animals and birds he kills, he must have the instruments and other things necessary for the purpose.
If the explorer wants to astonish the natives and fill them with wonder, he must take with him articles that will surely help him to attain that purpose. The explorer should also have a careful personal outfit, so that he may not be in want of clothing or shoes before he can return.
So, dear young folks, we have to think a good deal about what we need, and be very busy before we sail from New York for our destination, the west coast of Africa, and we are to land somewhere on the Gulf of Guinea by the equator. We must first buy our goods; money in gold and silver coins is of no value among the savage Africans. A rod of gold or copper or brass is the same in their eyes, except that they would prefer the brass rod to one of silver. The gold or the brass rod would be of the same value. Friend Paul would have been a poor spirit in a short time if he had had nothing to give to the natives, and nothing to pay them with when they carried his loads. In fact, nobody would have carried his loads; no King would have sent him to another King, and in the course of time they would have become tired of giving him food for nothing. What made me a great spirit in their eyes was what I gave them, the strange things I carried with me.
Goods to buy.—We must have a lot of beads of different sizes and colors. They must be opaque—that is, not transparent—if not, the natives will not take them at any price. The beads are the most important item of the outfit. In many tribes the natives only wear strings of beads round their waists, and, if they are rich, also copper or brass rings, round their necks, or several round their wrists or ankles. White beads are very much prized by the cannibal tribes, among whom I have been; they string them in their hair and beards. One must have black beads—these are prized very much by non-cannibal tribes—also red, blue, yellow, green, and brown beads. Large beads of the size of our marbles, and even larger, are very much valued by some tribes. All these beads are manufactured in Venice, Italy, and nowhere else.
After the stock of beads, the most important item is that of copper or brass. You must have a good stock of brass and copper rods about the thickness of your little finger and 2½ feet long—these are used round the neck, ankles,[Pg 1147] and wrists; brass kettle; large shallow copper dishes about 2½ feet in diameter—with these they make hollow rings for the neck, wrists, or ankles; a little quantity of cheap cotton goods with gaudy patterns; a few gaudy coats with sleeves of different colors to the body of the coat—the natives like bright colors; a few cotton umbrellas of very bright colors—these and the coats are for chiefs, who also like opera-hats. No one but people of royal blood in some tribes can wear high hats, and often a hat is the only thing Kings or Princes wear.
Red woollen caps; fire-steel and flints together for the natives to start a fire with; files; knives; fish-hooks; and a good many small looking-glasses; a few flint guns—the kind known as Tower guns, made especially for the natives of the Guinea coast; and coarse powder for chiefs ruling over tribes where the use of firearms is known; a few bright second-hand yellow and plush waistcoats with large brass buttons of the size of dollars are also very much appreciated by the people of royal blood; a few colored shirts. Trousers are of no use. I had to throw away those I bought for the natives; no one would wear them. Beads are the most useful to pay the porters with. Of course the explorer could travel with fewer articles, but the stock I have described is one that gives him great prestige.
Medicine.—These are medicines that are essential. The most important of all is quinine. When not a physician, it is not necessary to take with you an apothecary shop. I took calomel, morphine, laudanum, rhubarb, castor-oil, Epsom salts, Fowler's solution of arsenic, ammonia, a couple of bottles of brandy to be mixed with laudanum, some lancets, and pincers. Fever and dysentery are the two diseases to be most dreaded by the white man, especially the fever. Many white men who go to Africa die of fever. I always used to take big doses of quinine—ten, twenty, thirty, forty grains at a time, and repeated those doses two or three times during the day.
Ammunition.—Let us attend to the ammunition. First we must get some good rifles that are strong and not complicated in their mechanism, for the big forest is a bad country for rust; some shot-guns, and also revolvers and hunting-knives. We must take, if we wish to make a large collection of birds to take home, hundreds of pounds of the smallest kind of shot for small birds, and then hundreds of pounds of large-size shot for larger birds; a great many cartridges, and large numbers of bullets for the rifles, and buck-shot; steel-pointed bullets and explosive bullets. Powder for ammunition must always be plentiful. My ammunition alone amounted to over ten thousand pounds.
For preserving the skin of animals and birds.—Fifty pounds of arsenical soap; arsenic, one hundred pounds; scalpels, a dozen; pincers; big knives, half a dozen; camphor.
I had a peculiar way of preserving my butterflies.
Things to astonish the natives.—Musical boxes; powerful magnets; round plain Waterbury clocks; lots of matches; electric battery. Hardly anything I had astonished the natives more than my musical boxes. When I used to put these playing in the midst of the street, they thought many spirits were talking to me. They marvelled when they saw the magnet holding in the air their knives or spears. My round plain Waterbury clocks, which only cost me a dollar apiece, were of great service to me. I used to hang them outside of my huts, and the tick-tack used to frighten the natives, and they did not dare to come round my huts at night, for they thought the noise inside the clock was made by guardian spirits. The matches were objects of great curiosity to them, and a present of a box of matches to a King, or even a few matches, was highly prized by him. The electric battery used to bring terror into their hearts after they had received a shock.
Provisions.—A little stock of rice, for it takes time to get accustomed to the food of the country, which is chiefly of plantain and manioc. I had some flour, for I intended to make my own bread on the coast. I had coffee—coffee and quinine I never was in want of. I had two little filtered coffee-pots. The forest was so full of malaria that very seldom I woke without a headache in the morning, and the first thing I did was to make a cup of coffee; after drinking it my headache went away. Do not forget to take salt with you, for salt becomes priceless in the interior, and to be without salt is a great privation.
A thorough explorer who goes in wild and unknown regions must find his way by astronomical observation, so that he may be able to present a reliable map on his return. This part of the outfit alone is quite an item and somewhat expensive, for not only must you have instruments to find out your longitude and latitude, but you must have others to give you the height of the country, the temperature in the sun and in the shade. You must have a number of watches; these are absolutely necessary in order to know your longitude. Never mind if they do not go very well; but you must time the space of time by minutes and seconds between the observations.
Scientific instruments.—Five watches; one I wore at home, and four were specially made for observation. They were large, and of silver, and made especially for me. The hands were very black, and so were the hands marking the seconds, so that the minutes and seconds could be distinctly seen. If my watches had stopped, I should not have been able to find my longitude—that is, to know how far east or west I was. Four sextants; one for taking altitudes of the stars and planets, in connection with a lunar (a lunar is to find the distance between the moon and one of the eleven lunar stars), to an artificial horizon—that is, an improved iron trough which I filled with quicksilver kept in an iron bottle, to imitate the sea; on this the stars were reflected, and with the aid of my sextant I could see when they were on the meridian. Three thermometers for knowing the height of the country by boiling water; two thermometers to know the heat of the sun, marked to 230°; three other thermometers, graduated for Fahrenheit and Centigrade. (I wish we might give up the Fahrenheit, for it has no scientific basis.) Three aneroids to know approximately the height of the country while on the march, to avoid making observations by boiling water, which takes so much longer time; two telescopes; four compasses; universal sun-dial; two magnifiers or reading-glasses, to find out quickly the degrees, minutes, and seconds marked on the sextants; one extra bottle of mercury, containing seven pounds, for artificial horizon; rain-gauge, to find out the amount of rain falling in the country; scale; two protectors, circular, with compass rectifier; paper, slates and slate-pencils; nautical almanacs for four consecutive years; memorandum-books for keeping journals. Skeleton maps, ruled in squares. Note-books.
Clothing.—This item is a very important part of the outfit of the explorer. I was more afraid to be without shoes than anything else, for if the worst came I could have made garments with the skins of goats, gazelles, or antelopes. Clothing of wool is of no value whatever in the jungle. After a few hours nothing but shreds would be left. Twill goods which are strong are the best. These should be of dark blue, which become lighter in color as they are washed. No coats, but a certain kind of blouse, as here represented, of very strong material, just as strong as the trousers, with many pockets, etc. The shirts must be of gray flannel, just like our common shirts. This avoids underwear. Panama hat with high crown, in which you can put green leaves or wet towels when going in the sun. I learned how to make soap by boiling ashes, then using the water that had been boiled, and mixing with palm-oil or some other oil, and boiling these two together. In many tribes I had to do my own washing, for the natives, who rubbed their bodies with clay and oil or powder of colored wood, did not know what dirt was. Oh, how I used to hate washing-day! One must have an outfit of needles of different sizes. These I kept in quicksilver salve, otherwise they become useless in a few days on account of the rust. No neck-ties. One hundred pairs of lace boots, these coming above the ankles, with no high heels, and soles not too thick, so that they may bend when jumping from the root of one tree to another. The nails were of copper, for, as I have said before, iron gets rusty so quickly in the great forest; forty-eight pairs of strong twilled trousers; forty-eight flannel shirts; ten dozen pairs socks. Such is the outfit friend Paul had with him.
Having your camera all ready, the apparatus pointing out of the open window of your room, which room must be the uppermost one in your house, how are you going to manage so as to catch a picture of the lightning?
Theoretically, the photographing of a star does not seem so difficult; practically, however, innumerable precautions are necessary. Astronomical photography has got the matter down very fine. Your camera follows automatically the movement of the stars, but it is a mechanism which requires great delicacy in perfecting, and which costs several thousands of dollars.
The great astronomer does not do a great deal of active star-hunting. He may not sit down exactly in an arm-chair, but he makes himself fairly comfortable at his work. That scientific person, however, with a hobby for photographing meteors must be active. He has to be on the full jump. He knows that at a fixed time of the year and in a particular part of the heavens there are to be found a stream of meteors. There is, however, little certainty about his catching a first-class one. The field of the camera not being large, he cannot sweep the whole heavens. So it often happens that though he may have secured an assorted lot of meteors, the one particular and brilliant shooting star which he has seen with his eyes has escaped his camera. Meteors do not pose. That is not in their nature.
If the meteor is eccentric, what about the flash of lightning? You may have any number of storms during a summer, but they are not always accompanied with visible electrical phenomena. There may be plenty of lightning, however, but not in your horizon. But say there is a first-class storm, and with lightning. You have read the meteorological data for the day, and can in a measure anticipate this storm. If you are weatherwise, you know your local conditions, where is north, south, east, and west, and if experienced, you ought to be fairly certain as to the possible direction the storm should come from. Anyhow, you are prepared and have everything ready. Even should the lightning come, as far as taking its picture goes you may be disappointed. The storm may move so rapidly that all the electrical phenomena occur directly overhead or back of you. There may be what seems to you but a feeble discharge of electricity, but it is its distance from you which makes you think so. Then the flash is so far away that the light of it is insufficient, and so a poor, dull, uncertain picture is the resultant.
It is quite a feat to take a first-class flash of lightning, and with reluctance I am forced to conclude that there is much luck about it. But if chance enters for nine-tenths in the photography of lightning, there is the one single tenth which is constantly in your favor—that is, if you are adaptive, watchful, and always ready. You may look for lightning a whole summer and never catch a fine flash, through no fault of your own; and the very next summer, at a first essay, you may secure a magnificent print.
On the 13th of July of this year, at 9 p.m., I was watching a heavy storm in Brooklyn, New York; and my attention was directed to one great blinding flash of lightning, which, starting almost at the zenith, blazed across the sky and came to earth in some region unknown. I never saw a more vivid flash. It ought to have particularly riveted my attention, but it did not, and for this reason: It had just so happened that I had become interested in what are side flashes, or what are called "supplementary" ones. Now the question has been mooted as to what is the character of what seems to our vision to be second flashes—that is, apparent flights of electrical fluid coincident with the first or strongest one, and some scientific men think that as often as not we see the reflection of the important flash mirrored by the clouds in many different directions.
Intent on that side issue, though appreciative of the main discharge, my attention was called to two lines of lesser brilliancy which appeared to the right. "If," I said, "somebody had only photographed it all, how glad I should be!"
Imagine my pleasure when next day Julius Roger, Jun., an amateur photographer living next door to me, casually asked me "whether I had noticed the lightning of the night before"? My reply was "that I had noted it"; but I did not mention what I thought was a special feature of the electrical display.
"Here is one flash I took," said the young gentleman, and he showed me the photograph, an exact copy of which illustrates this article. On examining it, the first thing I did was to look for the particular side show, and there it was.
"Did you notice these?" I asked, pointing to the two cross lines.
"Not," said the young gentleman, "when I took the picture. I went for the main flash. When the picture was developed, then they came out, and they surprised me." I asked the photographer how the print was produced. This is his exact reply:
"It was about nine. I noticed the storm, and that the lightning appeared in the same westerly direction. There were quite a number of flashes coming in succession from the same quarter of the heavens. I pointed my camera to that position, leaving it exposed. When that particular flash made its appearance it impressed itself on the sensitive plate. Then I quickly closed the camera and developed the plate. The picture was taken on a Crown Cramer plate, which I believe to be particularly sensitive."
"You have certainly been on the watch for such a picture for a long time," I said.
My photographer's—who is a singularly modest young gentleman—reply was, "Maybe he had."
Looking at the print it will be seen how the effect of the brilliancy of the flash is heightened because of the intervention of a steeple, and there is even a luminous spot in the window of the steeple, where the lightning shines through it. The two side flashes are perfectly shown to the right. The exact time having been noted, I found out that this particular flash of lightning demolished a house in New Jersey, the distance of which from Brooklyn was, as the crow flies, nineteen miles.
Barnet Phillips.
[The series of four papers on the Science of Football, by Mr. W. H. Lewis of the Harvard Football Team of 1893, begun in this Department in the issue of September 8, is continued this week, and will be concluded in the next number of Harper's Round Table.]
Offensive team-play in the game of football means every man in every play every time.
FIG. 1.
First, in logical order, is the start-off, or opening play. The eleven should line up on the 55-yard line—the centre of the field. The rules allow three men to start before the ball, but not more than five yards back. The three fastest men should be selected for the flying start, preferably the two ends and a half-back. The ends should be out in the wings of the line, and the half-back near the centre; one of the remaining backs—full-back if he be not the kicker—should stand at about the 40-yard line to look out for a return. The other players should be lined up on either side in equal numbers, and at intervals far enough apart to sweep the field. (See Fig. 1.) The ball should be kicked as far down the field as possible without kicking into touch or kicking over the goal-line. The object is to gain as much distance as possible by the kick.
The only way to retain possession of the ball after the start-off, is to kick it so that it will roll slowly enough to allow the rushers to follow it closely, and with force enough to carry it only the required distance. This was done by accident in one great match, and was thought a very good play.
The direct attack is a style of offence generally known as "straight" football, "common," "ordinary," or "barn-yard" football. The object of this style is to take a given point by force instead of by stratagem. To illustrate the principle, take a few ordinary plays.
FIG. 2.
Full-back through right guard and centre is shown in Fig. 2: 1 showing the formation before the play starts; 2 showing where the play hits the line; 3 showing the runner through the line, everybody into the play. The centre and right guard will have to block longer than the other players, but should get into the push as quickly as possible. The play starts on right guard and centre, and goes there; there is no feint made in any other direction. The right half may be sent through right guard and tackle in the same way, the quarter-back, left half, and full-back behind him, or the left half may be sent through the other side in a similar manner. These are commonly called dive-plays. In them the backs should stand from three and one-half to four yards back. The success of the plays depends upon the runners reaching the line with all steam possible at the moment it opens, and in the whole eleven getting behind and pushing, as there will always be something to push against.
Circling the end is shown in Fig. 3. This may be done as in either Part 2 or 3 of that diagram.
In either case the backs should unconsciously stand back a foot or two farther than for dive-plays. The interference should be headed far enough out to draw out the opposing rush-line. The end should help block the opposing tackle. If the opposing end is a very good one, two men should be assigned to him, as in 3, Fig. 3; if not, one, as in 2, Fig. 3. The interference should keep the opposing eleven on the inside as far as possible.
FIG. 3.
The indirect attack is commonly called trick-play. Trick is hardly the word to use, however, because it has a suggestion of unfairness about it. The word "strategic" perhaps best characterizes this class of play. The growth of this style has been marvellous in the last few seasons. The tendency at present seems pretty strong in the opposite direction, towards straight football. One of the oldest tricks is the familiar criss-cross between the two half-backs. There is a very good criss-cross between tackle and end. The end should be near the side line, say over on the right. Let the left tackle run twice, and on the second run give it to the end, who has the long field, and if he is speedy he should make a good run. There are also plays in which the ball is concealed, as in the famous play used by Stagg's team, in which the opponents were drawn out towards the flank, and a runner was sent through the centre.
Kicking is the easiest method of gaining ground, although it gives the ball to the opponents; but it is better to allow the opposing team to have the ball on its 25-yard line than to have it yourself on your own 25-yard line. It[Pg 1150] is almost impossible, when the teams are anywhere near equally matched, to rush the ball from goal to goal without relinquishing it. One team starting from its own 25-yard line may rush the ball to the centre of the field, or to its opponents' 40-yard line. There it is more than likely to lose it. The defensive team is getting stronger all the time, and the offensive one weaker. An eleven should have a scheme for a kicking game determined by the relative strength of its rushing and kicking. How much kicking can be done depends on the direction of the wind more than upon anything else.
Do not wait until the third down to kick. Your opponent expects you to kick, because you must. Good judgment should be exercised in the placing of the kicks. A team should not kick from right under its own goal-posts, because of danger of the ball's striking an upright or the cross-bar. Change the territory by running a play out on the end, then kick.
Signals.—A signal is a sign of some kind given to indicate to the player the play to be used, and the time of its execution. Signals should be as simple as possible, so as to be easily understood by the side using them. The signals, once decided upon, should be thoroughly learned by constant drill, drill, drill! It is important that every man should know them thoroughly. They ought to be second nature to him. They should be perfectly clear to him the moment they are given, so that there is no conscious effort of the memory at all. Without them there can be no concert of action, and team-play is absolutely impossible.
FIG. 4.
In the first place, there must be a vocal signal, as it is almost impossible for the whole eleven to catch a visible signal. A very simple code is to number the holes in the rush-line from left to right, or vice versa, and then disguise the hole number by some simple combination of figures. (Number the holes as shown in Fig. 4.) Let the hole where the play is to be made be the second digit of the second number. If the signal were "12, 61, 83," then 61 would denote the hole or indicate a play around the left end; the numbers 23, 24, etc., would indicate a play between left guard and centre. There are six possible variations from this simple code.
There may also be a system with an index number—as 43, for instance. Let the hole number be the second digit of the first number after the index; the numbers "81, 43, 36," call for a play between right guard and tackle, 6 being the number of that hole. The plays may be numbered, and the figure indicating the play may be disguised. Or plays may be lettered, as is often done. All formations should be numbered or lettered in some way.
If the play called for does not indicate which back is to carry the ball, the quarter-back should have a silent visible signal of some kind. Usually the quarter uses finger signals, putting the hand behind his leg where it cannot be seen by the opponents. One finger may indicate the left half; two fingers, the right half; and three fingers, the full-back, or middle man. Pulling up trousers or stockings, or scratching the head, may also indicate what man is to take the ball.
The signal should be called once only. The second calling is not necessary at all; besides, it slows up the game. Men feel that they have plenty of time after the first call, and loaf to their places. They are not particular about catching the first signal, since it must be given again.
The signal should be called by the quarter-back, as the play must be started by him, and he is in a better position to see the best opportunity for the next play, and he can be easily heard from either flank of the line. If the captain should change a play, he should not call the signal himself, but tell his quarter the play he wants.
The signal should be called loudly enough to be heard by every man in the midst of the din of battle. The quarter should put as much earnestness and enthusiasm as possible in the calling of the signals. Snap them out, and let the merry war go on!
Where sequences are played without vocal signal, the quarter should have some sign for his back, although it is not absolutely necessary. Sequences should be short. The time to play them is at the opening of the game. They cannot be played continuously, as the contingencies of the game cannot easily be foreseen.
Generalship.—The generalship of the game devolves upon the captain. There must be one head on the field, and only one. A game may be largely planned before going upon the field. At the time the game is being mapped out is the occasion for consultation with coaches and players. Before the game it may be decided what is to be done under given conditions of wind and weather, or what is to be done if the team gets the ball at start-off or not. By studying an opponent's preceding games, it is sometimes possible to determine somewhat in advance the kind of game that is likely to succeed against that particular team. The strength and weakness of the team must be considered also.
First, consider the matter of generalship without reference to the opposing team. There are two ways of advancing the ball—one by kicking, the other by rushing. The rushing game is divided into straight football and strategic. There are practically three schools of football: the simple straight football, the strategic, and the kicking. The right use of these different methods of advancing the ball, the proper proportion of each kind of plays, is the great problem of good generalship. Simple straight football should form the basis of the offensive game. This is more easily executed, and is less exhausting upon body and mind. A trick requires the doing of so many things by each individual at a given time that there is produced a great mental strain. Men begin to worry and wonder whether the trick will succeed. And if a fine trick fails they despair of the success of anything else, and so lose spirit. At any rate, they have lost that force and energy necessary to play good, hard, straight football. The trick should be merely an incident of the game. Its proper function is simply to add a little uncertainty, and to keep the other side guessing. It is a mistake to think that the only scientific game is the strategic one. The science of the straight game does not lie in the formation, but solely in the execution.
The bulk of rushing games should be straight football. Three or four tricks, or half a dozen at most, are a sufficient number. The whole repertoire of plays should be not less than twenty nor more than thirty. A few plays well executed are better than a load of stuff indifferently learned. It may not be best in all cases to have the kicking game the dominating feature of the offence. That will depend largely upon whether the team is best at rushing or kicking. A judicious admixture of both is the desideratum. If a team has the wind in its favor, it should take advantage of it and kick often. If it has the wind against it, it will be forced to rush more or less. When a[Pg 1151] team is down in its own territory, if it is going to rush, the play should be one that is likely to make considerable ground if it succeeds, and an open play of some kind should be the one used.
In bringing the ball in from touch it is not wise to always use the "long field." The "short field" often yields good ground.
The plays should be varied enough to keep the opposing line in its normal position. If one point be continuously attacked, that point will be strengthened. If the middle of the line be attacked, the middle will close up. If the flank or end be attacked, this line will be opened because of a movement towards the end in order to better protect it. The line should be continually opened and shut so as not to allow the opponents to concentrate at any given point.
The speed in playing is another feature in generalship. It is not the number of plays per minute that counts, but the speed in execution. Hasten, but do not hurry, is the rule here as everywhere else. Enthusiasm and not excitement is what is wanted. Too rapid a succession of plays results in a jumble merely, and a sort of feverish excitement instead of deadly execution. Still, it must not be understood that a calm, deliberate, sort of a game is the one to be played. When the opposing team is on the run, there should be no let up in the fire. As the advancing party gets nearer the goal, the harder, faster, and more aggressive should be the game. No time should be given the other side to pull itself together, but it should be driven back and over the goal-line; then it is time to rest. If the opposing side is weak on the ends or at a particular end, it is good generalship to take advantage of that weakness. The same thing is true of tackle or centre. This is to be considered, however, that opponents will always endeavor to re-enforce or strengthen a known weakness. The result is that nominally the weakest point may be the strongest. It is well to try the whole line occasionally. The strong man may be caught off his guard. While plays or downs should not be wasted against stone wall, the brutal policy of attacking one point at all time until it gives way should not be indulged in even on the ground of generalship. A team ought to make the best use of its own strong points. If a particular back is good at carrying the ball, give him enough to do, but do not kill him. If there is a back particularly good at kicking, kick, and kick frequently. If a tackle or guard is good at making holes or immensely superior to the man opposed to him, send the plays through that point.
The ninth season of the Cook County High-School Football League opens this year with the promise of a larger membership than ever before, none of the nine teams which were members of the League last year having dropped out, and with the possibility of five new teams coming in. This Association was organized in 1888, and the only schools which were originally members now left in the Association are Hyde Park, Lake View, and Englewood. They are the strongest schools of the section, and one of them has each year carried off the championship. Lake View got the pennant in 1888, 1890, 1892, and 1893; Hyde Park in 1889 and last year; Englewood in 1891 and 1894.
The Hyde Park team seems to be stronger than any of the others this year, and should repeat the success of last fall. Seven members of last year's eleven are back in school, and a large number of candidates are training for the open places. West Division has bright prospects likewise. They had a strong eleven last year, and also have seven of the old men back, and about thirty candidates trying for places.
The men in training for the Englewood High-School team are a heavy set, and should develop into a strong eleven. Lake View High-School ought to appear somewhere near the top at the end of the season; in Wiezerowski, captain of the team, they have the best end that has ever played in the League. The Manual-Training School players are laboring with the difficulty of an unsportsmanlike faculty, and will probably be unable to develop a good eleven. Evanston High is also unfortunate in having but three of last year's men back again, but with good coaching they ought to be able to do something by the end of the season. Oak Park H.-S. is about as badly off, having but two players of last year's team in school, and few men capable of filling the vacancies. Oak Park's eleven last year made the State record of scoring the greatest number of points in any one game; it defeated English High, 80-0.
Leo Lyon, San Francisco.—See Harper's Round Table for August 13 and 20, 1895.
K. W. Wright, New York.—Defender's measurements are given as follows: Length, 124 ft.; water-line, 89 ft.; breadth, 23 ft.; draught, 19 ft. The lead in her keel weighs 80 tons. You will find an article on the building of Defender in Harper's Round Table for September 17, 1895.
The Graduate.
Any question in regard to photograph matters will be willingly answered by the Editor of this column, and we should be glad to hear from any of our club who can make helpful suggestions.
Owing to the number of questions, we devote the entire Department to answers this week.
Sir Knight Luther Pflueger sends a description of a way in which one of his friends made lantern-slides. He bought some glass strips of a size to fit his lantern [Lantern-slide covers could be used.—Ed.] and some transfer-pictures which are used by school-boys to embellish their books. He gave the strips of glass a thin coat of mucilage, and allowed it to dry. He then applied the paper, which had been wet in such a way that the paper was thoroughly soaked, but the face of the picture was dry. (The pictures could be wet by thoroughly saturating a piece of blotting-paper with water, and laying the pictures on it, face up.) He then pressed the pictures on to the glass, took hold of one corner of the paper, and pulled it off, leaving, if successful, the thin film of the picture on the glass. This part of the operation requires carefulness. This method enabled him to make cheap and pleasing slides. Thanks for the description; some of our amateurs will be glad to try it.
Sir Knight Charles M. Todd says he is thinking of buying a small camera, and wishes to know what apparatus he would need for developing, etc.; which are the best, films or dry-plates, and if they are manipulated in the same way; if blue prints are permanent; what prints can be made the cheapest; and the name of some good work on photography. Sir Charles adds that the first thing he looks for in the Round Table is the Camera Club Department. The outfit required for developing and finishing pictures is: one red light; one developing-tray, 4 by 5; one fixing-tray, 4 by 5; one toning-tray, 5 by 8; one printing-frame; one ferrotype-plate for drying prints; one 4 oz. glass graduate. See No. 781 for directions how to make a lantern, and also hints on reducing expenses. Dry-plates are easier for the beginner to manage than the films, but fine negatives are made with either. The same treatment is given both, with the exception of drying. The films, after washing, are soaked for five minutes in a solution made of ½ oz. of glycerine and 16 oz. of water. This prevents the film from curling. Blue prints are permanent; they are also the cheapest. Wilson's Photographics is a good work on photography.
Sir Knight B. P. Atkinson asks how photographs should be prepared for prize contests; if pictures can be copied with an 8 by 10 camera and a single lens; when an article on posing will be published; if exposure meters are reliable; what is the cause of negatives having a spotted appearance when ice is used; how pin-holes in negatives can be remedied; what kinds of lenses are best for landscapes. Platinotype prints make the most artistic photographs, and should be mounted on plate-sunk cards. These cards are made specially for platinotypes; full directions for use come with the platinotype-paper. Pictures may be copied with an 8 by 10 camera, but the single lens would be hardly suitable for fine copying. A rectilinear wide-angle lens is a good lens for copying. Suggestions for posing will be given in the early number of the Round Table. Exposure meters are not always reliable. The spotted appearance of the negative is probably caused by using the water at too low a temperature. The temperature should never be below 50° to insure good work. Pin-holes may be covered by painting them over with retouching fluid, and, when dry, taking a fine camel's-hair brush dipped in lampblack (moist water-color), and touching the spot very lightly with the lip of the brush, taking care that it does not lap over on to the film. A little practice will enable one to fill up pin-holes or light spots so that they will not be noticed in the print. For landscape-work a single achromatic lens will give sharp definition and good contrasts. For general landscape-work a medium-angle, rectilinear lens will be found satisfactory. The angle of view of the lens should be from 45° to 60°.
A cream-of-tartar baking powder. Highest of all in leavening strength.—Latest United States Government Food Report.
Royal Baking Powder Co., New York.
This Department is conducted in the interest of Bicyclers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject. Our maps and tours contain many valuable data kindly supplied from the official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen. Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L.A.W., the Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership blanks and information so far as possible.
Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.
Continuing the journey begun last week from Chicago, we start from Joliet for the run to Ottawa. From Joliet continue along the river and canal. It might be well to inquire the condition in which the tow-path and the road happen to be at the time of your going over the trip, in order that you may take the one most used by wheelmen. Sometimes the tow-path is better, and other times the road should be taken. Here is one of the advantages of being a member of the L.A.W., since the local consul will gladly give you any information on this matter or any other concerning that particular country that you may desire. Generally speaking, it is well to keep to the tow-path, as the ride is more picturesque along the canal.
From Joliet run in a westerly direction, turning sharp to the left at the outskirts of the town, and continuing until the railroad and canal are crossed, proceeding then either along the canal, or, if you take the road, following the route marked on the map which runs between the canal and the river. After crossing the railroad and the canal, keep to the right instead of crossing the river, and the road to Channahon, twelve miles away, is clear except at a point about half-way from Joliet, where the left fork should be taken. Passing through Channahon, turn westward to the right, and then running almost directly westward, crossing the railroad, instead of keeping to the left, and running down by the canal. Before crossing the C.R.I. and P. Railroad, turn southward to the canal, and following the tow-path run into Morris, where dinner can be had. To leave Morris ride northward across the track again, thence westward, not far from the railroad, to Seneca, between ten and eleven miles away. Proceed on the main road, always in the vicinity of the canal and railroad, through Marseilles on to Ottawa. The road turns a couple of miles before Ottawa is reached southward, crosses the canal and railroad, and runs then into the city.
This trip is most of the way over capital road; there are few hills, and there is a good deal of diversity of scenery. Much of the interest of the trip is in the different points of historic interest along the way and in the vicinity of Ottawa. The distance from Joliet is about forty-five miles, but it can easily be done in a day by even inexperienced riders, owing to the level country and the good condition of the roads.
Note.—Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford, Connecticut, in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814. Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816. Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No. 818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No. 820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822. Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City—First Stage in No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland—First Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to Boston—Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833. Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839. Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843. Philadelphia to Washington—First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth Stage in No. 847; Fifth Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in No. 854; Albany to Fonda in No. 855; Fonda to Utica in No. 856; Utica to Syracuse in No. 857; Syracuse to Lyons in No. 858; Lyons to Rochester in No. 859; Rochester to Batavia in No. 860; Batavia to Buffalo in No. 861; Poughkeepsie to Newtown in No. 864; Newtown to Hartford in No. 865; New Haven to Hartford in No. 866; Hartford to Springfield in No. 867; Hartford to Canaan in No. 868; Canaan to Pittsfield in No. 869; Hudson to Pittsfield in No. 870. City of Chicago in No. 874. Waukesha to Oconomowoc in No. 875; Chicago to Wheeling in No. 876; Wheeling to Lippencott's in No 877; Lippencott's to Waukesha in No. 878; Waukesha to Milwaukee in No. 879; Chicago to Joliet in No. 881.
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.
Two hundred thousand sets of the 1860 issue of the Nova Scotia stamps have turned up, and the entire lot is said to have been sold to a syndicate of Canadian dealers. The find is so large that prices on this set must fall very much. The veteran dealer J. W. Scott states that fifteen years ago he purchased several hundred sets lacking the 5c. from a gentleman in Ottawa at about 50c. per set. The 5c. has been the commonest of all this issue during the past decade.
The proposed philatelic club-house in New York is probably an accomplished fact. One hundred gentlemen have subscribed $25 each to pay rent for the first year and furnish the house, which will probably be the meeting-place for all the metropolitan societies! All auctions are to be held in the club-house, which is to be a general rendezvous for all philatelists, and the centre of all philatelic matters in America.
The Geneva exhibition has been a great success. The stamps were well shown, and the local committees made things pleasant for all visitors. The exhibition closed with a grand dinner to which 125 gentlemen sat down.
There were 82 Zurich 4 rappen, 82 Geneva 10 centimes, 32 Vaud 4 centimes, shown, almost all of which were in used condition. These are the stamps worth from $100 to $200 each, but the bulk of them were in the albums of eight or nine of the exhibitors. Pastor Lenhard took the gold medal for the best Swiss stamps, Stanley Gibbons the gold medal for the best collection of any one country. He exhibited his Trinidad and St. Vincent collection, worth $25,000.
Plate No. 89 is the scarcest of all the plate numbers. Dealers offer $25 each for either the top, bottom, or side imprints of that number. It has been ascertained that 9000 sheets of 400 each were printed, each quarter sheet of 100 stamps bearing the plate number on two sides; thus 72,000 copies of this plate number were issued. Who has any? Of No. 116, which is also quite scarce, over 75,000 full sheets of 400 each were printed, probably one-half on un-watermarked paper.
A collection of 20,000 buttons, including specimens of those worn on all the uniforms in the world, has been left by a rich Englishman named Hamilton, who died recently in Vienna. He had also brought together 352 fans, which had each belonged to beautiful women. Another fad of English collectors is the buttons of servants bearing their employer's coats of arms.
The button craze is rapidly growing, and probably will reach its climax early in November, after which time it will gradually die out. Several collectors have over 300 different buttons in every variety of shape, size, color, design, and motto. The buttons were sold early in the season for $30 a thousand, but the price has come down to $7 a thousand. Specially handsome buttons are $10 a thousand. The sidewalk peddlers sell them at 2c. each, or three for 5c.
In consequence of the civil war the Postmaster-General of the U.S. directed that on and after June 1 all mail matter coming from the seceded States prepaid by U.S. stamps be held for postage, and sent to the dead-letter office at Washington. In August the Postmaster-General directed that Kentucky, Missouri, Illinois, Ohio, Maryland, and Pennsylvania could prepay letters by stamps of the 1847, 1851, and 1857 issues until October 1, from other loyal States east of the Rocky Mountains until October 15, and from California, Oregon, New Mexico, Utah, and Washington until October 21, after which dates all stamps issued prior to 1861 were valueless, but would be redeemed up to October 21. After the war was over millions of these U.S. stamps were offered to dealers by parties who got control of the stock on hand in Southern post-offices in 1861. They were very cheap then, but are growing dearer every day.
R. A. Fitzgerald.—I cannot say what would be the value of the original Ordinance of Secession of the State of Alabama. I should think that some of the Southern historical societies would be glad to buy it.
H. D. T.—Unperforated U.S. Revenues, 25c. Certificate worth 25c.; 40c. Inland Ex., $5; $2 Mortgage and $3 Charter, $1.50 each. Your $2 bill is worth face only. Your other questions are too vague.
A. Cohn.—The 1868 U.S. 1c. blue grilled is quite scarce, either used or unused. If you iron soaked stamps you will probably obliterate the grill.
A. A. Scott.—The most advanced collectors of U.S. Revenues prefer to buy the unperforated stamps in pairs or blocks. This of course costs a good deal of money, and ordinary collectors must be content with single specimens. Such copies should have a good margin, on all four sides. There are many faked unperforated stamps, which are made from the ordinary perforated stamps with wide margins.
R. Creighton.—Split stamps have been used in the U.S., but, with one possible exception, without authority of the U.S. government.
Edward Hubbard, 515 Myrtle Street, El Paso, Tex., wants stamps in exchange for Porto Rico and Mexico stamps.
A. Merriam.—Coins made in the Philadelphia mint have no special mark of origin. Coins made in the Carson City mint are marked "C.C."; the San Francisco, "S."; the Dahlonega, "D."; the New Orleans, "O."
W. R. Wheeler.—U.S. Revenues were first used in October, 1862, and almost every legal or commercial document (policies, leases, conveyances, etc.) used during the next ten years bore Revenue stamps. Also every receipt, and check, every box of matches or bottle of medicine, every photograph, every barrel of beer, package of tobacco, etc. In fact, very few things escaped taxation in those days. After the war ended, one tax after another was removed until only the tobacco and liquor taxes remained. These pay taxes by stamps to this day.
George Werner.—Most of the Central American States have been using "Seebeck" stamps during the past six years. It makes very little difference whether these stamps are used or unused. Of the earlier issues the unused are generally the rarer.
Sidney Mulhall.—Always use hinges, and of the best quality. Care must be taken in turning over leaves, or the book should be examined beginning at the last page and going backwards. The 1885 Corea stamps were probably never used. The 1895 issue is in use at present.
F. Pulis.—There are four varieties of the 1802 cents, and they can be bought of dealers at 10c. to 35c. each.
M. S. Taylor.—I cannot assist you in the sale of your album. As a rule albums two or three years old are valueless.
Carrie E. Ball.—The only small cent which is scarce is the 1956 flying eagle. All the others are in common use.
Philatus.
It was in the dusty smoking-car on the Long Island Railroad that the following was overheard. A number of anglers were grouped together discussing their big catches, and at times the wind that rushed by the car windows fairly groaned with the weight of the wonderful stories that it carried away. An old man in the corner with a short clay stump of a pipe stuck between his lips turned slowly around in his seat and surveyed the group. Giving a hitch to his trousers, which nearly dislocated the pins that held them together, he approached the boys.
"Tellin' fish stories, eh, boys? Well! well! Did ye ever hear what the whale that swallered Jonah did?"
"No, never heard about that," said one of the anglers.
"Never heard that, eh? Well, he went around and hunted up a lot of other whales, and then he bored them to death tellin' them how the largest man he ever caught wriggled loose and got away."
and don't worry the baby; avoid both unpleasant conditions by giving the child pure, digestible food. Don't use solid preparations. Infant Health is a valuable pamphlet for mothers. Send your address to the New York Condensed Milk Company, N.Y.—[Adv.]
100, all dif., & fine STAMP ALBUM, only 10c.; 200, all dif., Hayti, Hawaii, etc., only 50c. Agents wanted at 50 per cent. com. List FREE! C. A. Stegmann, 5941 Cote Brilliant Ave., St. Louis, Mo.
10 stamps and large list FREE!
Stamps, Java, Congo, hinges, album, 5c. Agts. at 50% get free album, &c. BULLARD, 97 Pembroke St., Boston, Mass.
foreign stamps: Honduras, Uruguay, Mexico, etc., 5c. H. L. Ashfield, 767 Prospect Ave., N. Y.
Unused Columbian 6c.; 50 var. 6c.
Nos. 303, 404, 170, 604 E.F., 601 E.F.
And other styles to suit all hands.
We wish to introduce our Teas, Spices, and Baking Powder. Sell 75 lbs. to earn a Bicycle; 50 lbs. for a Waltham Gold Watch and Chain; 25 lbs. for a Solid Silver Watch and Chain; 10 lbs. for a beautiful Gold Ring; 50 lbs. for a Decorated Dinner Set. Express prepaid if cash is sent with order. Send your full address on postal for Catalogue and Order Blank to Dept. I
Autumn approaches, and evening entertainments in-doors will soon be in order. Besides, the chestnut burs are getting large, and almost before we are aware of it they will be opening. A nut social is a novel thing, and it can be made as amusing, mysterious, or instructive as you wish, with genuine nuts and metaphorical nuts—geographical, historical, literary, or social.
Issue your invitations in a form to stimulate curiosity. You might put "Nut-cracking," "Nut Social," or "Mixed Nuts" as a title on the outside, with a big interrogation mark filling the centre, and the words "Contributions requested" below, with date and place of entertainment in the lower left-hand corner. Or better still, perhaps, paint a large nut, or a group of small ones, with nut-crackers and picks, if you choose, in the upper left-hand corner, and the words "To crack" in the centre, followed by place and date as before.
Your invitations may simply ask the pleasure of Miss Bessie M.'s or Miss Flora T.'s company. Engage several of your bright young friends to give a little description of some nut, impersonating it as far as possible, telling where found, its habits, manner of growth, uses, and any other interesting facts regarding it, concealing its name, and weaving as much mystery about it as possible. Have these descriptions only two or three minutes long, but as bright, catchy, and witty as may be. Then, after each nut is described, give a chance for quizzes and guesses regarding it. Intersperse the chat with an occasional strain of familiar music, which, in accordance with the nut cracking scheme, may be identified and the composer guessed. Brought in at unexpected intervals, it will require quick wits to name them readily.
To give variety to the entertainment, noted personages, books, characters in fiction, or works of art may be represented by the different guests, or an art gallery may be improvised by the hostess. The greater the variety of puzzling things, the greater will be the interest and the more enjoyable the entertainment. Everything, as far as possible, must be in the nature of a nut—to be cracked.
The refreshments should be of nuts, or something having nuts as an ingredient, as nut-cakes, nut-candies, etc. Have a nut salad if you like—a dish of nuts decorated with autumn leaves, intermingled with slips of paper containing conundrums, enigmas, puzzling Questions, etc., to be guessed by the recipients; or you may have nut bonbons of this same kind. Or, after carefully cracking English walnuts, substitute for the meats your paper nuts, unite the two half shells with a drop or two of mucilage, and serve with each plate of refreshments. Provide every guest with paper and pencil to record his guesses as he makes them, and give a prize for the greatest number of correct answers, and a booby-prize for the least. A silver nut-cracker or a set of nut-picks would be appropriate for the former, and a hammer for the latter. Try it, and you will like it.
| My first is in zinc, but not in lead; |
| My second in rose, but not in red; |
| My third is in disc, but not in tray; |
| My fourth is in black, but not in bay; |
| My fifth is in paid, but not in lynx; |
| My sixth in dilates, but not in blinks; |
| My seventh in martlet, but not in crow; |
| My eighth is in cut, but not in mow; |
| My ninth is in shrine, but not in fane; |
| My tenth is in walnut, but not in plane; |
| My eleventh in alley, but not in lane; |
| My whole is a nickname bestowed on the capital of Virginia. |
The solution to the above cross-word enigma forms the central column (reading downward) of the following acrostic, the initials of which are the same throughout:
Crosswords.—1. Invigorating. 2. Thought long and anxiously. 3. A cloth ornamented with raised work. 4. Devoted to books. 5. Dimmed as to sight. 6. A heraldic term denoting a strip surrounding the field. 7. Indian sage—thoroughwort. 8. Relating to the Fagus. 9. A fourteenth-century helmet, basin-shaped. 10. Jeers. 11. In falconry, pieces of leather used to bind up the hawk's wing.
Ab Sinthay.
I sang my most melodious song,
My sweetest roundelay,
In vain, to win a wanderer's love;
Then threw my life away.
And now in distant Indian seas,
Beneath the wild waves' roar,
I sit, a prisoner in a cell,
And sing of love no more.
Afar within the realms of space,
Where planets hold their sway,
I shine to guide the wanderer's feet
Along the homeward way.
My fleet of ships went over the sea,
Bound for a distant shore.
One day, they all came back to me,
And marvellous freight they bore.
The first brought home a cargo of love,
The second, labor and toil;
A title the third on me bestowed;
The fourth gave claim to the soil;
The fifth my knees bent low in prayer;
The sixth gave control of men;
The seventh another put under my care;
The eighth in my hand laid a pen;
The ninth sent me far away from my home;
The tenth gave me limitless power;
The eleventh put me in charge of a court;
The twelfth made learning its dower;
Number thirteen brought me a steed;
Fourteen forth sent me to preach;
Fifteen gave charge of other men's goods;
Sixteen brought duty to teach;
Seventeen to another bound me for years;
Eighteen left no leisure from writing;
Nineteen supplied me aid in my work;
While twenty gave position for fighting.
1. A police captain's order:
"Examine hat and roll."
A well-known American statesman.
2. "Ever turn, stout Louisa."
A famous negro patriot.
Central letters, right-hand hour-glass, Apelles; central letters, left-hand hour-glass, Phidias.
1.—1. D. 2. Sen. 3. Selah. 4. Deluder. 5. Nadir. 6. Her. 7. R.
2.—1. R. 2. Sad. 3. Spire. 4. Railing. 5. Dried. 6. End. 7. G.
3.—1. Dappled. 2. Habas. 3. Bit. 4. D. 5. Die. 6. Chart. 7. Plaster.
4.—1. Rotates. 2. Paper. 3. Bed. 4. L. 5. Ale. 6. Tread. T. Glisten.
1. Apple. 2. Salt. 3. "Butter" (goat). 4. Mace. 5. "Nutmeg" (Connecticut). 6. Flounder, 7. Quince (in Midsummer-Night's Dream). 8. Pepper (K.N.—Cayenne). 9. Eggs. 10. Flower (flour).
1. Grapes, rapes, apes, pes. 2. Sago, ago, go. 3. Acorn, corn, orn. 4. Flax, lax, ax.
My father is a teacher in a missionary school here, and on Sundays he assists in the mission services. I assist, too, playing an American cabinet organ and helping with the singing. The other evening a gentleman called at our house for a chat. He is a Japanese of perhaps forty, and he spent ten years in Europe and America. He speaks Spanish, French, English, German, and Chinese, besides his own tongue, in the latter of which he is perfectly versed. He has visited every city of importance in the western world, and is therefore a judge of customs. Suddenly he said to my father, "What an inconvenient man you are!"
Father looked up in astonishment, and inquired why.
"Why? Because you require, like all western people, so much to make you comfortable. And out of all you have you get no more comfort than do we Japanese from our little. No, not so much comfort by half. For instance, you pay to live here—how much?"
"Two dollars per day," replied my father.
"Ah," said our Japanese acquaintance, "I pay seventy-five sen, or about forty cents of your money. And I am just as happy and as comfortable as you are. To be sure, you have tables, and chairs, and bedsteads, and dressing-cases, wash-bowls, pitchers, mirrors, and goodness knows what in your rooms. I have nothing of the sort. They are too much trouble to care for. A nice cool mat and quilt form a good enough sleeping outfit for me. And you make yourself so much work at your meals, using all those pitchers and plates, goblets, spoons, pepper-pots, and the rest. Then, when you eat, you crowd yourselves into one room. I eat alone. My meals are served on a tray by a pretty maid, who kneels before me as I eat, chatting and making herself interesting.
"When you travel you take with you, either to tote about, or hire some one to carry for you, a great amount of luggage. As for me, the hotel furnishes me a dressing-gown and a night-robe, and I buy a fresh tooth-brush each morning for a sen. No; say what you please, you western folk are inconvenient people. You do not follow the line of the least resistance. You make too much effort to live, and the cost is too great in nerves, brains, flesh, blood, and worry."
G.
Kyoto, Japan.
Helen Disosway asks whence comes the caper of which the caper sauce is made. It is a small bud that grows in very hot climates, especially in the East Indies. It is gathered before the petals have unfolded. The work of collecting these buds is very slow, hence the expensiveness of the sauce of commerce. The seed-pod of the caper is also used. It makes a delicious pickle. The caper plant is perennial, but dies down and seemingly disappears in the autumn. It grows best on dry and hot stony ground. It is sometimes used in the East to surmount rockeries, because it lives on little soil, while its foliage is delicate and its silvery flowers are ornamental.
Charles R. Botsford: Articles descriptive of magic have appeared in the following recent numbers of Harper's Round Table: 844, 852, 862, 866, 869, and 873. The numbers may be had by applying to the publishers. Eleanor Little, aged twelve, Marblehead, Mass., collects bicycle buttons. Perhaps you do too. If so, you will be glad to have Miss Eleanor's address. Earl L. Hendricks, Box 626, Savannah, Ill., collects fossils and mineral specimens and wants correspondents. So does Edith S. Lewis, 1418 Eighth Avenue, Kearney, Neb., who also writes verses and stories. She is fourteen. James Fahlberg, 520 Barbey Street, Brooklyn, wants to join the staff of an amateur paper in Brooklyn. We are not advised of any Brooklyn amateur paper that wishes to increase its staff, but suggest that Sir James apply to Beverly S. King, 1625 Atlantic Avenue.
"E. W. S." is fifteen and wants to enter the United States navy. He must apply to the member of Congress from his district. Had he given his address we could have told him the name and address of his member. Any local politician can tell him. So can his postmaster. Appointments are made only as vacancies occur at Annapolis. If you fail to hear from your Congressman, write to the Secretary of the Navy, Washington, D. C., asking when a vacancy will occur in your district. Hon. Hilary A. Herbert is the secretary's name. You will receive a prompt reply. Applicants[Pg 1155] must pass rigid physical and mental examinations, but the latter covers the common branches only. No, fifteen is not too old to enter. David B. Hendricks: "University Extension" means an extension of university teaching to men and women too old and perhaps too poor to attend universities—that is, carrying university lectures to those who cannot come for them. It was inaugurated by the universities of Oxford and Cambridge, in England, but soon copied by Columbia, Pennsylvania, and Chicago in this country. There is also an American Society for the Extension of University Teaching that is unconnected with any university, and sends out lecturers from Princeton, Columbia, Chicago, and other leading universities, and even business men and principals of high-schools. The course includes art, astronomy, biology, chemistry, civics, forestry, travel, history, literature, mathematics, music, philosophy, sanitation, and sociology. Lectures in courses may be had on any or all of these subjects. There are examinations and diplomas. The usual plan is for local societies, either existing ones or those formed for the purpose, to select their subjects and apply to the Extension Society for lecturers. The cost, when divided among a society, is moderate, and many courses are given in villages as small as Moodus.
"E.W.D." asks, "Will you kindly tell me how to make and fly tail-less kites?" These kites are common in Holland, and are therefore called Holland kites. They are easily made, and there is no bother about getting exactly the right amount of ballast for them. A good size is 4 feet for the main upright stick. For cross-stick use ash or hickory, and have it exactly 3 feet long. Attach strings to each end and tie it at the back, curving the cross-stick into the form of a bow. This curve must be varied with the strength of the wind. If the wind is strong, tighten the bow cord, and give the bow more curve. The bow is fastened to the upright 1 foot below the upper end of the latter. Attach a belly-band at the contact of the stick and the bow and at the bottom of the stick. To determine the length of the belly-band let its angle just reach the ends of the bow, at which angle the kite string is to be attached. These measurements may be larger or smaller, but if varied at all they must be varied alike. The proportions here given must be maintained, or the kite will not be a success. Each side of the kite must be of equal weight. Lift the kite by the belly-string, balancing lower end on a finger-point. If it tips to one side, paste bits of paper in the light side till both sides are equal. The stick, bow, and cords must be as light as their duties will warrant. Covering may be as in any other kite. If correctly made, kites of this pattern require no tails, and the gentlemen who furnishes the information says that the first one he made staied up all day the first time he flew it.
Will some one tell me how to mount my bird-feather collections? I will be very thankful for any information on the subject.
Jay F. Hammond, R.T.K.
Harford, N.Y.
We suppose these collections to be made of feathers that the birds have no longer any use for. No Knight or Lady would take what is another's, and the feathers are certainly the bird's so long as he has need for them. Let us know how to artistically mount feather collections—where said feathers are gathered after the bird has shed them. The Table will be glad to print the morsel or morsels on the subject.
Washington had for many years a famous caterer Mr. John Chamberlin. The other day Mr. Chamberlin died. Once a man, entering his restaurant, said in his hearing: "How I would like a fine steak smothered in onions! I'd have it, too, if it were not for the breath."
Chamberlin replied: "You needn't worry about onion breath. Order the steak, find when you get your bill I'll have it so large it'll take your breath away."
There are only a few brands of manufactured articles that are kept by all grocers. Ivory Soap is one of these.
The Procter & Gamble Co., Cin'ti.
Thoroughly revised, classified, and indexed, will be sent by mail to any address on receipt of ten cents.
THE AUTHOR OF
This novel has the wonderful charm of reminiscence and the interest connected with the development of a mystery which made Peter Ibbetson and Trilby world-famous. The opening chapters present a delightful picture of school-boy life in Paris a generation ago.
GOING AGAINST THE GRAIN.
A gentleman owning a cotton estate had a characteristic old "mammy" who never could be found without her pipe. One day her employer asked her if she expected to go to heaven.
"Deed I does—'deed I does."
"But, auntie, you know you smoke a great deal, and the angels surely will not like that."
"But Ise won't smoke up dar, sah!"
"No; still they will smell tobacco on your breath."
"'Deed dey won't, sah. Ise reckon I done leave m' bref here."
"Hi, Freddie!" cried his father, as the boy entered the elevator to go upstairs. "What are you going upstairs for?"
"So's I can come down again in the elevator," said Freddie.
"Isn't the mountain air bracing?" said Mr. Hicks.
"Yes, pretty bracing," said Wallie. "It doesn't make my bicycle go any better, though, pumping this mountain air into the tires, than the plain old home air does."
"How did you find your little dog when you got home from the country, Polly?"
"Didn't find him."
"Why, was he lost?"
"No. He'd growed to be a big dog."
Tommie. "My papa's gone fly-fishing this morning."
Nellie. "Poh! That's a queer thing to do, I think. I can sit right here in the hotel and catch all the flies I want without going fishing for 'em."
"Sam, I'm proud of you," said the Mayor of the town. "It was a noble deed to jump into the water and save a drowning man."
"Yes, sah."
"Indeed it was, Sam. There you were on a dark night peacefully pursuing your way home, when the screams of a dying man reached your ears, and without a moment's hesitation you rushed down to the deserted pier and plunged into the cold water at the risk of your life, and rescued a fellow-being. Ah, Sam, it was certainly a noble deed, and again I say it, I'm proud of such a citizen, and the town joins me in bestowing its hearty well-wishes on you."
"Yes, sah."
"But, Sam, what makes you so glum about it?"
"Well, jedge, it's like dis. I done jump as you say, and collar dat man, and bring him ter shore, but wa'd you think? I owe dat man five dollars for six months, and I spects I'll get anoder of dem bills fer it same as before. Dat's my luck to rescue de man what Ise owes money to."
THE TRACKS THE DUCK LEAVES.
This ducklet's tracks so much resemble autumn leaves, that they
Are often by the north wind gathered up and blown away.
[1] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 879.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Harper's Round Table, September 22,
1896, by Various
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