



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

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

       *       *       *       *       *

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JULY 7, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 871. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration]

AN OUTLAW.

A STORY OF JIM-NED CREEK.

BY M. E. M. DAVIS.


The porch of Bishop's store--the heart, so to speak, of the Jim-Ned
Creek settlement--was deserted, for the November day was bleak and raw.
Half a score or more men lounged over the counters within, or sat silent
and ruminant around the smouldering fire. Gideon Bishop, half hidden by
his tall desk, was busy with his ledgers, but he glanced furtively and
frowningly now and again at his guests.

The Outlaw came up the road at a leisurely pace. She was a small mare,
blue-gray in color, with a flowing mane and tail of a fine glossy black,
much matted with cockle-burs. She tossed her small head coquettishly in
response to the neigh of welcome from the horses hitched to the saplings
about the store, and picked her way daintily to the very edge of the
porch, where she stood saucily expectant.

"Hullo! There's that blue _mus_tang o' yourn!" exclaimed Sam Leggett,
jumping down from the counter. "It's been nigh onto two year sence she
_vamoosed_, ain't it, Uncle Gid? Where _hez_ she been a-hidin' herse'f?"

Mr. Bishop picked up a wagon whip, took a lariat from its nail on the
wall, and stepped out upon the porch.

"So! You've come back, have you, Lady?" he said, with a grim smile. He
reached forward as he spoke and attempted to slip the rope over the
mare's neck. She shook her mane gently, and dipping her pretty head,
nipped his forearm with her strong white teeth.

At another time old Gid, stern and harsh as he was, might not have
resented this playful salute, for the skin on his brown wrist was barely
grazed, but he was in no mood for such fooling now. He started back with
a quick step; his brow reddened angrily, and the fire leaped to his
deep-set eyes. He lifted the whip; the long keen lash curled through the
air, and descended with a stinging sound upon the runaway's shining
flank. She reared violently, uttering a cry almost human in its
indignant protest; then she wheeled about, and galloped away in the
direction whence she had come.

The men who had trooped out upon the porch at Mr. Bishop's heels gazed
after her until she disappeared in the creek bottom; then they slouched
back to their seats.

"Jack broke that _mus_tang hisse'f," Joe Trimble presently remarked. "I
mind the first time he ever backed her. _Jing!_ how she bucked!"

"Speakin' o' Jack," Newt Pinson ventured, in an off-hand way, but not
daring to look at Jack's father--"speakin' o' Jack, 'pears to me it's
nigh about time we was huntin' that boy up."

"Gentle_men_," said Mr. Bishop, in a loud, angry voice, "you 'tend to
your own business, if--you--please. Jack Bishop is nineteen year old,
and full able to take keer of hisse'f."

These words penetrated through a half-open door into the family
living-room back of the store. On hearing them, Jack's mother burst into
a fresh fit of weeping, which the kindly neighbors hovering about her
tried vainly to soothe.

"He's just as oneasy about Jack as I am," she sobbed. "That onliest
child of ourn is the apple of his father's eye. But it's Gid's pride as
won't let him give up that a Bishop can get lost. And everybody's plumb
afraid of him. Oh, my boy, my boy!"

"Don't ye worrit yo'se'f into a spazzum, Susy Bishop," said Granny
Carnes. "_I_ ain't afeard o' Gid Bishop, ner no other male creeter. An'
I've give my orders to the boys a-settin' yander in the sto'. Ef Jack
Bishop"--here she raised her voice to its highest and shrillest
pitch--"ef Jack Bishop ain't inside this house befo' candle-lightin'
to-night, them boys has got to tromp out an' find him, an' fetch him
home, or not dassen to show their faces agin the len'th an' bre'th o'
Jim-Ned."

"Amen!" said Mrs. Leggett and Mrs. Trimble together.

"Double an' thripple Amen!" added Mrs. Pinson, solemnly.

There was indeed no small cause for anxiety. Early on a Tuesday morning
young Bishop had started out afoot, with dog and gun, for a few hours'
hunting in _The Rough_--a belt of savage woodland which stretched away
westward, with wide solitary prairies on either side, to the chain of
hills some fifteen miles distant. It was now Friday, past noon, and he
had not returned. Newt Pinson had met him at the crossing of Jim-Ned
Creek half an hour after he had left home; he had not been seen nor
heard of since. He had gone on alone; for the dog, a half-grown puppy,
had turned and trotted back, unnoticed, behind Mr. Pinson.

"Oh, if Josh was only with him!" moaned Mrs. Bishop, already alarmed, at
the close of the first day.

And Josh, the intelligent old hound, rubbed his head against her knee
and whined softly.

The lad--everywhere a favorite--had never absented himself from home
before; and when Wednesday, Thursday, Friday came and went without
tidings of him, the neighbors from up and down the creek began to gather
at the store.

They looked at the heavy sky, sunless and misty these four days past,
and shook their heads ominously, whispering among themselves. The poor
mother was wellnigh frantic with alarm. Uncle Gid alone maintained an
air of obstinate confidence, in the face of which no one dared venture a
move.

"Jack Bishop is full able to take keer of hisse'f," he repeated,
proudly, in answer to Mr. Pinson's timid suggestions. "Jack Bishop knows
every inch of ground betwixt Jim-Ned and Rattlesnake Gap."

"All the same, notwithstandin'," whispered Granny Carnes in Mrs.
Bishop's ear, "I've give my orders for candle-lightin', honey."

But before candle-lighting Mr. Bishop's assumed stoicism gave way. About
sunset he arose and took his rifle from the rack above the door. "Come
on, boys," he said, with a catch in his throat. And a moment later they
were hurrying down the rutty road.

At the Jim-Ned crossing the old man paused. "You go back, Susy," he
said, with rough kindness, to the frail little woman following a pace or
two behind him. "Go back, and stay with the women folks. You ain't
nowise fitten for this sort o' thing."

Jack's mother pulled the red knitted shawl closer about her head, and
moved steadily forward. "No, Gid," she said, quietly; "I'm not going
back--not without my boy."

He put an arm about her without another word, and husband and wife
presently entered together the mysterious gloom of _The Rough_.


II.

An hour or two later Jack Bishop was lying on the open prairie, where he
had thrown himself in a sort of dull despair. His loaded gun lay beside
him; his empty wallet hung from his shoulder; his face looked pinched
and wan in the vapory moonlight.

"I crossed Jim-Ned," he was saying to himself, mechanically, for the
thousandth time; "I crossed the creek and came into _The Rough_. I left
home Tuesday at sun-up.... That puppy ain't worth shucks; I wish I had
brought old Josh!... I killed three jack-rabbits in Buck-Snort Gully. By
the big cottonwood--what did I do by the big cottonwood? Oh, I ate my
corn pone. _Gee!_ how hungry I am!... Then I followed a deer and got
into the prairie. Why, I know this prairie 'most as well as I know
Jim-Ned! Yonder's Rattlesnake Gap, and yonder's _The Rough_.... And
before I knew it, it was plumb dark.... I went back into _The Rough_,
and tramped and tramped; and the first thing I knew I was out on the
prairie again.... I've been doing the same thing ever since, over and
over.... I haven't seen a soul.... If I could just glimpse the sun! But
seems like the sun never will shine again.... I reckon I'm lost....
Yonder's Rattlesnake Gap, and yonder's _The Rough_--"

He got up and staggered a few steps, then sank down again. He was a
manly lad, and he had borne with hopeful courage the hunger, cold, and
loneliness of the long days and nights. But he was exhausted with
fatigue, and weakened by want of food; and finally, overcome by a sense
of terror and desolation, he covered his face with his hands and groaned
aloud.

The painful throbbing in his ears sounded suddenly like the rhythm of
advancing footsteps. Something cold and moist touched his cheek; a warm
breath mingled with his own.

"Why, Lady!" he cried, springing to his feet. Weariness and hunger and
cold had vanished in a trice. Laughing and crying by turns, he clasped
his arms about the neck of the little mustang which he had fed and
petted as a colt--the wilful Outlaw who had disappeared into _The Rough_
two years before.

Fearful lest the mare should desert him again, he held her long mane
with one hand, while with the other he groped, stooping, for his rifle.
But the Outlaw apparently did not dream of flight. She stood quite still
until the gun was secured and he had climbed with some difficulty upon
her back.

"Now, Lady," he shouted, "take me to Jim-Ned! Carry me home!"

Lady threw up her head, neighed, and moved obediently forward. She went
at a swift walk, breaking at intervals into the long, swinging, restful
mustang _lope_.

"But--you are going in the wrong direction," remonstrated her rider, at
the end of a few moments. He tugged at her mane, and endeavored to
change her course. "You are carrying me _through_ the Gap. Jim-Ned is on
_this_ side. Back, Lady--back!"

The mare shook herself impatiently, and pushed on between the pyramidal
hills which loomed up on either side of the Gap, emerging into the open
prairie beyond just as the moon, scattering the clouds at last, filled
earth and sky with a flood of golden light.

"Well," said Jack, with a shiver of disappointment, "you'll take me
somewhere, I reckon, Lady. I can't be any more lost than I've been for
the last three days!"

After a while, however, things began to assume a strangely familiar
look. "I've never been west of the Gap before," he muttered,
"but--yonder looks like Comanche Mound. And, sure as shootin', here's
Matchett's Pond! Ah!" he added, after profound reflection, "I am east of
the Gap now. I must have been all this time, somehow, on the other
side."

His conjecture was correct. Stumbling unwittingly through the narrow Gap
in the darkness of the first night, and deceived by the prairie and
woodland beyond, he had there continued the incessant and bewildered
round into which he had fallen when he had first lost his bearings.

"It's all clear as daylight now," he cried, joyously. "You've got a heap
more sense than I have, Lady! Couldn't fool _you_ with roughs and
prairies! And now I think I will stretch my legs a little, and rest you,
my beauty."

He slid to the ground and limped along beside his four-footed friend,
leaning against her, and chattering boyishly as he went.

"Tain't more'n ten miles to Bishop's store now. And mother'll be on the
porch, late as it is, looking out for me. Poor mother, I know she's been
fretting! And she'll have the coffee-pot on the coals. And father'll be
pretending to scold. But, shucks! he won't mean a word of it. Seems
like"--a lump arose in the boy's throat--"seems like I never understood
father before, nor loved mother half enough!... Where have you been all
this time, anyhow, Lady? Why, what a scratch you've got on your side!
Run against a mesquit thorn, eh? It's all bloody. I'll doctor it the
minute we get home. Hello!--"

One of his legs seemed all at once to have grown shorter than the other,
a loud report rang in his ears, a thrill of intense agony racked his
whole body, and he dropped fainting to the ground. He came to himself a
moment later to find the blood pouring from a wound in his left
shoulder, and when he attempted to rise and draw his leg from the deep
rabbit-hole into which he had stumbled a sharp pain warned him that both
knee and ankle were sprained or broken. He ceased his efforts and fell
back, staring helplessly up at the sky.

The mustang, who had darted away at the discharge of the rifle, had
returned, and was standing beside him.

"Don't go, Lady," he implored, catching at her mane. "I've shot myself,
I reckon. I can't move my leg. Don't, _don't_ leave me, Lady."

The mare thrust her nose reassuringly against his face.

The blood, which he tried vainly to stanch with his free hand, oozed
from the gun-shot wound, and formed a red puddle about his head. He felt
himself growing dizzy and nauseated.

It was now about an hour past midnight, and the vast moonlighted prairie
was hushed and still. Suddenly a curious sound troubled the silence--a
trampling, tearing noise, accompanied by a hoarse confused roar. Jack
lifted his head a little and looked.

His heart stood still.

A small herd of cattle roving about the prairie, moved by the curiosity
inherent in animals, had drawn near, and excited by the smell of blood,
were pawing the earth, bellowing with rage, and circling ever closer and
closer about the helpless lad. He could see their wide horns glistening
in the moonlight. "Mother! Father!" he breathed; and dropping his head
back upon the cold turf, he closed his eyes in instant expectation of
death.

But he opened them again. For the Outlaw had whirled abruptly from her
post beside him, and charged, with a snort, first into one section and
then into another of the infuriated circle. Surprised and daunted, the
cattle retreated a short distance, stopped, and stood still, uncertain
and dumb.

Hardly, however, had the boy drawn a breath of thankfulness and relief,
when there was another mad rush upon him; and again the gallant little
mustang, plunging and snorting, held his assailants at bay.

Over and over this assault and repulse were repeated. The
half-unconscious lad turned his terrified eyes from side to side,
groaning with pain, and lifting his voice brokenly in encouragement of
his protector.

But she too was beginning to be spent and exhausted. He stroked her
trembling foreleg with his hand as she hovered over him in a moment of
respite. "Poor Lady!" he whispered, faintly: "it's mighty nigh over with
both of us, I think. You'd better save yourself now, Lady. You can't do
anything more for me. Don't cry, Lady. _Why, Lady, your eyes are just
like mother's!_"

And with a sob he lapsed into utter oblivion.


III.

The searching party came out of _The Rough_ in the early dawn, and stood
huddled together, forlornly silent, on the prairie ridge that sloped
gently away to Matchett's Pond. They were foot-sore and disheartened
after their long night's fruitless quest.

"Ain't that Matchett's bunch o' cattle rampagin' an' bellerin' aroun'
down yander?" demanded Joe Trimble, breaking the silence, and peering
forward curiously, "What are they up to? _Y-a-a-h!_"

He burst into a loud yell and set off running at the top of his speed,
discharging his pistol as he ran to scatter the herd.

Swift-footed as he was, however, a woman outstripped him; and by the
time the others came up, Jack's mother was kneeling in the grass, and
her arms were about her boy.

When Jack, after swallowing a mouthful of water, had revived a little,
and the color had begun to come back into his poor pale face, his wound
was dressed and his broken leg bandaged. Then he faltered out the story,
with his head on his mother's bosom, and his hand held close in his
father's strong grasp.

"I could feel the fire in their blazing eyes," he concluded. "I thought
I would never see you and mother again, father. And if it hadn't been
for Lady-- Don't cry, mother, I'm all right now. _Why, mother, your eyes
are just like Lady's!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

Uncle Gid got up and walked over to where the Outlaw lay panting on the
dry grass. He reeled like a fainting man as he went. At his approach the
mare threw out her slender forelegs and tried to get up, but fell feebly
back, quivering with terror. The old man dropped on his knees beside
her, and laid his hand on the whelk that disfigured her flank. "Heaven
forgive me for a sinful man!" he cried. "I struck you in anger, Lady; I
struck you; and if it hadn't been for you, my son, my only son--" A sob
choked his utterance, and he could not finish. But Lady turned her head
toward him and whickered softly. She understood!

There was a moment of awed silence.

Then Mr. Pinson blew his nose, wiped his eyes, and stepped forward.
"Gentlemen _an'_ Mis' Bishop," he said, with an oratorical flourish.
"Lady is a honor to her sect! The female sect, gentlemen _an'_ Mis'
Bishop, is ever faithful an' ever true. Lady, notwithstandin' she air a
mare an' a Outlaw--"

"Three cheers for Lady!" interrupted Jack, with the old sparkle in his
eyes, though his voice was a bit unsteady. "Hurrah for Lady! Hip, hip,
hurr-a-a-h!"

And such cheers went ringing over the prairie and across _The Rough_
that old Granny Carnes afterward declared she heard them at Bishop's
store, ten miles away.




THE NEW MOTHER GOOSE.


  There was a man in our town
    Who was so wondrous wise,
  He didn't try the bramble-bush
    And scratch out both his eyes,

  But sat him in a big arm-chair,
    Upon a schooner-yacht,
  And said to those who jeered at him,
    "I'd rather see than not."




[Illustration: Queer Pets of Sailor Jack.]

BY LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER J. D. JERROLD KELLEY, U.S.N.

(_In Two Installments._)


In that happy hour or more after hammocks are piped down, and before
tattoo is sounded on board ships of war, the sailor has his season of
unvexed merriment. This leisure is a cherished one, and his pleasure
runs the gamut of many physical bouts. He boxes, gives play with
single-stick and quarter-staff, both vigorous, determined, and honestly
punctuated with resounding whacks and grinning acceptances of pain. The
bear is chased amid much license of noise, and Jack swims, dives, rows,
wrestles, and dances. And how he dances! Save on board flag-ships, bands
are extemporized affairs; for the sailor loves his music dearly, even
when he has to pay his piper, and is a prentice hand with various
instruments, though, I think, there is an unwritten law against the
wheezy and soul-envenoming concertina and a respected prejudice
concerning the piccolo.

I do not know that he hornpipes it so much as he jigs it, but when he
does go in for form and style his traditional performance is filled with
grace and honest delight.

It is at this hour, too, that the dumb pets of the crew have their
rarest frolic; for, by the association--by the inspiration perhaps--of
the same sentiment, this twilight season becomes to the sailor what the
children's hour is to the luckier landsman in homes where love is
sanctified by the tender witcheries of happy childhood. The isolation of
the sailor, the craving during long years of exile for something that
cares for him purely for himself, is a charm to conjure with, and lucky
indeed is the dumb brute whose life falls in the pleasant places of the
forecastle. Indeed, the fondness sailors show for their pets is
proverbial, and so intimately are these associated with certain famous
deeds of the sea that they have acquired a definite name and fame, and
are as well known and as fondly remembered and lamented as are the races
of bygone days by ancient jockeys and stable-boys.

With sailors this feeling often borders on a sincere affection, and in
the early twilight of a second dog-watch I have seen weather-beaten,
battle-scarred bluejackets fondling some pet as tenderly as a mother
would her first-born; and then, when darkness fell, stowing it in a
secure bed and bidding it a most affectionate good-night. The catalogue
of sea pets would read almost like the Homeric enumeration of the ships,
for these are of every description, from field-mice to bears. Those most
generally found are dogs, cats, monkeys, and parrots. The
accomplishments of the parrots are especially weird, and sometimes
uncanny, and there is a tradition that sailors teach them to talk by
feeding them with bread balls in which grains of red pepper are
secreted. When the parrots taste the pepper they begin to scream and
squawk most fiercely, and this is the apt season for their teachers to
repeat fast and furiously the words they seek to have learned. In their
rage the parrots repeat the words thus spoken, and by dint of mild
torture and bad temper acquire a vocabulary which sometimes becomes very
varied. Monkeys are usually dressed in ludicrous copies of foreign
soldiers' uniforms, are taught to drill, and especially to salute and
salaam profoundly at the word of command.

The west coast of Africa, Brazil, and the waters about the Asiatic
station are famous for the queerness, variety, and cheapness of pets,
and if the crews were not restrained the ship would soon become as
riotous as a bear-garden and as clamorous as a menagerie. Among the
animals that have been mustered among a ship's family are black pigs
from Hong-kong; silvery gray squirrels from Shanghai; long-haired
chrysanthemum-tailed dogs from Kobe; rabbits from Chin-kiang; bears, and
quaint little black chickens with feathers that stick out like porcupine
quills, from Nagasaki. From the mud shores of Yang-tse-kiang the sailors
get "miners," birds of the crow family, which with patience and care
soon learn to talk cleverly in the quaint dialect of the sea. At times
more than one of these pets claims the allegiance of its owner. I recall
an aged fore-mast-man of one of our sloops of war, the _Vandalia_, I
think, who had collected a most interesting family, consisting of a dog,
goat, cat, rabbit, hen, parrot, and monkey, all living in a harmony
which put to shame the quarrelsome members of like households in stuffy
museums. So well behaved and decorous were they that even the strictest
of first lieutenants, watchful for holy-stone decks and shining
paint-work, could not complain. Another of our war-ships mustered a pig,
a bear, and a dog in its books.

These had become thoroughly sailorized, going at drum-beat to quarters,
mustering with their divisions, and observing with a fine precision the
routine of the day. By an unexplained but accepted assumption of rank,
the pig took his station on the quarter-deck, the bear mustered
amid-ships, and the dog clung to the eyes of the ship, each in the wake
of his adopted guns' crew. Nothing was allowed to disturb this
ceremonial precedence, not even the riot and roar and the slaughter
sometimes when the ship was in action. At times the bear, with misty
recollections of pine woods and underbrush, would cut adrift from the
restraints of education and run _amook_ in the gangways, more or less
violently hugging members of the crew. He showed a fine discrimination
between friend and foe, cherishing for days the remembrances of an
affront, and never losing an opportunity of avenging it, as many a
madcap youngster had occasion to remember.

Of all pets, none is better suited for ship life than the wily goat, and
the traditions of the navy are jocund with quaint stories of this
animal. Once in the good old days of tarpauling hats and true-lover's
knots, a famous ship's company owned one that fell into evil ways, such
as chewing tobacco, drinking grog, and challenging the best men in the
ship to butting-matches. Indeed, he became a very rakish, swashbuckling,
timber-shivering goat, who lived long and not well, and died after a
prolonged debauch in a fit akin to what Jackie calls the "horrors."

Each day, by common consent, the men added a pint of water to the grog
tub, and regularly in his turn Bill came for his tot. At seasons, when
the master's mate of the spirit-room was disguised with over-much drink,
the goat, like his two-legged messmates, doubled on the tub, securing a
smuggled ration. He came to grief at last, for on an occasion when the
grog was stiff to his liking he got well to windward of the tub, charged
like a first boarder over a clear hammock rail at the mate and purser's
clerk, took possession of the marine bar, and got so gloriously fuddled,
so gloriously uncoo' fou, that he never recovered, but went overboard,
in a middle watch, through sheer despair and misery.

Another goat was the prized shipmate of one of our vessels wrecked on
the coast of India, fortunately in weather moderate enough to launch the
boats and rafts. Each man was detailed for his place, and allowed to
carry his bag of clothes or his hammock--no greater provision being
needed, as the shore was close aboard. As the men slowly lowered
themselves over the ship's side, the nanny-goat stood amongst the
waiting ones, watching her master, the ship's cook, who stood
irresolutely at the mast until his turn came. The cook was an old
sailor, and his kit was very valuable to him--it was probably all he
had in the world--but when his name was called, he dropped the bag, and
touched his hat, and said:

[Illustration: "IF YOU PLEASE, SIR, I CAN'T BEAR TO LEAVE NANNY
BEHIND."]

"If you please, sir, I can't bear to leave Nanny behind. I'll take her
instead of the bag, for there isn't room for both." And then,
appealingly, "Can I, sir?"

Nanny went over the side and landed with him, marched by him through the
desert, and when relief came bleated her enjoyment in a way that repaid
him for the sacrifice. For many years she browsed among the scrap-heaps
and rare grass-plots of the Brooklyn Navy-Yard, where, surrounded by a
numerous progeny, she doubtless told, with many butts, the yarn of the
day when her cook and master saved her up Mozambique way.

I remember some pets of my sea-going days, cherished in life and mourned
in death. One was a scraggy hen, of no known breed, raised in Polynesia,
and given to one of our officers by a native woman in Nukahiva. Her
abnormal thinness saved her from the steward's knife in the early days
at sea; but finally all hopes of fattening her failed, and she was
doomed for a ward-room ragout. One of the men, a queer character in his
way, who had made a study of chickens, begged permission to keep her,
and as we had fresh grub enough, Nell, as he called her, was saved. In a
little while it was more dangerous than a Grain Coast _fetich_ or a
Hawaiian _taboo_ to harm her, and Nell thrived and flourished.

She was carried through all the islands down to New Zealand and
Australia, and back to Chili and Peru, improving daily, and displaying
an intelligence that was marvellous. She was the queen-regnant of the
coop, when she deigned to enter it, and was as jealous of her
prerogatives as the King of Yvetot. Her cackle proclaimed the daylight,
and then there was a row if Jemmy Ducks, guardian and feeder of sea
poultry from time immemorial, didn't hobble aft to give her a morning
ramble to leeward. The first of the corn and water was hers, and having
the coigne of vantage beyond the coop bars, all the lesser chickens,
save some favored chanticleer, suffered.

She displayed a passion for bananas and yams, had strong marked personal
likes and dislikes, and though coquettish, manifested an affection that
was not hampered by official rank, but ran by a descending scale of
years--a white-haired quartermaster possessing more than a tender spot
in her capacious heart, while the ship's boys were held in a contempt
beyond expression. The men vowed by all the pet warrantees of their
profession that she whistled and talked, and I know she was as good a
storm-glass as any standard instrument on shipboard. Her favorite roost
was over the ward-room skylight, her chosen time the dinner hour, and
there she would perch, eying with respectful familiarity the senior
lieutenant. Her interest gradually increased as the dessert stage
approached, the appearance of the fruit awaking a cooing, beseeching
cackle that invariably brought her the ripest banana or the juiciest
mango.

She often kept the deck officers company in the middle watches, dozing
to leeward of the mast until the bell struck, when she would straighten
with an assertive air, as if she had never slept, and cooed a warning
hail to the lookouts.

Poor Nell died during the Darien survey, from indigestion and old age,
and when she was carried ashore for burial, in the neat coffin Chips,
the Scotch carpenter's mate, had fashioned for her, we all felt that she
had made a place in our lives and memories that some day deserved a
record.




A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[1]

[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 868.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER IV.


Before daybreak the next morning George came down stairs, Billy following
with his portmanteau. Madam Washington, little Betty, and all the
house-servants were up and dressed, but it was thought best not to waken
the three little boys, who slept on comfortably in their trundle-beds.
The candles were lighted, and for the last time for two months--which
seems long to the young--George had family prayers. His mother then took
the book from him and read the prayers for travellers about to start on
a journey. She was quite composed, for no woman ever surpassed Madam
Washington in self-control; but little Betty still wept, and would not
leave George's side even while he ate his breakfast. There had been some
talk of Betty's going to Mount Vernon also for Christmas; and George,
remembering this, asked his mother, as a last favor, that she would let
Betty meet him there, whence he could bring her home. Madam Washington
agreed, and this quickly dried Betty's tears. Billy acted in a
mysterious manner. Instead of being in vociferous distress, he was
quiet, and even cheerful--so much so that a grin discovered itself on
his countenance, which was promptly banished as soon as he saw Madam
Washington's clear stern eyes travelling his way. George, feeling for
poor Billy's loneliness, had determined to leave Rattler behind for
company; but both Billy and Rattler were to cross the ferry with him,
the one to bring the horse back, and the other for a last glimpse of his
master.

The parting was not so mournful, therefore, as it promised to be. George
went into the chamber where his three little brothers slept, who were
not wide awake enough to feel much regret at his departure. The servants
all came out, and he shook the hand of each, especially Uncle Jasper's,
while Aunt Sukey embraced him. His mother kissed him and solemnly
blessed him, and the procession started. George mounted his own horse,
while Betty, seated pillion-wise behind him, was to ride with him to the
ferry. Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey walked as far as the gate; and Billy,
with Rattler at his heels and the portmanteau on his head, started off
on a brisk run down the road.

"And it won't be long until Christmas," said George, turning in his
saddle and pressing Betty's arm that was around him, as they galloped
along briskly; "and if I have a chance of sending a letter, I will write
you one. Think, Betty, you will have a letter all to yourself! You have
never had one, I know."

"I never had a letter all to myself," answered Betty. For that was
before the days of cheap postage, or postage at all as it is now, and
letters were precious treasures.

"And it will be very fine at Mount Vernon--ladies, and even girls like
you, wearing hoops, and dancing minuets every evening, while Black Tubal
and Squirrel Tom play their fiddles."

"I like minuets well enough, but I like jigs and rigadoons better; and
mother will not let me wear a hoop. But I am to have her white sarcenet
silk made over for me. That I know."

"You must practise on the harpsichord very much, Betty; for at Mount
Vernon there is one, and brother Laurence and his wife will want you to
play before company."

Mistress Betty was not averse to showing off her great accomplishment,
and received this very complaisantly. Altogether, what with the letter
and the white sarcenet, she began to take a hopeful rather than a
despairing view of the coming two months.

[Illustration: GEORGE BIDS BETTY GOOD-BY, AND STARTS FOR THE FERRY.]

Arrived within sight of the ferry, George stopped, and lifted Betty off
the horse. There was a foot-path across the fields to the house, which
made it but a short walk back, which Betty could take alone. The brother
and sister gave each other one long and silent embrace--for they loved
each other very dearly--and then, without a word, Betty climbed over the
fence and walked rapidly homeward, while George made for the ferry,
where Billy and the portmanteau awaited him. One of the small boats and
two ferrymen, Yellow Dick and <DW71>, took him across the river. The
horse was to be carried across for George to ride to the inn where Lord
Fairfax awaited him, and Billy was to take the horse back again.

The flush of the dawn was on the river when the boat pushed off, and
George thought he had never seen it lovelier; but like most healthy
young creatures on pleasure bent, he had no sentimental regrets. The
thing he minded most was leaving Billy, because he was afraid the boy
would be in constant trouble until his return. But Billy seemed to take
it so debonairly that George concluded the boy had at last got over his
strong disinclination to work for or think of anybody except "Marse
George."

The boat shot rapidly through the water, rowed by the stalwart ferrymen,
and George was soon on the opposite shore. He bade good-by to Yellow
Dick and <DW71>, and mounting his horse, with Billy still trotting ahead
with the portmanteau, rode off through the quaint old town to the
tavern. It was a long low building at the corner of two straggling
streets, and signs of the impending departure of a distinguished guest
were not wanting. Captain Benson, a militia officer, kept the tavern,
and, in honor of the Earl of Fairfax, had donned a rusty uniform, and
was going back and forth between the stable and the kitchen, first
looking after his lordship's breakfast, and then after his lordship's
horses' breakfasts. He came bustling out when George rode up.

"Good-morning, Mr. Washington. 'Light, sir, 'light. I understand you are
going to Greenway Court with his lordship. He is now at his breakfast.
Will you please to walk in?"

"No, I thank you, sir," responded George. "If you will kindly mention to
Lord Fairfax that I am here, you will oblige me."

"Certainly, sir, certainly," cried Captain Benson, disappearing in the
house.

The travelling-chariot was out and the horses were being put to it under
the coachman's superintendence, while old Lance was looking after the
luggage. He came up to George, and giving him the military salute, asked
for Mr. Washington's portmanteau. George could scarcely realize that he
was going until he saw it safely stowed along with the Earl's under the
box-seat. He then determined to send Billy off before the Earl made his
appearance, for fear of a terrible commotion, after all, when Billy had
to face the final parting.

"Now, Billy," said George to him, very earnestly, "you will not give my
mother so much trouble as you used to, but do as you are told, and it
will be better for you."

"Yes, suh," answered Billy, looking in George's eyes without winking.

"And here is a crown for you," said George, slipping one into Billy's
hand--poor George had only a few crowns in a purse little Betty had
knitted for him. "Now mount the horse and go home. Good-by, Rattler
boy--all of Lord Fairfax's dogs, of every kind, shall not make me forget
you."

Billy, without the smallest evidence of grief, but with rather a twinkle
in his beady eyes, shook his young master's hand, jumped on the horse,
and whistling to Rattler, all three of George's friends disappeared down
the village street. George looked after them for some minutes, and
sighed at what was before Billy, but comforted himself by recalling the
boy's sensible behavior in the matter of the parting. In a few moments
Lord Fairfax came out. George went up the steps to the porch, and making
his best bow, tried to say how much he felt the Earl's kindness. True
gratitude is not always glib, and was not with George, but the Earl saw
from the boy's face the intense pleasure he experienced.

"You will sit with me, Mr. Washington," said Lord Fairfax, "and when
you are tired of the chariot I will have one of my outriders give you a
horse, and have him ride the wheel-horse."

"Anything that your lordship pleases," was George's polite reply.

The Earl bade a dignified farewell to Captain Benson, who escorted him
to the coach, and in a little while, with George by his side and the
outriders ahead, they were jolting along towards the open country.

The Earl talked a little for the first hour or two, pointing out objects
in the landscape, and telling interesting facts concerning them, which
George had never known before. After awhile, though, he took down two
books from a kind of shelf in the front of the coach, and handing one to
George, said:

"Here is a volume of the _Spectator_. You will find both profit and
pleasure in it. Thirty years ago the _Spectator_ was the talk of the
day. It ruled London clubs and drawing-rooms, and its influence was not
unfelt in politics."

The other book, George saw, was an edition of Horace in the original. As
soon as the Earl opened it he became absorbed in it.

Not so with George and the _Spectator_. Although fond of reading, and
shrewd enough to see that the Earl would have but a low opinion of a boy
who could not find resources in books, what was passing before him was
too novel and interesting, to a boy who had been so little away from
home, to divide his attention with anything. The highway was fairly
good, but the four roans took the road at such a rattling gait that the
heavy chariot rolled and bumped and lurched like a ship at sea. So well
made was it, though, and so perfect the harness, that not a bolt, a nut,
or a strap gave way. The country for the first thirty miles was not
unlike what George was accustomed to, but his keen eyes saw some
difference as they proceeded towards the northwest. The day was bright
and beautiful, a sharper air succeeding the soft Indian-summer of the
few days preceding. The cavalcade made a vast dust, clatter, and
commotion. Every homestead they passed was aroused, and people, white
and black, came running out to see the procession. George enjoyed the
coach very much at first, but he soon began to wish that he were on the
back of one of the stout nags that rode ahead, and determined, as soon
as they stopped for dinner, to take advantage of Lord Fairfax's offer
and to ask to ride.

They had started soon after sunrise, and twelve o'clock found them more
than twenty-five miles from Fredericksburg. They stopped at a road-side
tavern for dinner and some hours' rest. The tavern was large and
comfortable, and boasted the luxury of a private room, where dinner was
served to the Earl and his young guest. When the time came to start
George made his request that he be allowed to ride a horse, and he was
immediately given his choice of the four bays. "Do not feel obliged to
regulate your pace by ours," said the Earl. "We are to sleep to-night at
Farley's tavern, only twenty miles from here, and so you present
yourself by sundown it is enough."

George mounted and rode off. He found the bay well rested by his two
hours' halt, and ready for his work. He felt so much freer and happier
on horseback than in the chariot that he could not help wishing he could
make the rest of the journey in that way. He reached Farley's tavern
some time before sundown, and his arrival giving advance notice of the
Earl, everything was ready for him, even to a fine wild turkey roasting
on the kitchen spit for supper. Like most of the road-houses of that
day, Farley's was spacious and comfortable, though not luxurious. There
was a private room there, too, with a roaring fire of hickory logs on
the hearth, for the night had grown colder. At supper, when there was
time to spare, old Lance produced a box, out of which he took some
handsome table furniture and a pair of tall silver candlesticks. The
supper was brought in smoking hot, Lance bearing aloft the wild turkey
on a vast platter. He also brought forth a bottle of wine of superior
vintage to anything in the tavern cellar.

The Earl narrowly watched George as they supped together, talking
meanwhile. He rightly judged that table manners and deportment are a
very fair test of one's training in the niceties of life, and was more
than ever pleased the closer he observed the boy. First, George proved
himself a skilful carver, and carved the turkey with the utmost
dexterity. This was an accomplishment carefully taught him by his
mother. Then, although he had the ravenous appetite of a
fifteen-year-old boy after a long day's travel, he did not forget to be
polite and attentive to the Earl, who trifled with his supper rather
than ate it. The boy took one glass of wine, and declined having his
glass refilled. His conversation was chiefly replies to questions, which
were so apt that the Earl every moment liked his young guest better and
better. George was quite unconscious of the deep attention with which
Lord Fairfax observed him. He thought he had been asked to Greenway out
of pure good-nature, and rather wished to keep in the background, so he
should not make his host repent his hospitality. But a feeling far
deeper than mere good-nature inspired the Earl. He felt a profound
interest in the boy, and was enough of a judge of human nature to see
that something remarkable might be expected of him.

Soon after supper occurred the first inelegance on George's part. In the
midst of a sentence of the Earl's the boy suddenly and involuntarily
gave a wide yawn. He  furiously; but Lord Fairfax burst into one
of his rare laughs, and calling Lance, directed him to show Mr.
Washington to his room. George was perfectly willing to go; but when
Lance, taking one of the tall candlesticks, showed him his room, his
eyes suddenly came wide open, and the idea that Lance could tell him all
about the siege of Bouchain, and marching and starving and fighting with
Marlborough, drove the sleep from his eyes like the beating of a drum.

Reaching the room, Lance put the candle on the dressing-table, and
standing at "attention," asked,

"Anything else, sir?"

"Yes," said George, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "How long
will it be before my Lord Fairfax needs you?"

"About two hours, sir. His lordship sits late."

"Then--then--" continued George, with a little diffidence, "I wish you
would tell me something about campaigning with the Duke of Marlborough
and Prince Eugene, and all about the siege of Bouchain."

Lance's strong, weather-beaten face was suddenly illuminated with a
light that George had not seen on it before, and his soldierly figure
unconsciously took a more military pose.

"'Tis a long story, sir," he said, "and I was only a youngster and a
private soldier; it is thirty-five years gone now."

"That's why I want you to tell it," replied George. "All the books are
written by the officers, but never a word have I heard from a man in the
ranks. I have read the life of the great Duke of Marlborough, and also
of Prince Eugene, but it is a different thing to hear a man tell of the
wars who has burned powder in them."

"True, sir. And the Duke of Marlborough was the greatest soldier of our
time. We have the Duke of Cumberland now--a brave general, sir, and
brother to the King--but, I warrant, had he been at the siege of
Bouchain and in the Low Countries, he would have been licked worse than
Marshal Villars."

"And Marshal Villars was a very skilful general too," said George, now
thoroughly wide awake.

"Certainly, sir, he was. The French are but a mean-looking set of
fellows, but how they can fight! And they have the best legs of any
soldiers in Europe; and I am not so sure they have not the best heads. I
fought 'em for twenty-five years--for I only quitted the service when I
came with my Lord Fairfax to this new country--and I ought to know. My
time of enlistment was up, the great Duke was dead, and there had been
peace for so long that I thought soldiers in Europe had forgot to fight;
so when his Lordship offered to bring me, I, who had neither wife nor
child, nor father nor mother, nor brother nor sister, was glad to come
with him. I had served in his Lordship's regiment, and he knew me,
because I had once-- But never mind that, sir."

"No," cried George. "Go on."

"Well, sir," said Lance, looking sheepish, "I shouldn't have spoke of
it, but the fact is that once when we were transporting powder from the
magazine the wagon broke down and a case exploded. It was a miracle that
all of us were not killed; three poor fellows were marked for life, and
retired on two shillings a day for it. There were plenty of sparks lying
around, and I put some of them out, and we saved the rest of the powder.
That's all, sir."

"I understand," answered George, smiling. "It was a gallant thing, and
no doubt you saved some lives as well as some powder."

"Maybe so, sir," said Lance, a dull red showing under the tan and
sunburn of more than fifty years. "My Lord Fairfax made more of it than
'twas worth. So, when he had left the army, and I thought he had forgot
me, he wrote and asked if I would come to America with him, and I came.
Often, in the winter-time, the Earl does not see a white face for
months, except mine, and then he forgets that we are master and man, and
only remembers that he is my old commander and I am an old soldier. The
Earl was a young cornet in 1710-12, and was with the armies in the Low
Countries, where we had given Marshal Villars a trouncing, and he gave
Prince Eugene a trouncing back, in exchange. So, sometimes, of the long
winter nights, the Earl sends for me, and reads to me out of books about
that last campaign of the Duke of Marlborough's, and says to me, 'Lance,
how was this?' and, 'Lance, do you recollect that?' Being only a
soldier, I never did know what we were marching and counter-marching
for, nor so much as what we were fighting for; but when the Earl asks me
what we were doing when we marched from Lens to Aire, or from Arleux to
Bachuel, I can tell him all about the march--whether 'twas in fine or
rainy weather, and how we got across the rivers, and what rations we
had; we often did not have any, and the mounseers were not much better
off. But, Mr. Washington, a Frenchman's stomach is not like an
Englishman's. He can sup on soupe maigre and lentils after a hard day's
march, and then get up and shake a leg while another fellow fiddles. But
an Englishman has to have his beef, sir, and bacon and greens, and a
good thick porridge with beans in it. I think all the nourishment the
Frenchmen get goes into their legs, for they will march day and night
for their Grand Monarque, as they call him, and are always ready to
fight."

"I hope we shall not have to fight the French up in Pennsylvania to make
them keep their boundaries," said George, after a while, in a tone which
plainly meant that he hoped very much they would have to fight, and that
he would be in the thick of the scrimmage. "And now tell me how the Duke
of Marlborough looked in action, and all about Prince Eugene and the
siege of Bouchain, until it is time to go to the Earl. But first sit
down, for you have had a hard day's travel."

"Thank you, sir," said Lance, sitting down stiffly, and snuffing the
candle with his fingers.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




RICK DALE.

BY KIRK MUNROE,

AUTHOR OF "SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "THE 'MATE'
SERIES," "FLAMINGO FEATHER," ETC.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

BONNY DISCOVERS HIS FRIEND THE TRAMP.


It was late in the afternoon when the train reached Tacoma, and the
logging boss discovered that the lads whom he had been especially
instructed to bring with him had disappeared. As he could not imagine
any reason why they should do such a thing, he was thoroughly
bewildered, and waited about the station for some minutes, expecting
them to turn up. He inquired of the train hands and other employees if
they had seen anything of such boys as he described, but could gain no
information concerning them.

The revenue officer was merely an acquaintance whom he had met by chance
on the train, and who now waited a few minutes to see how this affair
would turn out. Finally he said:

"Well, Linton, I'm sorry I can't help you, but I really must be getting
along. I hope, though, you won't have any such trouble with your missing
lads as we had in trying to catch two young rascals of smugglers, whom
we lost right here in Tacoma last summer. We wanted them as witnesses,
and thought we had our hands on them half a dozen times; but they
finally gave us the slip, and the case in which they were expected to
testify was dismissed for want of evidence. Good-by."

Thus left to his own devices, the boss could think of nothing better
than to call upon the police to aid him in recovering the missing boys,
and so powerful was the name of the President of the Northwest Lumber
Company, which he did not hesitate to use, that within an hour every
policeman in Tacoma was provided with their description, and instructed
to capture them if possible. In the hope that they would speedily
succeed in so doing, Mr. Linton delayed meeting the President, and
telegraphed that he could not reach the hotel to which he had been
directed to bring the boys before eight o'clock that evening.

In the mean time Alaric and Bonny, without an idea of the stir their
disappearance had created throughout the city, were snugly ensconced in
an empty freight car that stood within a hundred yards of the railway
station. They had dropped from the rear end of their train when it began
to slow down, and slipped into the freight car as a place of temporary
concealment while they discussed plans.

"We've got to get out of this town in a hurry, that's certain," said
Alaric, "and I propose that we make a start for San Francisco. You know,
I told you that was my home, and I still have some friends there, who, I
believe, will help us. The only thing is that I don't see how we can
travel so far without any money."

"That's easy enough," replied Bonny, "and I would guarantee to land you
there in good shape inside of a week. What worries me, though, is the
idea of going off and leaving all the money that is due us here. Just
think! there's thirty dollars owing to me as a hump-durgin driver,
thirty more as interpreter, and fully as much as that for being a
smuggler--nearly one hundred dollars in all. That's a terrible lot of
money, Rick Dale, and you know it as well as I do."

"Yes," replied Alaric; "if we had it now, we'd be all right. But I'll
tell you, Bonny, what I'll do. If you will get me to San Francisco
inside of a week, I promise that you shall have one hundred dollars the
day we arrive."

"I'll do it!" cried Bonny. "I know you are joking, of course, but I'll
do it just to see how you'll manage to crawl out of your bargain when we
get there. You mustn't expect to travel in a private car, though, with a
French cook, and three square meals a day thrown in."

"Yes, I do," laughed Alaric, "for I never travelled any other way."

"No, I know you haven't, any more'n I have; but just for a change, I
think we'd better try freight cars, riding on trucks, and perhaps once
in a while in a caboose, for this trip, with meals whenever we can catch
'em. We'll get there, though; I promise you that. Hello! I mustn't lose
that ball. We may want to have a game on the road."

This last remark was called forth by Alaric's baseball, which, becoming
uncomfortably bulgy in Bonny's pocket as he sat on the car floor, he had
taken out, and had been tossing from hand to hand as he talked. At
length it slipped from him, rolled across the car, and out of the open
door.

Bonny sprang after it, tossed it in to Alaric, and was about to clamber
back into the car, when, through the gathering gloom, he spied a
familiar figure standing in the glare of one of the station lights.

"Wait here a few minutes, Rick," he said, "while I go and find out when
our train starts."

With this he darted up the track, and a moment later advanced, with a
smile of recognition and extended hand, toward the stranger whom he had
so pitied in the logging camp the day before. The man still wore a
shabby suit, and the hat Bonny had given to him. He started at sight of
the lad, and exclaimed:

"How came you here so soon? I thought you weren't due until eight
o'clock?"

"How did you know we were coming at all?" asked Bonny, in amazement.

"Oh, that's a secret," laughed the other, instantly recovering his
self-possession, and assuming his manner of the day before. "We tramps
have a way of finding out things, you know."

"Yes, I've always heard so," replied Bonny, "and that's one reason why
I'm so glad to meet you again. I thought maybe you could help us."

"Us?" repeated the stranger. "Who is with you?"

"Only my chum, the other hump-durgin driver, you know."

"You mean Richard Dale?"

"Yes--only his name isn't Richard, but Alaric. I say, though, would you
mind stepping over in the shadow, where we won't be interrupted?"

"Certainly not," replied the other, with a quiet chuckle. "I expect it
will be better, for I'm not anxious to be recognized myself just now."

When they had reached what Bonny considered a safe place, he continued:

"You see, it's this way. My chum and I did a little business in the
smuggling line last summer, and got chased for it by the 'beaks.'"

"Just like 'em," growled the other.

"Yes," said Bonny, wrathfully. "We hadn't really done anything wrong,
you know; but they made us skip 'round lively, and came mighty near
catching us, too. We gave 'em the slip, though, and thought the whole
thing had blown over, till to-day, when they got after us again."

"Who did?"

"The revenue fellows. You see, the boss up at camp is one of 'em, and we
suspicioned something was wrong as soon as he told us we were wanted in
Tacoma. We were certain of it when we saw another revenue man, one of
the cutter's officers, join him on the train, and so we just gave them
the slip again, and have been hiding ever since over in that freight
car."

"Indeed!" remarked the stranger, interestedly. "And what do you propose
to do next?"

"That's what I'm coming to, and what we want you to help us about. You
see, my chum's folks live in San Francisco, and I rather think he ran
away from 'em, though he hasn't ever said so. Anyhow, he wants to get
back there, and as we haven't any money, we've got to beat our way, so I
thought maybe you could put us up to the racket, or, at any rate, tell
us when the first south-bound freight would pull out. Of course, you
understand, we've got to start as quick as we can, for it isn't safe for
us to be seen around here."

"Of course not," agreed the stranger, with another chuckle; for the
whole affair seemed to amuse him greatly. "But what are you going to do
for food? You'll be apt to get hungry before long."

"I am already," acknowledged Bonny; "and that was another thing I was
going to ask you about. I thought maybe you wouldn't mind giving us some
pointers from your own experience in picking up your three little square
meals a day when you were on the road."

At this point the stranger burst into what began like uncontrollable
laughter, but which proved to be only a severe fit of coughing. When it
was over he said, "Your name is Bonny Brooks, isn't it?"

"Yes; but don't speak so loud."

"All right, I won't. But, Bonny Brooks, you were mighty kind to me
yesterday--kinder than any one else has been for a long time.
By-the-way, did you bring my old hat with you?"

"No, of course not."

"No matter. I said I would redeem it, and I am going to do so by putting
you on to a mighty soft snap. I'm bound to the southward myself, and, as
it happens, there is a sort of a boarding-car going to pull out of here
for somewhere down the line in about half an hour. It is in charge of
the cook, and as he and I are on what you might call extra good terms,
he is going to let me ride with him as far as he goes. There won't be a
soul on board but him and me, unless I can persuade him to let you two
boys come along with us. What do you say?"

"I say you are a trump, and if you'll only work that racket for us, I'll
share half the money with you that I'm to get from Rick as soon as we
reach San Francisco."

"Oh ho! He is to give you money, is he?"

"Yes; that is, he has promised me one hundred dollars to make up for the
wages I leave behind, if I'll only get him there."

For the next half-hour that shabbily attired stranger was the busiest
man in Tacoma, and he kept a great many other people busy at the same
time. Finally, just as the boys were beginning to think he had forgotten
them, he appeared at the door of the freight car, and said, in a loud
whisper: "Come, quick. I think they are after you."

As the boys scrambled out, he started on a run toward a single car that,
with an engine attached, stood on a siding in the darkest corner of the
railroad yard. Here he hurriedly whispered to them to crouch low on its
rear platform until it started, when the cook would open the door. Then
he disappeared.

In another moment the car began to move, and directly afterward the door
was opened. There seemed to be no light in the interior, and, without
seeing any one, the boys heard a strange voice, evidently that of a
<DW64>, bidding them come in out of the cold.

They entered the car, Alaric going first, and were led through a narrow
passage into what was evidently a large compartment. They heard their
guide retreating through the passage, and were beginning to feel rather
uneasy, when suddenly they were surrounded and dazzled by a great flood
of electric light.


CHAPTER XI.

A FLOOD OF LIGHT.

[Illustration: ALARIC LOOKED, RUBBED HIS EYES, AND LOOKED AGAIN.]

As the brilliant light flooded the place where the boys stood, they were
for a minute blinded by its radiance. Bonny was bewildered and
frightened, and even Alaric was greatly startled. Gradually, as their
eyes grew accustomed to the brightness, they became aware of a single
figure standing before them, and regarding them curiously. Alaric
looked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Then he sprang forward with a
great shout.

"Dad! you dear old dad! I never was so glad to see any one in my life!"

"Rick! you young rascal!" cried Amos Todd. "How could you play your old
father such a trick? Never mind, though; you've won your game, and at
the same time made me the very happiest and proudest man on the coast
this night. Stand there, sir, and let me have a good look at you."

With this the proud father held his stalwart son off at arm's-length and
gazed at him with loving admiration.

"The very neatest trick I ever heard of--the most impudent, and the most
successful," he murmured. "But don't you ever be guilty of such a thing
again, you young smuggler."

"Indeed I won't, dad, for I know I shall never have any reason or desire
to repeat it," replied Alaric, promptly, his voice trembling with joyful
excitement. "But, dad, you mustn't forget Bonny; for whatever I have
gained or learned this past summer, I owe to him."

"God bless the lad! Indeed I will never forget what he has done both for
you and for me," cried Amos Todd, stepping forward, and seizing Bonny's
hand in a grasp that made him wince.

Poor bewildered Bonny, standing amid the glitter of silver and
plate-glass, surrounded by furnishings of such luxurious character as he
had never imagined could exist in real life, vaguely wondered whether he
were under the spell of some beautiful enchantment or merely dreaming.
There must be some reality to it all, though, for the stranger in the
shabby garments, whom he had befriended only the day before, and still
wearing the hat he had given him, was surely holding his hand and saying
very pleasant things. But who could he be? He certainly was not acting
like a tramp, or one who was greatly in need of charity.

Alaric came to the puzzled lad's relief. "He is my father, Mr. Amos
Todd," he cried. "And, Bonny, you will forgive me, won't you, for not
telling you before? You see, I was afraid to let even you know that I
was the son of a rich man, because I wanted you to like me for myself
alone."

"You know I do, Rick Dale! You know I do!" exclaimed Bonny, impulsively,
finding his voice at last. "But, Rick," he added, almost in a whisper,
"are you sure there isn't any mistake about it all? Amos Todd, you know,
is President of the Northwest Company, and the richest man on the coast.
They do say he is a millionaire."

"It's all right, Bonny. I expect he is a millionaire," answered Alaric,
joyously. "But we won't lay it up against him, will we? And we'll try
not to think any the less of him for it. I didn't know he was President
of the Northwest Company, though. Are you, dad?"

"I believe I am," laughed Amos Todd. "And I certainly have cause to be
grateful that I hold the office, for it was while making my official
inspection of the camps yesterday that I ran across you boys. I didn't
know you, though, Rick--'pon my word, I didn't. You bore a faint
resemblance to my little 'Allie' as you came riding those logs down the
skid-road, but I knew you couldn't be he, for I was certain that he was
on the other side of the world by this time. And so you shook the
Sontaggs, and let them run away from you. It was wrong, Rick, very
wrong, but I don't blame you--not one bit, I don't. I'd have done the
same thing myself."

"But, dad, how did you come to find me out? I don't understand it at
all."

"By your own letter to Esther, lad. She forwarded it to me in France;
but I had gone when it reached there, and so it was sent to San
Francisco. I left Margaret on the other side for the winter, and came
back by way of Montreal and the Canadian Pacific, intending to stop here
and inspect the lumber camps on my way home. I telegraphed John to send
this car and all my mail up here, and they came last night. As soon as I
read your letter I felt pretty certain that it was you whom I had seen
doing the circus act on those logs. I wasn't quite sure, though, and
didn't want to make any mistake, so I just sent word to Linton to fetch
you in, that I might take a good look at you."

"So it was you who sent for us?"

"Certainly. And you thought it was the revenue officers, and so decided
to give 'em the slip, and beat your way home to claim protection of your
old dad--eh, you rascal? And Bonny here took me for a fellow-tramp who
could put him on to the racket. Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! Oh my! I shall
die of laughing yet at thinking of it. It was all the hat, though,
wasn't it, Bonny? I hated to cut it up, for I only bought it in Paris
the other day, and hadn't another with me; but I wanted to inspect the
camp without being known, and it was the only disguise I could think of.
But, boys, what do you say to supper? If you are as hungry as I am, you
must be more than ready for it."

Indeed they were ready for supper, and when they sat down to that
daintily served meal in the exquisitely appointed dining-room of
President Todd's own private car, Bonny at last realized why Alaric had
ordered that strange lot of supplies for the sloop _Fancy_.

After supper they returned to the saloon, where Amos Todd lighted a
cigar, and listened to the wonderful story of trial and triumph,
privation and strange vicissitude, that had transformed his pale-faced
weakling into the strong, handsome, self-reliant youth upon whom he now
gazed so proudly. When the long story was ended, he asked, quietly,

"How much have you earned by your summer's work, son; and what have you
to show for it?"

"If you mean in money, dad, not one cent; and all I have to show,
besides what you've already noticed, is this." Here Alaric held out a
dilapidated baseball, at which his father gazed curiously. "With that
ball," continued Alaric, "I took my first lesson in being a boy, and it
has led me on from one thing to another ever since, until finally, this
very evening, it brought me back to you. So, dad, I should say that it
stood for my whole summer's work."

"I am thankful, Rick, that you haven't earned any money, and that
through bitter want of it you have learned its value," said Amos Todd.
"I am thankful, too, that there is still one thing for which you have to
come to your old dad. More than all am I thankful for what you have
gained without his help, or, rather, in spite of him; and had I known
last spring what that baseball was to do for you, I would gladly have
paid a million of dollars for it."

"You may have it now, dad, for one hundred, which is just the amount I
owe Bonny."

"Done!" cried Amos Todd; and thus he came into possession of the
well-worn baseball that, set in a plate of silver and enclosed in a
superb frame, hung above his private desk for many years afterwards.

Here our story properly ends, but we cannot help telling of two or three
things that happened soon after the disappearance of our hump-durgin
boys from camp No. 10, and as a direct result of their having lived
there. To begin with, Mr. Linton felt himself so insulted by the manner
in which President Todd made his inspection that he resigned his
position, and, on the recommendation of Alaric, Buck Raulet was given
his place. On the strength of this promotion the big "faller" went East
to marry the girl of his choice, and both Alaric and Bonny were present
at the wedding.

Through the liberality of Amos Todd, the ex-hump-durgin boys were
enabled to present the camp with their shack, converted into a neat
little library building and filled with carefully selected books, in
which the occupants of the camp are greatly pleased to discover many of
the tales already told to them by Rick Dale.

A certain famous and badly used up hat, carefully removed from the camp,
belongs to Bonny Brooks, and adorns a wall in one of a beautiful suite
of rooms that he and Alaric occupy together at Harvard. Here Alaric is
taking an academic course, while Bonny, whom Amos Todd regards almost as
an own son, is sturdily working his way through the mathematical and
chemical labyrinths of the Lawrence Scientific School. They entered the
university just one year after completing their studies as hump-durgin
boys; and while they were still Freshmen, the splendid baseball-player,
who, though only a Sophomore, was captain of the 'varsity nine, happened
to be badly in need of a catcher.

"I can tell you of one who can't be beat this side of the Rocky
Mountains," suggested his classmate and pitcher, Dave Carncross.

"Who is he?"

"Rick Todd, a Freshman."

"Son of Amos Todd, your San Francisco millionaire?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't want him. Millionaires' sons are no good."

"This one is, though," insisted Carncross; "and I ought to know, for I
taught him to catch his first ball. You just come over to Soldiers'
Field this afternoon and size him up."

The captain needed a first-class man behind the bat so badly that, in
spite of his prejudices, he consented to do as his pitcher desired. He
was amazed, delighted, and enthusiastic. Never had he seen such an
exhibition of ball-catching as was given by that Freshman. Finally he
could contain himself no longer, and rushing up to his classmate, he
exclaimed:

"Carncross, I tell you he's a wonder! Introduce me at once."

"Rick Todd," said Dave Carncross, "permit me to present you to my friend
Phil Ryder, captain of the 'varsity nine."

As the two lads grasped each other's hands, there came a flash of
recognition into each face, and both remembered where they had met each
other last.

THE END.




IN THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES.

THE EARL OF ESSEX AND HIS RING.

BY MRS. LEW. WALLACE.


The name of Queen Elizabeth is dear to loyal English hearts, and her
reign is named to-day as second only to that of the gentle and gracious
Victoria. She was strong and wise, ready to sacrifice small things for a
great end, and all things for the good of her subjects. The many
portraits of her I have seen are much like the pictures of George Eliot:
red hair, a pale high forehead, keen dark eyes, a nose hooked like the
beak of an eagle, sharp chin. Such is not the face to win admiration,
much less to waken love; yet, when nearly seventy--an age which no art
can conceal--she listened to the soft flatteries of her courtiers as
tributes to her beauty which they could not repress. When one shaded his
eyes at her approach, as though the lustre of her face dazzled his sight
like the sun, and said "he could not behold it with a fixed eye," she
was delighted with the foolish speech, as a young girl with the roses of
her first ball. One can hardly keep from laughing at the idea of
high-born youths of twenty-five or thirty hanging breathless on her
withered smiles and pretending worship of her charms. Such was her daily
portion from the shining train of courtiers surrounding her, and she
never tired of it. One said of her red hair: "A poet, madam, might call
it a golden web wrought by Minerva; but to my thinking it was paler than
even the purest gold--more like the last parting sunbeam of the softest
day of spring."

The great ruler never learned to rule her own spirit. She swore at her
maids of honor, and boxed the ears of the Lord-Lieutenant for appearing
before her in muddy boots, and sent him in disgrace to the Tower. She
vowed that England was her husband, whom she loved with a perfect love,
and she would have none other; she had wedded herself to the kingdom at
the coronation by the ring then placed upon her finger: in remembrance
thereof she wished engraved on her tombstone these words: "Here lies
Elizabeth, who lived and died a Maiden Queen."

There was another ring, of which I shall presently tell, more precious
than that which went with the crown, because life and death were in its
keeping.

It was her custom to select from her courtiers one on whom she lavished
a fickle love and transient favor. When the court was beginning to tire
of Raleigh, Leicester, a former favorite, introduced his step-son,
Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex, in hope of weakening the
influence of Raleigh. Essex was a spirited boy of seventeen, fresh from
Oxford, with handsome face and graceful mien. Clad in the pictorial
dress of the period, wearing crest and plume, badges and ribbons of
honor, he was a figure to claim the glance of a king as he greeted his
sovereign, and it is not strange that the susceptible virgin felt the
fascination of such a presence, although she was then fifty years old.

Before he was twenty he fought gallantly with the English army in
Holland, and was foremost in the battle of Zütphen, where Sir Philip
Sidney fell. On his return to court the Queen's fancy deepened into
dotage, and, fond and foolish, she would hardly let him quit her
presence. This became so irksome that he ran off to the war in Spain,
and refused to return when she sent an officer after him. When he was
pleased to come back she forgave all, and redoubled her favors in hope
of keeping the wanderer; but in a short time he again disappeared, and
secretly married the widow of Sir Philip Sidney. The Queen could never
endure the marriage of her courtiers, still less that of a favorite. She
banished him; but he reappeared in a few months, and only regained the
Queen's grace by neglecting his fair, sweet wife, who lived in seclusion
in the country while he shone at court.

When Essex was about twenty-nine years old he set out with the royal
army for Cadiz, and at parting Elizabeth gave him a ring, telling him,
"whatever crimes his enemies might accuse him of, or whatever offences
he may have committed against her, if he sent it to her she would
forgive him." The precious gift was probably a true-love-knot, set with
a gem that means unchanging; for the time was rich with sentiment in
trinkets, and we may be sure the compact was sealed with vows and kisses
on the proffered hand. He returned from Spain unsuccessful, and although
the Queen still petted him, from this time on they quarrelled. Essex was
haughty and insolent; and she, violent and exacting with him, yet
forgiving in the end.

When she decided to appoint a Lord-Deputy for Ireland, then in a state
of revolt, she called to her private room three of her court
officers--Cecil, the Clerk of the Seal, and Essex. He expected the
appointment, but failed to get it, spoke angrily to the Queen, and
turned his back on her. She boxed his ears, and told him to "go and be
hanged." So furious was he that his hand reached for his short sword,
but Cecil stepped between them; and Essex said, with an oath, "that he
would not have taken that blow from King Henry, her father, and it was
an indignity he neither could nor would endure from any one." Then
muttering something about "a king in petticoats," he rushed madly from
her presence. In any one else such conduct would have been death.

Again the Earl disappeared from court, and he and Elizabeth never were
good friends afterwards, although a peace was patched up, and she made
him Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. His enemies persuaded her that the
Lord-Lieutenant wanted to make himself King of Ireland; spies were sent
to watch him, but one of them was kind enough to warn Essex of his
danger. With his usual rashness, on learning this he at once returned to
London, without permission of the Queen--an act in itself treason--and
finding court adjourned to "Nonesuch" in the country, he rode at speed
through mud and mire to anticipate his enemy, Lord Gray, who had heard
of his arrival, and started in haste to give his version of the affair
before Essex could reach her. Gray had been closeted with the Queen's
councillors a half-hour when he arrived. Hearing this, Essex lost all
sense of propriety, hurried unannounced to the Queen's apartments, and
not finding her in the outer reception-room, pushed on into her private
bedroom. Her maid was combing her hair, which, gray and thin, was
hanging about her bony shoulders--for she had not yet made choice of her
eighty wigs of many colors for the day--nor were her paint and powder
on, and patches pasted over the wrinkled cheek.

He threw himself at her feet, covered her hand with kisses, poured out
his story with oaths of fidelity, vowing that he had ever borne in his
heart the picture of her beauty, completely winning the "most sweet
Queen" to him. He retired to dress, and in an hour was recalled to an
audience, and was again well received. But by night the fitful maiden
had changed her mind, influenced by the Cecil faction, and perhaps by
thinking how ugly she must have looked in the morning. She was then
sixty-eight years old, and as vain as in youth. When he again offered
respectful homage she received him with great sternness, and commanded
him to confine himself in his apartments until sent for to appear before
her council the following day. His ever-active enemy Cecil brought
against him many charges--not least, "his over-bold going to her
Majesty's presence in her bedchamber."

[Illustration: QUEEN ELIZABETH.]

The Queen then ordered him to be held a prisoner at York House, where he
remained many months. He pretended to be sick--a trick he had to gain
forgiveness when his royal mistress was out of humor; but it did not
move her this time, although it soon became reality. His wife was not
permitted to visit him, nor even write to him. He had only one true
friend at court, the gentle Lady Scroope, his cousin, and sister of the
Countess of Nottingham. She wore mourning for him, and endured bad
treatment from Elizabeth on his account, but stood faithful to the end.

Yet the lovesick woman could not entirely banish thought of her proud
favorite, although her mind was constantly filled with suspicions by
Cecil and Raleigh. To forget him she had bear-baitings, jousts at the
ring, and a splendid tourney in honor of her coronation day. These
frivolities filled the weeks that poor Essex passed alone and wretched
in one room at York House. Elizabeth would not listen to the prayers of
his sisters and Lady Scroope for his release, but she accepted the
costly presents they offered, among them a gown worth £500 (about
$2500). Essex finally fell so ill that his life was despaired of. On
hearing his pitiable state the Queen wept, and sent him her own
physician, and had prayers read for him in all the churches of London,
but something changed her mood again, and she was harsher than ever. Not
until March 16, 1600, did she allow him to go to his own home, Essex
House on the river and the Fleet, first sending away his family and all
the servants but two. Essex was kept there prisoner for seventeen weeks,
when the Queen removed his keeper and allowed him to become a prisoner
on parole.

During this time he was examined before a commission of his enemies,
appointed for the purpose, and was treated most cruelly. They let him
stand, occasionally leaning for rest against a cupboard, from nine in
the morning till eight at night; and when accused of treason, he
replied:

"I should do God and mine own conscience wrong if I do not justify
myself as an honest man. This hand shall pull out this heart when any
disloyal thought shall enter it."

The following August his tyrant again summoned him to York House, where
he was told that her Majesty was pleased to give him his liberty, but he
must not enter her presence nor come to court. Though free, he was
constantly spied upon. Through the remainder of the summer his friends
appealed to the Queen to restore him to favor. Essex wrote her imploring
letters, that brought no answer. He brooded over his fall and loss of
power, until he grew desperate, and gathered about him at Essex House
all the disaffected people of London, among them a host of Puritans.
They formed many wild schemes--at one time a plan to capture the Tower
and palace; at another, to march to the court and compel Essex's enemies
to give him a hearing. The Queen remained cold and silent. He talked of
her and of his own wrongs, and said "she was an old woman crooked both
in body and in mind." Sir Walter Raleigh insisted that this speech
sealed his doom; for spies reported everything he said and did.

His last piece of folly was to raise a riot one morning in the streets
of London with three hundred followers, declaring that "the kingdom was
sold to Spain by Cecil and Raleigh." The mob was quickly dispersed, and
Essex slipped back to his house alone in a small boat. He had shut up as
prisoners there some officers of the court who had been sent to talk
with him and bring him to reason. He had hoped to secure his own safety
by giving these as hostages, but Sir Ferdinando Georges, one of his own
men, had liberated them, and as he had already been proclaimed traitor,
there was nothing to be done but to barricade the house. It was
surrounded by the Queen's troops, and he held out till 10 o'clock at
night, and only surrendered then because "he was sore vexed with the
tears and incessant screams of the ladies." He was confined that night
in Lambeth Palace, and on Monday, February 9, 1601, together with his
followers, was taken to the Tower. When the boat glided through the
Traitors' Gate beneath St. Thomas's Tower, he must have realized the
hopelessness of his case, for those who went in by that low dark tunnel
rarely came out again.

The apartment to which he was committed was only nineteen feet in
diameter, the walls eleven feet thick, and, in memory of the chivalric
Earl, it is to this day called Devereux Tower. When he passed the
ponderous door his brightness of soul was yet undimmed, but a short
while in that chill lone chamber would subdue it to silence if not to
resignation. Love of life cannot long endure in such a prison, and rapid
changes in the career of soldier, statesman, courtier, had taught him
the uncertainty of fortune which hangs on the caprice of king or queen.

On the 19th of the same month he and Southampton were brought to trial,
and, as usual, he was unfairly treated. Even Lord Bacon, to whom he had
given an estate, and who was not of the Queen's counsels, appeared
against him. One lawyer compared him to a crocodile; another called him
an atheist and <DW7>, when it was well known he was a Puritan. The
trial lasted from nine o'clock in the morning to six o'clock in the
evening. He was sentenced to death, and on hearing it, said: "I am not a
whit dismayed to receive this doom. Death is welcome to me as life. Let
my poor quarters, which have done her Majesty true service in divers
parts of the world, be sacrificed and disposed of at her pleasure."

As he marched through the streets to the Tower, with the edge of the
headsman's axe carried toward him--the custom when prisoners were
condemned to die--he walked swiftly, with his head hanging down, and
made no answers to persons who frequently spoke to him from the crowds.
He was allowed six more days to prepare for death. It is said that
Elizabeth signed his death-warrant firmly, and with even more than the
customary flourishes, but she wept and hesitated about appointing the
execution.

[Illustration: AUTOGRAPH OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.]

Meanwhile where was the gay gold ring given to him in the bloom of his
youth, as he marched to Spain with the beauty of banners and roll of
drums, under no shadow deeper than the folds of the royal standard? Many
times Essex must have looked at the amulet, and in the long, slow
waiting sickened for gracious message or friendly sign, but none came.
And Elizabeth, too, must have wondered what had become of the token; and
why did not he, so wildly loved and deeply mourned, send the pledge and
claim the pardon?

Early one morning while this time was passing, not knowing whom to
trust, he chanced to see from his window, which overlooked the street, a
lad with an honest, open face, which so pleased him it won his
confidence. He managed to throw down a small bribe and the ring, and
told him to take it to his good cousin Lady Scroope, and she would send
it to the Queen. The boy took the keepsake, but gave it into the hand of
the wife of one of Essex's worst enemies, the Countess of Nottingham,
who passed it to her husband.

[Illustration: ESSEX AT THE TIME OF HIS EXECUTION.]

How terrible must have been the suspense of Essex, for, in spite of
everything, he trusted the word of his sovereign. The day broke that was
to see his execution. Still no sign of pardon or reprieve. Calmly he
prepared for death, and dressed with his usual care and elegance. He
wore a long black cloak of wrought velvet over a satin suit, which
consisted of a doublet of brocade with ruffles of lace in the sleeves, a
silken scarf confining it at the waist, short breeches of satin, silken
hose, and leather buskins. Usually with this costume a jewelled sword
was worn, and an immense ruff of lace around the neck. On this occasion
both were omitted. His picture shows a well-turned head, with dark
curling hair, straight nose, brown eyes, a mustache, and the pointed
beard affected at that period.

Essex had begged as a last privilege that he might have a private
execution. The poor petition was granted, and he was permitted to suffer
death on Tower Hill. The Earl was then in his summer prime--only
thirty-three years of age. Valor, beauty, fortune had been his from
birth, but failed to avert his fate. The place of execution was hallowed
by the best blood of England, and there two fair queens had laid their
young heads on the block to satisfy the brutal rage of Elizabeth's
father.

Ash-Wednesday, February 25, 1601, at 8 o'clock in the morning, he was
led to the fatal block. As he knelt to place his head in position he
showed no fear, and three strokes of the axe, the first one mortal,
severed his head from his body. They were buried in the Tower Chapel,
though some believed the Queen kept the skull in her own private room.
Notwithstanding it was a cold gloomy day, one hundred gentlemen sat near
the scaffold, and Sir Walter Raleigh secretly watched the execution from
a window of the armory, little thinking that thirteen years later he
would meet the same fate in the same place. During this tragedy Queen
Elizabeth amused herself playing on the spinet. But there came an hour
of repentance bitter as death.

About two years afterward the Countess of Nottingham was taken with an
illness, which proved her last. She begged to see the Queen; she could
not die in peace without it. Elizabeth came, and when the Countess
confessed having kept the ring of Essex, the Queen wept, and then flew
into a fury, and shook the dying woman in her bed, crying, "God may
forgive you, but I never can!"

This disclosure affected her so she could neither sleep nor eat. The
dreadful secret pressed on her soul, and the old love and longing came
back with remorse for tenderness turned to hate.

Dreams of Devereux in his morning beauty kneeling at her feet must have
risen to her sight. The hand whose touch had made her pulses quicken,
that never drew sword except for England's glory, was laid low; the
brilliant nobleman--a headless corpse--was buried among criminals in
Tower Chapel, when a word from her would have saved him.

Who may tell her anguish when she lay on the palace floor ten days and
nights, refusing to be comforted, haunted by memories of crime
unpardonable, till death came to close the scene?




FLOWER BORDERS.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.


"I tell you, Cousin Bess, there is everything in the way garden-beds are
arranged. There is that old couple who live next door, so old they have
to just hobble out to their flowers, and what do you suppose they've
done?"

"I have no idea, but if I may judge from your tone, something very
queer," and Cousin Bess laughed lightly, while she laid the book she had
been reading on the table, and then looked up at Charlie.

"Well, around each bed they've put white stones, just about the size of
this," and the boy picked up an ostrich egg, "and so close that one
stone touches the other."

"Have you never seen that before?"

"Never, Cousin Bess; but it makes their yard look fine; and as for
ours--well, the contrast is simply awful. I've come to you for points.
Our ramshackle fence and half-rotten flower-bed boards are too much. I
am ashamed, and simply will not let those two old people outstrip me.
I'm bound to go right ahead and even up with them if I can."

And Cousin Bess looked into the boy's eager face before she replied:
"That's a good resolution. I am glad to hear you say so." And then
followed the words:

  "'Go make thy garden fair as thou canst;
    Thou workest never alone;
  Perchance he whose plot is next to thine
    Will see it, and mend his own.'

"But pardon my moralizing. I know, Charlie, you are impatient to get to
work. Let's begin with the fence. Cover that with wild-cucumber vine."

"Plant it all around?"

"Oh no. Sow the seed, and almost before you will know it the fence will
be a mass of green foliage. And a few days later buds and blossoms will
appear, and the yard will be perfumed with sweet-scented flowers.

"Dig up your rotten bed-boards and burn them. Sow a narrow line of
sweet-alyssum along the edge. It is of easy culture, and will produce a
similar effect to your neighbor's white stones. Should you prefer a
complete change, however, edge your beds with low-growing coleus plants.
They come in many colors. I would advise bronze.

"You should also group your plants, putting the lilies all together, the
<DW29>s, the pinks, and so on. The old-time method of having a patch
here, a patch there, divided by other flowers, is not nearly as
effective as to mass them.

"The most unique, and also the most beautiful, small garden I ever saw
was at Cape Vincent. The owners were French people, and it was
altogether of blossoms. There was not a blade of grass nor a foot-path
visible anywhere. Nevertheless, there were spaces through which a single
individual might walk; but these were wellnigh hidden by the nodding
flowers. It was a perfect wilderness of bloom, and the air was laden
with sweetness.

"You may have just such a garden, and it will be a beautiful
enchantment. But you must be careful about blending complementary
colors, and also to place your tall and short plants effectively."




WILLIE'S LITTLE CELEBRATION.

(_As told in Letters from different Members of Willie's Family._)

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.


I.

FROM WILLIE'S SISTER TO WILLIE'S MOTHER.

  WASHINGTONVILLE, _July 4_.

     MY DEAREST MAMMA,--Something _awful_ has happened. Willie has been
     burned pretty nearly _all over_, I guess. You know, this is the
     Fourth of July, and we have had _such_ a time! You can't know how
     nervous I am, and I hope you will _never_ go away again and leave
     me to look after Willie when there is going to be a Fourth of July.
     He simply would _not_ mind one thing I said to him, just because he
     is a year and a half older than I am--the idea!--when he _knows_ I
     have better judgment than he has. Boys never have any judgment,
     anyhow, on Fourth of July--that's been my experience. Why, Willie's
     judgment was worse than Carlo's--_he_ knew enough to be scared, and
     Willie didn't. The poor dog just sat in the wood-shed all day and
     barked, and to-night he is so hoarse that I am going to put a
     flannel around his neck. And poor darling Miss Mouser, I don't know
     _where_ she is. I would be _very_ much alarmed about her if I
     hadn't seen two big yellow lights under the barn, which I _hope_
     and _trust_ were her eyes.

     Of course Aunt Lou helped me to look after Willie a good deal, but
     I'm very sorry to tell you that he didn't _always_ mind her. As for
     papa, I think he was 'most as bad as Willie. Not that he let off
     fire-crackers in his hat, or had any horrid fireworks go off in his
     pocket, but he would just let Willie go on awfully, and never say a
     word to him. But he _was_ frightened when Willie got burned. Oh, I
     almost forgot to tell you about _that_. I don't know how it
     _happened_ hardly, but there was a lot of boys and a _bushel_ of
     fire-crackers and torpedoes and fireworks and _everything_, and it
     all went off together, and Willie was right down in it. I was
     dreadfully frightened, and Aunt Lou screamed, and Carlo barked, and
     papa just took Willie by the collar and lifted him right out. We
     had _two_ doctors. Harry Austin got burned too, half an hour later,
     but I believe they had only one doctor. I must stop and go and look
     after Miss Mouser.

  Ever your loving little MOLLIE.


II.

FROM WILLIE'S AUNT LOU TO WILLIE'S MOTHER.

  WASHINGTONVILLE, _July 4_.

     MY DEAR SISTER,--I fear I cannot hold a pen to write, I am so
     nervous after all we have gone through with to-day. Willie began to
     celebrate at three o'clock this morning, and did not pause till
     five this afternoon, when there came near being a terrible
     accident. I do not know how it came about, but he was considerably,
     though not seriously, burned. I had been scolding him all day for
     his noise, but when he was brought in you may be sure I forgave him
     all. Poor little darling, I fear it hurt him a good deal. He is in
     the large bed, with three pillows, and I have been with him until
     just now. I must close, as he is asking for matches, and I must see
     that he does _not_ get them. Do not be alarmed, as we shall take
     the best care of him. Both Dr. Barlow and Dr. Strowbridge say that
     in a day or two he will be well. There! he must have got the
     matches, as a fire-cracker has gone off under the bed. I _must_
     stop. The boy will drive me mad.

  Your sister, LOUISE.


III.

FROM WILLIE'S FATHER TO WILLIE'S MOTHER.

     MY DEAR WIFE,--Let us be thankful to-night that we still have our
     darling Willie. Louise and Mollie have written you of the accident.
     Both doctors say he will soon be well. There was a large box full
     of explosives, and just as they went off Willie sat down in the
     box. Poor little fellow, it was a somewhat dismal ending for his
     day's sport--though I suspect that it has not yet wholly ended, as
     I hear explosions in the bedroom. I gave him some matches--he
     seemed so lonesome--but I did not know that he had any crackers. He
     must have induced Bridget to give him some. I must hurry down, or I
     shall have to send for the fire company instead of the doctor. As
     ever,

  YOUR LOVING HUSBAND.

[Illustration: WILLIE'S CONDITION BY NIGHTFALL.]


IV.

FROM WILLIE HIMSELF TO HIS MOTHER.

  WASHINGTONVILLE, _July 4_.

     DEAR MA,--I s'pose Sis and Aunt Lou and Pa have been writing you a
     lot of stuff about it all, but they get scared so easy. It wasn't
     anything. A lot of crackers and things went off in a box, but
     nobody wouldn't have paid any attention to it if I hadn't happened
     to be down in the box on my back. I got out all right. Pa helped a
     little. I thought he wasn't going to mind, but just because my
     clothes was smouldering, and maybe blazing a little in spots, he
     got excited, and called in 'bout a dozen doctors, and now they've
     got me bundled up with more'n twenty pillows. Aunt Lou encouraged
     him, and of course Sis cried, or I don't think he'd have had quite
     so many doctors.

     Anyhow, Ma, it was a rip-snorting day, and I wish Washington and
     those fellows had made it a week instead of a day. I tied a string
     to my toe and hung it out of the window for the milkman to pull,
     but I guess the cat or something got at it, and woke me up 'bout
     two or three o'clock; so I staid up, just to make sure. While I was
     dressing I let off a cracker or two, or maybe three, on the
     wood-shed roof, and I guess Aunt Lou knew it some way, as I could
     hear her in her room talking in her sleep. You ought to have been
     here, Ma, and had some fun.

     I gave the milkman one or two while he was looking for the string,
     and his horse got nervous, and I guess he had to chase him a little
     'fore he caught the cart, and I heard the cans rattle a good deal;
     but folks oughtn't to complain at a little rattling on the Fourth
     of July. Pa called out of his room that I was a nuisance, so I went
     down stairs and sat on the back stoop. In a little while I heard
     Bridget walking about the kitchen on torpedoes. She said might the
     Saints preserve her, and I guess they did, 'cause after a while we
     had breakfast. After breakfast Sis's cat went under the barn. I
     guess business must be good under there, 'cause she hasn't been out
     since.

     No use of my trying to tell you of everything that happened to-day.
     If Tommy Snyder hadn't pushed me I wouldn't have been down in the
     box when those things went off. A fire-cracker or two got into his
     jacket pocket somehow, and exploded there, and then he pushed me.
     He needn't have done so, either, 'cause it didn't make much noise
     in his pocket. Did you ever try putting a cracker in a fellow's
     pocket, Ma? The noise sounds kind of smothery. Pa didn't need to
     pull me out of that box, 'cause I was going to get out, anyhow.

     A policeman went by our house three times to-day, and every time he
     stopped and looked at me, I wasn't doing anything either time. Oh,
     I 'most forgot to tell you! You know what a <DW65>-chaser is, Ma?
     Well, Harry Austin said they wouldn't. I said they would. He said
     it was just a _name_ they had. I said, how did they get the name?
     We had just one left. You know Uncle Eben, who takes away our
     ashes? Well, he came along, going to a picnic. Ma, _it did_! I saw
     Uncle Eben talking to a policeman on the corner, and then the
     policeman came down and looked at us awhile. We wasn't doing
     anything. Did you know my waist burns better than my trousers? I
     think there must be better stuff in it. Pa put me out with a rug.

     I can't write much more to-night, 'cause they've just boosted me
     into bed. I could have got in myself, but Pa seemed to want to
     lift. Don't pay any attention to what he writes, nor Aunt Lou, or
     Sis. They are all scart. I think Carlo will have to gargle his
     throat with something, he has barked so much. I never saw a cat
     stick under a barn like Sis's has. I think if I was a big striped
     cat I could do better than stay under a dark barn on such a day as
     this. Aunt Lou said she wished to goodness she was small enough to
     get under the barn too, so I pried out another stone, and told her
     she could get under now, but I guess she didn't--at least I didn't
     miss her. I guess she was glad she didn't, too, 'cause if she had
     she wouldn't have seen me burn. My straw hat staid in the box, and
     it mostly went. Good-night. I hear the milkman and Uncle Eben
     talking very serious with Pa out at the gate. Guess they must be
     discussing politics. I must close. Don't worry about me, 'cause I'm
     all out and getting 'most cool.

  Your dutiful son, WILLIE.




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


The delegates to the National I.S.A.A.A.A. held a meeting in the evening
after the championship games, and transacted much important business.
One of the most prominent subjects of discussion was as to whether next
year's games should be held in New York or in some other city. The New
England delegation was strongly in favor of having the 1897 meeting in
Boston or Worcester, but finally accepted the arguments of the better
advised; and although they voted against New York on the first ballot,
the New England delegates subsequently proposed that the decision to
hold the games in this city be made unanimous.

Their principal argument in favor of having next year's meeting in some
other city was that the sports would take on too local a color if always
held in New York, and more of a national importance if held at the
headquarters of the different interscholastic leagues in turn. The
A.A.U. has tried this travelling championship business, and has found it
unsuccessful. I believe that in the future the A.A.U. championships will
be held in New York city, which will eventually become (even if in the
minds of outside residents it is not already) the metropolis of sport as
well as of commerce.

There is little doubt in the minds of impartial observers that New York
is in every respect the best city for any large meeting, such as that of
the National I.S.A.A.A.A. New York is easier of access to most of the
leagues than is Boston or Trenton or Hartford or Worcester or
Philadelphia. It would be out of the question, of course, to hold a
National meet in Iowa; but if the championships were made a movable
event there would be no just reason why Iowa should not have a chance to
welcome the teams as well as Maine or New Jersey. But how many Eastern
athletes would go to Cedar Rapids or Sioux City? Very few, I believe.

The reason for this is that Eastern athletes are not compelled to travel
to Iowa in order to get up a representative championship meeting,
because the majority of strong school teams are in the East. With the
Iowans, on the other hand, or with any of the school sportsmen of the
West, it is different. If they are the strongest team in their section
of the country, and believe themselves stronger than any other
scholastic team, they cannot prove this by challenging or inviting those
who have shown themselves to be record-makers to come to them; they must
seek out the Eastern athletes, and meet them on their own grounds.

Yale and Cornell have to go to Henley to row with English crews. They
may feel that they are stronger than the Englishmen, but the Britishers
are very well satisfied with their own rivers, and are content to race
their own crews. They welcome the Americans, and are glad to contend
against them; but they never would think of coming over here to race on
the Hudson. We are as young in college sports, when compared with
England, as the Iowa schools are young in interscholastic sport when
compared with Eastern institutions. To win at Henley means much both for
Englishmen and Americans. For an English crew to win at Poughkeepsie
would mean little to the English public. There would scarcely be a
paragraph about such a victory in the London dailies. In the same way
there would scarcely be a paragraph in the New York papers if the
National games were held in Cedar Rapids or Sioux City, because neither
of these cities is of national fame or importance.

Therefore it is the wisest plan to hold the National games in the
largest city of the land--in the city to which the dwellers of other
cities are always glad to come; in the city which affords the best
accommodations; in the city which can contribute the largest crowd (even
if it does not do so at first); in the city which can offer the greatest
entertainment; in the city where live the largest number of well-known
sportsmen. No other city of the United States can boast of so great a
number of amateur athletes as New York--men who have been famous when in
college, and who now take a lively interest as officials in the welfare
of sport. As one of these gentlemen said, on the day of the National
games, when one of the Boston delegation asked his opinion about the
location for next year's meet, "Crum is reported to have run the 100
yards, in 9-4/5 sec. in Iowa, but nobody believed it until he came to
New York and won the event at the Inter-collegiate games."

There is a great deal of truth in the suggestion implied in this remark.
If the National games were held out West somewhere, and all the
interscholastic records were broken, few people would take much stock in
the figures, because they would have but little confidence in the local
officials. Not that these local officials might not be just as good as
those of New York (although they probably could not be, for they are not
able to have as much experience), but the general public interested in
sport would not place full confidence in them, simply because those
officials would be unknown to them.

In this discussion I have purposely made the comparison between New York
and another city a comparison between New York and a Western city,
because I think it makes the argument clearer and more forcible. Many of
the objections to having the meet outside of New York would not hold for
Boston or Philadelphia--because both of these are large centres, and to
each of these cities New York officials of national importance and
reputation could easily be induced to go. But, as I said at the start,
it would not be fair to the other leagues in the National Association to
hold the meetings alternately at the homes of two or three of its
favored members. It would not be fair to Iowa and to Maine to hold the
meet alternately at Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. Unless the event
is held _always_ in the same place there is no reason why each league
should not have a chance to see the games on their own grounds, but, as
I have said before, very few Eastern athletes could be persuaded to
travel as far as the Iowans did to come here. Another reason, although a
minor one, why it is well to hold the meetings each year not only in the
same city but on the same grounds, is that the comparison between
records made is then an absolute one, the only error in the equation
being one of weather or temperature.

The question of grounds is an important one, and one that should be
discussed very carefully before any decision is arrived at concerning
next year's meeting. There are two important factors to be considered.
The first is that the grounds, considered merely as a track and a field,
should be of the best available--that is, the cinder path should be well
laid, should be firm and springy, and the turf of the infield should be
"old" and well rolled. The second point to be considered is the
convenience of access, the accommodations for spectators, the relation
of the grand stand to the track, the general picturesqueness of the
surroundings, and other minor conveniences. I am not at all certain that
the Columbia Oval comes up to all these requirements--it certainly does
not come up to some of the latter. There may be some points, however, in
which the Columbia Oval excels other available ground for
interscholastic meetings, and although I should not care to declare
myself of that opinion at present, I think it would be well to discuss
the question at greater length before coming to an absolute or final
decision.

There are a number of other subjects concerning the National Association
which need to be talked over--the choice of officials, for instance, the
inclination of certain delegates to introduce politics into the affairs
of the association, and the problem as to whether it is better to have
the games in the future managed by a club, or by the schoolboys
themselves. But, unfortunately, there is not space in the Department
this week to go as thoroughly into the questions as the importance
deserves. We must therefore leave them to another time.

An excellent step taken by the committee was the fixing of a date for
all future meetings to be on the first Saturday in June. Next year,
therefore, the meeting of the I.S.A.A.A.A. will be held on June 6. This
will be much better than having it as late as was necessary this year,
and because of the early date the attendance both of contestants and
spectators will doubtless be very much larger.

The officers elected for the ensuing year were C. B. Cotting, of the New
England League, president; Hugh Jackson, of the Iowa League,
vice-president; J. D. Tilford, of the New York Association, secretary;
George Smith, of the New Jersey Association, treasurer. The executive
committee will consist of President Cotting, _ex officio_, C. F. Luce,
of the Connecticut Association, F. Hewins, of the Maine Association,
L. F. Herrick, of the Long Island Association, H. N. Dunbar, of the New
England Association, and J. D. Tilford, the secretary.

Another important step taken by the delegates at this meeting was the
formation of an alliance with the Amateur Athletic Union. The advantages
to be derived by both associations may be gathered from the following
clauses taken from the body of the Articles of Alliance:

     At all meetings of the Amateur Athletic Union the National
     Interscholastic A.A.A.A. shall be entitled to representation by not
     more than four delegates, or duly elected alternates of such
     delegates, having collectively one vote.

     From among these delegates one shall be chosen to become a member
     of the Board of Governors of the A.A.U., who shall have voice,
     vote, and privilege equal to the other members of said Board upon
     all matters coming before it.

     All games open only to members of the N.I.S.A.A.A.A. shall be held
     under N.I.S.A.A.A.A. Rules; but games open to all amateurs shall be
     held under rules of the A.A.U.

     Each party to this Alliance shall respect and enforce all penalties
     of suspension and disqualification inflicted by the other party.

     These Articles of Alliance shall be terminated by either party upon
     thirty days' notice to the other.

On account of Hartford's having taken a greater number of points at the
games than any other individual school, the Connecticut delegates wished
to have H.P.H.-S. pronounced the "Champion School" of the United States
or of the Association. While at first thought this claim may seem to
have some justification, I am of the opinion that a little sober
reflection will show the injustice of allowing any school to assume any
such title. Hartford deserves the greatest credit for scoring the
highest number of points at the National games, and this Department has
given such credit by printing a list of points scored by schools.

But because Hartford scored 18 points to Barnard's 14, to English High's
12, or to Andover's 11, is no proof--barely an indication--that Hartford
could defeat any one of these schools in a dual contest. Therefore
Hartford cannot justly claim any school championship. That she scored
more points than any other single team was due to the fact that in
events where Hartford was weak the weakest schools were stronger than
those ranking next on the score to Hartford. (I hope that sentence is
not too complicated to make my meaning clear.)

The fact of the matter is that the contest at Columbia Oval was among
teams from leagues, not among teams from schools, and therefore the
question of school supremacy cannot enter into the discussion. Hartford
deserves praise for being able so strongly to represent her league, but
she has no just or valid claim to the title of "champion school." The
only way such a title can be secured is to have dual meets with all
other schools in her (athletic) class--and there are but ten or a
dozen--and if she can defeat them all, then she may rightfully call
herself champion.

[Illustration: Taylor. Stillman. Farr. Collins. Khime. Hirsch.
Doerflinger. Rogers.

Wieland. Atkins. Fox (Capt.). Schwendener. Steinel.

MILWAUKEE EAST SIDE HIGH-SCHOOL ATHLETIC TEAM.

Champions of the Wisconsin I.S.A.A.]

The baseball season in almost all of the Eastern interscholastic leagues
has been more or less overshadowed, as was the case last year, by the
almost universal interest in track athletics. Nevertheless, there has
been some good ball-playing on the many diamonds, and a glance over the
averages shows that some excellent work has been done. Owing to our
limited space in this Department, it is impossible to give a full review
of the work performed by all the baseball associations, or even by the
more prominent ones, but the results of the contests are important, and
should go down to make the record complete.

The scores of games played, with the standing of the teams at the close
of the season, follow:

GAMES PLAYED.

  Brookline, 9, Somerville, 6.
  Brookline, 15, Hopkinson, 9.
  Cambridge, 13, Somerville, 12.
  Cambridge, 13, Roxbury, 6.
  Hopkinson, 17, Boston Latin, 10.
  Brookline, 14, Roxbury, 1.
  Brookline, 8, Boston Latin, 7.
  English High, 19, Roxbury, 18.
  Somerville, 3, Hopkinson, 2.
  Brookline, 8, Cambridge, 6.
  Somerville, 10, Boston Latin, 6.
  Roxbury, 12, Boston Latin, 7.
  Brookline, 6, English High, 0.
  Hopkinson, 7, Roxbury Latin, 6.
  Cambridge, 17, Boston Latin, 12.
  Cambridge, 10, Hopkinson, 9.
  Somerville, 6, English High, 5.
  English High, 6, Boston Latin, 1.

STANDING.

                             Won.  Lost.
  Brookline High              6      0
  Cambridge High and Latin    4      1
  Somerville High             3      2
  English High                2      2
  Hopkinson                   2      3
  Roxbury Latin               1      4
  Boston Latin                0      6

There were seven nines in the league, representing the largest schools
of Boston and the immediate neighborhood. The championship was taken by
the Brookline High-School team, which won every game played. Brookline
was a new-comer in the association this year, and was a favorite from
the start, it being conceded, even before B.H.-S. was admitted, that her
team would take the championship. The nine played a strong game from
start to finish, the best individual work being done by Seaver, in left
field, Lewis, at first base, Hutchins, behind the bat (who played
through the season without an error), and Kernon and Aechtler, who
played right field and second base, respectively. The total errors for
the season made by B.H.-S. were 30.

Brookline High showed so early in the season that her team was certain
of first honors that several of the other nines seemed to lose interest
in the contest, and, as a result, a number of games were left unplayed.
Hopkinson's, for instance, held an excellent chance to take second
place, but the players seemed to lose their nerve. Almost all will be
back next year, however, and the team should make a better showing.
Better work had been expected of C. H. and L., Somerville, and E.H.-S.
than they developed. None of these teams played all the games they were
scheduled for. Somerville, however, can boast the only player who made a
home run in the whole season--McRae. Roxbury Latin's nine was unusually
weak.

[Illustration: Flavel. Schwartz.

Pearson. Schoenhut. White. McCarty (Capt.). Underwood.

Horst. Cartwright. Sharp. Hamilton. Newhall.

THE GERMANTOWN ACADEMY BASEBALL NINE.

Champions of the Philadelphia Inter-Academic B.B. League.]

The Championship of the Inter-Academic League of Philadelphia went to
Germantown Academy. This school has finished first eight times in the
nine seasons of the league's existence, losing in 1891 only, when the
pennant went to the Cheltenham Military Academy.

In the Interscholastic League of Philadelphia the Championship went to
the Central High-School, with Roman Catholic H.-S., Central
Manual-Training School, and Northeast Manual-Training School following
in the order named.

The Maine Interscholastic Tennis Tournament resulted in a victory for
Dana of Portland, who defeated his schoolmate, Pendleton, in the final
round. These two men then formed a partnership in the doubles, and came
out the victors. It is uncertain if Dana will go to Newport in August.

  THE GRADUATE.

       *       *       *       *       *

YOUNG MOTHERS

should early learn the necessity of keeping on hand a supply of Gail
Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk for nursing babies as well as for
general cooking. It has stood the test for 30 years, and its value is
recognized.--[_Adv._]




ADVERTISEMENTS.




Postage Stamps, &c.




$117.50 WORTH OF STAMPS FREE

to agents selling stamps from my 50% approval sheets. Send at once for
circular and price-list giving full information.

C. W. Grevning, Morristown, N.J.




[Illustration: STAMPS]

100 all dif. Venezuela, Bolivia, etc, only 10c., 200 all dif. Hayti,
Hawaii, etc., only 50c. Ag'ts w't'd at 50% com. List FREE! C. A.
STEGMANN, 5941 Cote Brilliante Ave., St. Louis, Mo




1000 Mixed Foreign Stamps, San Marino, etc., 25c.; 101 all dif., China,
etc., 10c.; 10 U.S. Revenues, 10c.; 20 U.S. Revenues, 25c. Ag'ts w'td at
50% com. _Monthly Bulletin_ free. Shaw Stamp & Coin Co., Jackson, Mich.




=STAMPS!= 100 all dif. Bermuda, etc. Only 10c. Ag'ts w'td at 50% com. List
free. L. DOVER & CO., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]




A LESSON FROM AFRICA.


Sometimes valuable information about ourselves comes from unexpected
sources. Here is something interesting about American baking powders all
the way from Africa.

Rev. Bishop William Taylor, for several years Methodist Bishop of
Africa, says that the red label of the Royal Baking Powder, so familiar
to every housekeeper in America, is quite as well known and the powder
as highly prized in every part of that continent to which civilization
has extended. The Royal Baking Powder was taken to South Africa a great
many years ago by Mrs. Robinson, a missionary. But its use soon spread
beyond the Missions, and it came to be regarded as a necessity by all
classes. It was found particularly valuable in the mines and upon the
ranches, and frequently sold at interior stations for a dollar a pound.
Especially has it conduced to the comfort and health of the
missionaries, who would find bread-making a sorry business without it.

Another interesting fact is that no other baking powder will stand
service in that country. Rev. Ross Taylor, the agent for African
Missions, says: "During the past ten years we have shipped Royal Baking
Powder regularly to our African Missions, and for the last four years to
the exclusion of all other brands, because of the testimony of our
missionaries that it maintains its strength, freshness, and purity in
the tropical climate, which others do not. For instance, the
superintendent of our mission in Angola, a work that is financially
maintained on commercial lines, reported that he could not hold his
trade with anything else but the Royal. We are using it in forty mission
stations in Africa."

Here is a suggestive fact of value to American housekeepers. Though the
presence of this keeping quality in the Royal and the lack of it in
other powders is developed more conspicuously in the hot, moist climate
of Africa, it exists in the Royal and is deficient in the others as they
are sold in this country in exactly the same ratio. This natural test
demonstrates more forcibly than a chemical analysis could the wide
difference that exists between the different baking powders in their
combination and actual practical value. The maintenance of its strength
and freshness under all climatic conditions is evidence that the Royal
Powder is more accurately made and composed of purer and better
ingredients. Such a powder only will give uniform results in perfect
foods and prove of the greatest economy in the saving of flour, butter,
and other articles used in their production.--_N. Y. Christian
Advocate._




HARPER'S

BAZAR

The great fashion magazine of the world. None excels it in its
field.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean_, Feb. 22, 1896.

10 CENTS A COPY - $4.00 A YEAR




[Illustration: THE PUDDING STICK]

     This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young
     Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the
     subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.


In one of our most intimate and confidential talks a dear girl asked me
to tell her what I think the most desirable gift for a woman. She spoke
of several friends--one of them as having grace of movement; another, as
rarely beautiful, with brilliant eyes and lovely complexion; a third, as
accomplished, playing and singing, and speaking two or three languages
besides her own; and a fourth, as very clever. We may multiply the list,
and as we look over our circle of friends we easily see that nearly
every one has something bright and individual which commends her to us;
but the sum of the matter is that the gift of all gifts for a girl is
expressed in one little word of five letters--charm.

If you insist on my defining charm, I am afraid I will disappoint you,
for it is as difficult of analysis as a perfume. The better way, if I
could manage it, would be to show you somebody who has it, as I would
show you a painting on the wall, or a flower in the garden. Very plain
girls and women are sometimes endowed with this grace. I remember one
who was not pretty at all--a little dumpy brown thing, who had not the
art of dressing very well, and who slipped in and out of a room as
softly and shyly as a mouse, bless her heart! But this sweet Elizabeth
was popular beyond all the girls of her class; she was constantly in
demand, and nothing could be done without her. It was, "Where is
Elizabeth?" "What does Elizabeth say?" "Will Elizabeth be of the party?
if so, everything will go delightfully." Once Elizabeth was ill, and a
hush seemed to fall on the little town, while people, old and young,
were anxious to know how she was, and her house was a perfect bower with
the flowers that were left for her daily. When she went away for a visit
everybody was interested, and when she returned the town had a gala-day.
There were any number of prettier girls, any number of cleverer girls,
in her set, but none who compared with our little brown Elizabeth. She
had charm.

In her case charm had several elements. Her voice was low yet clear. She
never made an effect of insisting, as girls with shrill voices do; her
tones were soft and distinct. She was gentle, but she was not overlooked
in consequence. She always knew where to find things. At home her father
and brothers appealed to her for the boots and papers which were out of
sight, but which it was important to have on the instant. Elizabeth
could explain away little vexations. She remembered people's names and
faces--a very great talent, and one worth everybody's cultivating.
Elizabeth was considerate and full of tact. I never saw her do a rude
thing, or heard her say anything unkind.

Then, too, Elizabeth knew what was going on. She read the papers, and
could talk intelligently about current events--another admirable plan
for all girls to follow.

I know another girl, Melissa, who has all Elizabeth's charm, and
superadded has great beauty. She carries herself gracefully, this tall,
elegant young woman; her hair, her eyes, her face, her figure, express
distinction. But when I asked a friend, the other day, what constituted
Melissa's greatest claim to admiration, he said: "Well, it isn't that
she's so pretty; it isn't that she's so dainty. I hardly know what it
is. She has style; she has loveliness; I think, most of all, she has
what you women call charm."

A few years ago, in London, an elderly lady--several years past eighty
she was--passed away. A man who had known her for many years said, "The
most charming woman of our time has gone." Once this gentleman was a
guest at a country-house where the old lady was expected. Everybody was
anticipating her coming; everybody wanted to meet her. When she arrived,
she came into the drawing-room in black velvet and a lace cap, with a
fan in her hand and a flower in her dress, and at once she held a little
court. In her girlhood this woman had delighted Washington Irving. In
her old age she had poets, artists, scholars, and statesmen in her
drawing-room. She had charm.

In a little New England village a lady was living all by herself, and
every morning I saw a pilgrimage of young people going up through her
small garden to her door. "What is the secret of Miss Emily's having so
much company," I inquired. "So many of the boys and girls and the young
people here have errands to see her, and _she_ isn't young, or in public
life, or--anything, that I can see." The principal of the high-school
answered my question. "Emily Lawrence, madam, is the most charming woman
in Connecticut."

  MARGARET E. SANGSTER.




[Illustration: BICYCLING]

     This Department is conducted in the interest of Bicyclers, and the
     Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject. Our
     maps and tours contain many valuable data kindly supplied from the
     official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen.
     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.


The Department this week, owing to the number of questions on bicycling
matters, will be entirely devoted to answers. Many of the questions
received each week cannot be answered satisfactorily, since they are
inquiries as to the roads from one place which the writer mentions to
another city or town. Readers of this Department can readily understand
that this would entail a large number of special maps or descriptions
not likely to interest any one but the writer. Our idea in publishing
maps is to give general routes which any one may use from beginning to
end, or in parts, to serve his purpose, and often it is wiser to go a
roundabout way from one point to another, thereby getting on to some
good route, than to try the short route and perhaps walk half the way.
Bicycling routes having the least number of miles are not always the
shortest. Many a fifty-mile road is really shorter than one of thirty
miles, since a bad mile, a sandy half-mile, a two-mile stretch of
cobblestones are any and all worse than four miles of good road.

     J. T. H. asks if we can tell him the best bicycle to buy and how to
     buy one. Possibly we may have an exhaustive article on this subject
     some day in the future, though it will be impossible to tell which
     is the best wheel. Most of the well-known makes are good bicycles,
     and one is pretty safe with any of them. Unquestionably, in a year
     or two, bicycles--new ones at that--will be sold at much less than
     $100, for as they cost but a small portion of that amount to
     manufacture, it will soon become impossible to keep up any
     agreement among bicycle firms to hold the price so high. Indeed,
     to-day almost any one can buy a '96 wheel of good make for less
     than $100, though this is still the retail price. Many a
     second-hand bicycle, especially a woman's wheel, is quite as good
     as a new one, and can be bought for half-price or less. A woman's
     wheel is especially adapted to this kind of purchase, since many
     women of means buy a new bicycle every year, and not being
     particularly athletic, do not ride any one wheel more than two or
     three hundred miles, perhaps, and take the best of care of it all
     the time. Such a bicycle of the '95 make, for example, is quite as
     good as one of the new '96 machines for practical purposes, and can
     be bought for $50. In the case of a second-hand man's wheel more
     care should be taken in examining bearings, chain, sprocket wheels,
     and so on. Some suggestions on these points have already appeared
     in this column.

     BICYCLE CRANK asks what a military company of bicyclists does, what
     its movements are, and how such a company can be formed. Also if a
     bicycle military company is a good thing. As to the last, General
     N. A. Miles said in a speech in 1892, delivered before the guests
     at a banquet in Chicago given by the president of the L.A.W.: "The
     president has told us that your league numbers thirty thousand men.
     Suppose that out of that number you organize a corps of fifteen or
     twenty thousand young, intelligent men and mount them upon wheels
     and equip them as they should be. It would be one of the most
     effective corps ever organized. It is estimated that there are in
     this country a quarter of a million men who are accustomed to ride
     the bicycle. If out of that number fifty thousand men were
     organized it would make one of the most effective army corps that
     was ever marshalled in any country or any time." As to the
     movements, commands, etc., we can best answer by referring readers
     to the _Cycle-Infantry Drill Regulations_, prepared by
     Brigadier-General Albert Ordway. A company of cyclists consist of
     infantry mounted on bicycles. The regulations therefore are
     practically the same as infantry regulations, changed only to suit
     bicycling necessities. When the men stop, they dismount, of course,
     and become infantry. When they are mounted some of the drills are
     like cavalry drill.




[Illustration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

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


SILVER SALTS.

There are four chemical elements either of which combined with a metal
forms a compound resembling sea-salt. These four elements are Fluorine
(F), Chlorine (Cl), Bromine (Br), and Iodine (I). They are termed in
chemistry "halogens" (salt-producers), and the compounds which they form
are called "haloids." When they are combined with silver they make
silver haloids, or salts of silver. Three of these salts, silver
chloride, silver bromide, and silver iodide, are the substances most
quickly affected by light, and are most important agents in making a
photographic image.

Silver chloride is often found native in silver mines, and is called by
the miners "horn-silver." As early as the sixteenth century it was
observed that this "horn-silver" turned dark when it was brought up from
the mines into the sunlight, but it was not until the year 1777 that it
was found this darkening of the silver chloride was due to the chemical
effect of light. This discovery was made by a Swedish chemist, Charles
William Scheele. Silver chloride was the first salts of silver used in
photography, and the first picture made on a sensitive surface by means
of a lens was made by that famous chemist Sir Humphry Davy. His lenses
were taken from his solar microscope. By coating paper with silver
chloride and exposing it for a long time in the camera he obtained
pictures of small objects. These pictures were positives, not negatives.
An English chemist by the name of Wedgwood worked with him; but though
they succeeded in making pictures, they could not "fix" the image, so
that all their pictures were kept in portfolios away from the light, and
only examined by candle-light.

Silver chloride is used in making photographic printing-paper, not by
coating the paper with the silver chloride, but by producing it upon the
paper itself by means of two solutions with which the paper is coated.
The chemical formula for silver chloride is AgCl, meaning that a
molecule of silver chloride contains one atom of silver and one atom of
chlorine. (The chemical name for silver is argentum, and the symbol is
Ag.) This chloride was used by Davy for coating the paper on which he
made his pictures, but the paper was not very sensitive to light, it
taking from a half-hour to two hours to make a picture. By repeated
experiments, Fox Talbot, an Englishman, succeeded in making a paper
which was very sensitive to light. He first coated the paper with a
solution of common salt, sodium chloride (NaCl), and dried it. This
salted paper was then brushed over with a solution of nitrate of silver,
which combined with the sodium chloride (salt), and formed silver
chloride.

In preparing the paper the nitrate of silver solution was made strong
enough so that there might be a little left on the paper in addition to
that which combined with the sodium chloride to form the silver
chloride. (Sodium nitrate is also produced, but it has no effect on the
paper.) Silver nitrate is very largely used in photography in all
sensitive preparations. In surgery it is known as "lunar caustic," and
is used to cauterize or burn the flesh to prevent the spreading of
disease. It is produced in the separation of gold from silver in the
refining process. It is produced chemically by dissolving pure silver in
an equal part of nitric acid. The chemical formula for it is
AgNO_{3}. (Nitrate of silver is very poisonous.)

The chemical formula for producing the silver chloride on the paper may
be thus stated: NaCl+AgNO_{3}, AgCl+NaNO_{3}. That is, sodium
chloride and silver nitrate make silver chloride and sodium nitrate.

Those of our Camera Club who have prepared the plain paper after the
formula given in this column will now understand the chemistry of the
operation. The next paper will explain why the chloride is produced _on_
the paper instead of simply coating the paper with the silver chloride.

The new chemical elements mentioned and their symbols and atomic
weights:

                                Atomic.
                       Symbol.  Weight.
  Silver (argentum)      Ag.      107
  Nitrogen                N.       14

     WM. MERRITT, Rhinebeck, N. Y., ROY PIKE, Lake City, Minn., JOSEPH
     K. FORNANCE, Norristown, Pa., D. M. MARTIN, Loveland, Ia., and
     HULBURT MARSH, Groton, N. Y., wish to become members of the Camera
     Club. Their names are enrolled on the list, and we welcome them to
     our club. We hope to have the pleasure of seeing some of their work
     very soon.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




[Illustration: Columbia Bicycles]

Unequalled

in Strength

The high-carbon steel and nickel steel used in the tubing of Columbia
bicycles have no equal in their power to resist the strains to which a
bicycle frame is put. This tubing is all made in the Columbia mills
especially for Columbias.

Standard of the World

Columbias in quality and construction are in a class by themselves.

$100 to all alike

The Columbia Catalogue, handsomest art work of the year, is free from
the Columbia agent, or is mailed for two 2-cent stamps.

       *       *       *       *       *

POPE MFG. CO., Hartford, Conn.

Columbia Branch Houses and Agencies are almost everywhere.




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]




WALTER BAKER & CO., LIMITED.

Established Dorchester, Mass., 1780.

Breakfast Cocoa

[Illustration]

Always ask for Walter Baker & Co.'s

Breakfast Cocoa

Made at

DORCHESTER, MASS.

It bears their Trade Mark

"La Belle Chocolatiere" on every can.

Beware of Imitations.




[Illustration]

HARTFORD Single-Tubes are the easiest and quickest to repair. That saves
time and patience. But this point would be of little worth apart from
their strength, elasticity, safety and hill climbing power. The secret
of making is ours. The tires are yours for any bicycle.

IF IT'S A HARTFORD TIRE IT'S RIGHT.

OF ANY DEALER.

THE HARTFORD RUBBER WORKS CO.

HARTFORD, CONN.

New York. Philadelphia. Chicago.




[Illustration]

EARN A TRICYCLE.

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

W. G. BAKER,

Springfield, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

San Jacinto.

     La Porte is a new town, situated on a point of land nearly
     surrounded by Galveston Bay, Morgan's Ship Canal, and San Jacinto
     Bay. It is about twenty miles from Houston, and thirty miles from
     Galveston. The scenery in this part of the coast country is
     beautiful, and the place is not without historic interest. On this
     point of land was formerly the town of New Washington, which was
     burned by Santa Anna before he left for San Jacinto battle-ground,
     which is only six or seven miles from here. It was there that the
     Texans under General Houston routed the Mexicans under Santa Anna
     on that memorable day, the 21st of April, 1836.

     The battle-ground is located on Buffalo Bayou. It comprises
     twenty-three acres, ten of which are owned by the State. The
     "Daughters of the Republic" are raising funds to beautify it and
     erect a suitable monument. There is only one monument there now. It
     is a plain marble shaft about fifteen feet high, with inscriptions
     on the four sides of the base.

     San Jacinto Day is a legal holiday in Texas, and large numbers of
     people celebrate it by picnicking at the battle-ground. Exercises
     are held in the public schools. This year I recited Lillie E.
     Barr's poem, "San Jacinto Corn," published in the ROUND TABLE for
     January 21, 1896. The battle of San Jacinto lasted only eighteen or
     twenty minutes. There were more than fifteen hundred Mexican troops
     opposed to seven hundred and eighty-three Texans. The loss of the
     Texans was two killed, and twenty-three wounded, six of them
     mortally. The loss of the Mexicans was six hundred and thirty
     killed, two hundred and eight wounded, and seven hundred and thirty
     prisoners. Santa Anna was taken prisoner on the 22d, and General
     Cos on the 24th.

  MERCY COMPTON MARSH, R.T.L.
  LA PORTE, TEXAS.

       *       *       *       *       *

My Escape.

  The sun had set on yonder hill,
  The little brook was very still,
  And I went to bed with a cheerful heart,
  Knowing that all was well.

  But as the midnight rolled on still,
    There came the dreadful cry
  Of fire! fire! on the hill,
    And I prepared to fly.

  I rolled an egg up in a shawl,
    And saddled my horse near by;
  I sprang to the saddle and plied the paddle,
    And then commenced to fly.

  My horse flew up to the skies
    And landed on a cloud.
  And then I heard for the first time
    A thunder wild and loud.

  And there on the cloud beside me stood
    A giant large and tall,
  Who, in a voice of thunder, cried,
    "What right have you here at all?"

  I shivered and shook from head to foot,
    And the giant he roared with rage,
  "I'll take you home with me," he cried,
    "And shut you up in a cage."

  But I ran to the edge of the cloud
    And gave a fearful leap,
  And the shock awoke me, and I found
    That I had been asleep.

Composed jointly by Helen, Virginia, and Gladys Mackay-Smith, aged 9,
11, and 13 years.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Delightful Morsel about Japan.

A Lady of the Order, aged twelve, living at 118 B. Bluff, Yokohama,
Japan, writes to the Table: "Here is a brief description of Nikko, which
we visited two summers ago, and I hope it is good enough to print." It
is quite "good enough." The Table would be glad and thankful for other
morsels equally delightful.

CHARMING NIKKO.

     Many hundreds of years ago one of the Tycoons, as the Emperors of
     Japan were once called, sent one of his retainers to look for a
     burial-place in Japan for his father, who had just died. The
     retainer, after having looked for a long time found a barren place
     which was, however, very beautiful, and seemed suitable to him for
     an Emperor's burial-place. He planted there an avenue of trees now
     called the "Tokaido," and after many years Nikko was founded.

     This is one of the most beautiful country-places, about seven hours
     in the railway from Yokohama. It is a lovely place in the
     mountains, about 3500 feet above the level of the sea, famous for
     its scenery and lovely temples. Many people go only to see these
     magnificent buildings. There is something so lonely, so mysterious,
     around these temples situated in damp low ground! Around these holy
     places grow huge cryptomerias, a kind of fir-tree, the stems
     covered with moss and climbing plants; altogether they are very
     beautiful to look at.

     The interior of the temples is even more lovely and grand than the
     outside. The walls are decorated with valuable old carvings and
     glistening lacquer. Even the floors are sometimes lacquer, and here
     and there in some temples are images of gods entirely of gold.
     There is said to be one temple in Nikko wholly covered with gold.
     One other thing so lovely in Nikko is the abundance of running
     water and cascades. One cannot go out of hearing of the constant
     rushing and rippling of water. If you see this water, you will
     notice that it is as clear as crystal.

     There are no hot springs in Nikko as there are in other Japanese
     country-places. Instead, all are icy cold. People are often tempted
     to drink this water, as it is so clear, but it is not so clean as
     it looks, because the Japanese wash all their pots and pans in it.
     There are also many pretty water-falls in Nikko. The "Kirifuri,"
     which means "the beautiful mist," is the biggest and grandest. This
     water-fall falls about forty feet over stones into a rocky basin
     which leads into the little and wild river "Diagawa," which flows
     through the whole of Nikko. The way down to the water-fall is very
     steep and rocky, but on the damp rocky walls on both sides grows a
     kind of maiden-hair fern.

     The "Urami" water-fall is the next in size and beauty. Before you
     get to this one you come to some tea-houses, where you are supposed
     to rest and take refreshments. Here the wild river comes rushing
     past. To get to the water-fall you must go through a kind of ravine
     which is very beautiful and rocky. One side of this is a damp wall
     overgrown with all sorts of climbing plants and beautiful moss.
     Moss, by-the-way, is another thing for which Nikko is famous. The
     Urami fall rushes down in three cascades, one on each side of the
     big one. You are able to go behind the big one so you can see it
     rushing in front of you.

     The "Red Lacquered or Sacred Bridge" is another wonder of Nikko,
     and is known all over Japan. It is made entirely of red lacquer,
     and anybody who walks on it, except the Mikado, is shot! It is only
     unlocked when he is in the place. As lovely as Nikko is in
     summer-time, when all the various flowers are in blossom, it is
     even more lovely in autumn. Then the foliage takes the prettiest
     colors; the Japanese maple is wonderfully beautiful with its dark
     and light red or green shades. Nikko is a place which I should
     advise any one who comes to Japan to visit. I am sure he would be
     well paid for the tiresome journey there.

  CECILE ROGERS.

       *       *       *       *       *

Handy to have in Mind.

The next time you are asked to tell a riddle, tell this one:

  Lo, the poor Indian, imprisoned stands,
    Betwixt a bird and a feather.
  From aloft all three a warning send
    To ships in stormy weather.

The answer is Hen-lo-pen (the Cape).

       *       *       *       *       *

Shadows Come Even Our Way.

We are sure there is no member who fails to recall the delightful
morsels contributed to the Table by Lady Florence E. Cowan. They were
dated Kingman, Arizona, and told us about the Indians, the plants, the
folk-lore, etc., of that Territory. Her articles were exceedingly
interesting, and always well written. Besides, her personal notes
accompanying them were models of frankness and yet brevity. A brief note
signed "S. Z. B." informs us she is dead. The Table and its readers are
pained by the news.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kinks.

No. 6.--NATURAL-HISTORY ENIGMAS.

  I am loud and turbulent, yet incapable of noise;
  I'm the forefront of battle, and the simplest of toys;
  I live in the water, but must be always kept dry;
  I am perfectly deaf, yet hear every cry;
  I swim all the time, keep step when I travel;
  I am fixed in one place, now this riddle unravel.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Of ten animals allowed in heaven,
    According to Moslem creed,
  My first is one. My second's another
    Of the same identical breed.
  My third each is when once he gets there,
    After they let him in.
  My whole the Moslem law keeps out,
    Since he is a man of sin.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I nourish my young, and so am a beast;
  My four feet are tied, so I walk but the least;
  I am hard as a rock, am soft as pure silk;
  I'm a dark, ugly brown, am whiter than milk;
  I am made from a tree, am dug from the ground;
  I grow from a seed; in the rocks I abound;
  With never a feather, like a bird I can fly;
  I am entirely dumb, but still have a cry.
  A bird that can fly, with never a feather;
  A beast with four feet bound closely together;
  A rock and a vegetable, an earth and a tree;
  I am all of these things; now what can I be?

       *       *       *       *       *

  I am so lowly I cling to the ground,
    Yet soar to a heavenly height;
  I represent the only thing of my kind.
    Yet am owned by each human wight;
  Each person can have only one of me, true,
  Still, strange as it seems, he always has two:
  I can swim on the water, but am sure to sink through it,
  I am purely a spirit, going where man can't pursue it;
  I'm the oldest of matter, have form, weight, and feeling,
  I am simply a sound, loneliness revealing.
  Though owned by the English, I belong to no nation,
  Yet furnish support to all human creation.

       *       *       *       *       *

Anybody May Enter this Journalism.

Frank Homer King contemplates starting an amateur paper, and asks whom
he must apply to for a permit. Frank need apply to no one. He is free to
name his paper anything he pleases, and to publish it as long and as
often as he can pay the printer's bill. If he wishes to enter his
publication in the mails, that it may be sent at newspaper rates, he
applies to the postmaster of his city, who will give him a blank to fill
out.

E. C. Hoff, Carroll, Iowa, and James M. Hughes, Richmond, Mo.,
contemplate starting amateur papers, and want contributions of stories,
poems, etc. Joe Gibson. Jun., Ingersoll, Ont., and Cassius Morford,
Banfield, Mich., want to receive samples of amateur papers.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Glimpse of West Point.

     In the summer the parade-ground at West Point is a perfect green
     sea of grass, so well is it kept. The many white duck tents make a
     picturesque sight, looking like so many sail-boats in green water.
     The view from Fort Putnam, above the Post, I cannot describe, so
     beautiful is it. The narrow Hudson, with its many turns, is indeed
     similar to a brand-new silver ribbon, while a sail-boat seen from
     this height can hardly be distinguished. It would look like a
     sea-gull seeking for food, and going at a speed which could only be
     determined by taking sight from some fixed object.

  HANS W. GERHARD.




[Illustration: STAMPS]

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


The London Philatelic Society and the stamp-dealers of London have
appointed a joint committee to arrange for a postage-stamp exhibit in
1897. It is proposed to hold it at the Crystal Palace, and if proper
conditions can be arranged to insure the stamps and take care of them
during the exhibition, probably stamps to the value of nearly $2,000,000
will be shown.

The Swiss collectors will hold an exhibition this summer in Geneva,
which will doubtless be very attractive. One of the largest collections
of Swiss stamps is now for sale in New York city. It contains everything
in used and unused condition--locals, general issues, singly and in
blocks and sheets, post-cards, envelopes, money-order blanks, etc. The
price asked is $6000, which is probably less than could be obtained if
the collection were broken up and the stamps, etc., sold separately.

Holland holds a stamp exhibit at The Hague from July 17 to July 22,
inclusive.

An elderly lady in British Guiana gave her rector an envelope addressed
to "Miss Rose, Blankenberg," as an Easter offering. On the envelope was
an unsevered pair of the extremely rare 1851 2c. rose British Guiana
stamp. The envelope is probably worth $3000. A copy of this stamp,
trimmed round, was sold in New York by auction, from the De Coppet
collection, for $1050 several years ago.

The A.P.A. (American Philatelic Association) holds its annual meeting
this year in the middle of August at Lake Minnetonka, a beautiful summer
resort. The successor to President Tiffany will be elected, and
preliminary canvassing for votes is now in active operation. Boston
wants the 1897 convention.

Venezuela is out with another series of unnecessary stamps to
commemorate "The Apotheosis of General Francisco de Miranda." Five
varieties--5, 10, 25, 50, 100. It is a very good set to let alone.

     J. C. LUNT, 109 Liberty Street, San Francisco, wishes to exchange
     stamps with Mexican collectors.

     C. L. PATTISON.--Columbian stamps, 1-30, inclusive, are worth 50c.
     per set, used. The Hawaiian Provisionals are worth $2.50 for the
     2c. vermilion, 35c. for the 2c. brown, 8c. for the 2c. rose or
     violet.

     ROSS BAKER.--Common coins have no selling value beyond their face
     if U.S. coins, or at bullion value if foreign.

     E. L.--U.S. cents for 1806 worth 35c., 1826 and 1842 worth 5c.,
     1834 worth 10c. Half-cent 1806 worth 15c. These are the prices
     dealers ask. What they pay I do not know.

     A. HOBBS.--In making a rubbing of a coin use thin transparent paper
     of a firm texture, and a hard lead-pencil. A soft pencil gives poor
     results.

     J. SMYTHE.--Your Afghanistan stamp is all right. Practically all
     Afghanistan _used_ stamps are badly damaged, for the reason that
     they cancel stamps by tearing off at least one corner. Sometimes
     more than half of the stamp is gone, and a part of the letter also.

  PHILATUS.




[Illustration: IVORY SOAP]

  A fine complexion is too rare
    To run the risk of losing;
  But everyone who takes good care
    (All other kinds refusing)
  To get pure Ivory, grows more fair
    With every day of using.

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




Secure

Reliable

Strong

_easy to hook; easy to unhook; if you do the hooking and unhooking.
Can't let go itself. The DeLong Hook and Eye._

[Illustration]

See that

hump?

Richardson & DeLong Bros., Philadelphia.

Also makers of the

CUPID Hairpin.




_Don't take substitutes to save a few pennies. It won't pay you. Always
insist on HIRES Rootbeer._

Made only by The Charles E. Hires Co., Philadelphia.

A 25c. package makes 5 gallons. Sold everywhere.




[Illustration]

Reader: Have you seen the

[Illustration: Franklin]

It is a Collection which no one who loves music should fail to own; it
should find a place in every home. Never before, it may truthfully be
said, has a song book been published at once so cheap, so good, and so
complete.--_Colorado Springs Gazette._

[Illustration: Square]

This Song Collection is one of the most notable enterprises of the kind
attempted by any publisher. The brief sketches and histories of the
leading productions in the work add greatly to the value of the
series.--_Troy Times._

[Illustration: Collection?]

Sold Everywhere. Price, 50 cents; Cloth, $1.00. Full contents, with
Specimen Pages mailed, without cost, on application to

Harper & Brothers, New York.




[Illustration: THOMPSON'S EYE WATER]




By CAPTAIN KING

=CADET DAYS.= Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

=CAMPAIGNING WITH CROOK, AND STORIES OF ARMY LIFE.= Illustrated. Post 8vo,
Cloth, $1.25.

=A WAR-TIME WOOING.= Illustrated by R. F. ZOGBAUM. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.

=BETWEEN THE LINES.= A Story of the War. Illustrated by GILBERT GAUL. Post
8vo, Cloth, $1.25.

       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.




[Illustration: HOW FROGGY LOST THE RACE BY A FOWL.]

       *       *       *       *       *

PAPA. "So, Bobby, you're the president of your bicycle club. That's very
nice. How did they happen to choose you?"

BOBBY. "Well, you see, papa, I'm the only boy that's got a bicycle."

       *       *       *       *       *

A COSTLY THRONE.

At the time of the coronation of the Czar of Russia much was printed in
the newspapers about the costly crown jewels and the magnificent
imperial throne, but for all its magnificence and richness this
nineteenth-century throne was nothing when compared to that of the Mogul
Emperors of Delhi. This Indian throne was built in the reign of the Shah
Jehan by a Frenchman who had been forced to seek an asylum in the Mogul
empire. It was called the Peacock Throne, to distinguish it from other
royal chairs, and because it was decorated with the figures of two huge
peacocks. The throne was six feet long by four feet wide, and stood on
six massive legs, which were of solid gold inlaid with rubies, emeralds,
diamonds, and all kinds of precious stones. The tails of the peacocks
were expanded fanlike behind the throne, and they too were inlaid with
pearls, emeralds, and other gems of suitable coloring. The whole was
surmounted by a canopy of gold supported by twelve pillars likewise
studded with diamonds and precious gems, the border of the canopy being
made of a fringe of beautiful pearls. Between the two peacocks perched a
life-size parrot, which was carved out of a single emerald. The royal
umbrellas, which are appendages to most Oriental thrones, were made of
the finest silks, and were fringed with pearls, the handles being of
solid gold studded with diamonds. It has been said by many writers that
the famous Koh-i-noor diamond was originally set in this Peacock Throne.
This story is very possibly true, inasmuch as the Koh-i-noor was at one
time owned by the Shah Jehan. This throne has been valued at
$30,000,000, and this figure is doubtless not exaggerated, for the Mogul
Emperors were wonderfully rich monarchs. When the Persians sacked Delhi
in 1739, they destroyed the Peacock Throne, and carried off its jewels.
A simple block of white marble now stands in the private audience hall
in the palace of the Mogul Emperors at Delhi to show where this gorgeous
chair once stood.

       *       *       *       *       *

TALKING TO THEM.

There is a fish-dealer in New York who has a large number of rich
customers. Once or twice a week his store can be found full of ladies
who are doing their own marketing. The dealer is all smiles to his
customers on such days, and very anxious to keep their good-will and
trade. For some time an Irishman had been coming in the place, and after
going from stand to stand, and peering long and closely at the fish, he
usually wound up by purchasing some cheap specimen of the finny tribe,
and departing. This was annoying to the dealer when his place was full
of customers, and so one morning when the Irishman entered and began
going from one stand to another as usual, he called out:

"Look here, my good man, what are you always smelling my fish for?"

The question was heard by every one, and they all listened for the
answer.

"Faith, oim not smellin' thim; it's talkin' to thim oi am."

"Talking, did you say?"

"Yis; sure oim askin' thim the news from the sea."

"Well," said the dealer, impatiently, "what did they say?"

"Sure, they didn't know, yer honor; they telt me they hadn't been there
fer over a month."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well," said mamma, as she bathed Johnnie's blackened eye with Pond's
Extract, "what were you and Tommy fighting about?"

"We weren't fighting," exclaimed Johnnie, indignantly; "we were only
arguing."

       *       *       *       *       *

The following sentence is a kind of literary curiosity: "Sator arepo
tenet opera rotas." It is curious, because it spells the same words
backwards as forwards; the first letter of each word, placed
consecutively, spells the first word; the second letter of each word
spells the second word, and so on to the end; the last letters read
backwards spell the last word; the next to the last letters, the next to
the last word, and so on throughout; and there are just as many letters
in each word as there are words in the sentence.





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, July 7, 1896, by Various

*** 