



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

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

       *       *       *       *       *

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 21, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 847. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration]

THE WRECK OF THE "MARIA HELENA."

BY REAR-ADMIRAL T. H. STEVENS, U.S.N.


On the 20th of December, 1848, I sailed from Honolulu, where I had been
naval-store-keeper for many years. My vessel was the Chilean
merchant-ship _Maria Helena_, and she carried as passengers several
others who had long resided in the Hawaiian Islands, and who were now
returning for a definite stay at home; among those were my wife, another
lady, and two small children.

It was somewhat melancholy to bid farewell to the friends among whom we
had lived so long, and whom we never expected to meet again, but never
did a ship leave port under more favorable auspices. Wind and weather
combined their happiest influences, and over the smooth water we sailed,
until the island of Oahu, with its pleasant valleys and bold, romantic
scenery, was lost to view. The next morning we saw Hawaii, with Kilauea
breathing fire and smoke from its lofty crest, and Maui a cloudy speck
in the distance. They also were soon lost to view, and nothing remained
for the eye to rest on but the heaving ocean and here and there a
solitary sea-bird. After losing sight of the islands, nothing of
interest occurred until the 3d of January, when a large fish was
harpooned, the liver of which was to have afforded a fine breakfast for
the inmates of the cabin the next morning.

At one o'clock that night the Captain, supposing that we would pass
Christmas Island about that time, took two observations of the stars for
the latitude. These put us in the latitude of the island, but, as there
was no indication of land, and as the chronometer put us forty miles to
the eastward, the skipper felt secure, and turned in for the night. The
cabin lights were put out and all was quiet; nothing disturbed the
stillness of repose save the deep breathing of the tired sleeper,
dreaming, perhaps, of the native land that he hoped to see so soon
again. Suddenly a startling and alarmed voice was heard from the
look-out on the fo'c's'le, "Breakers ahead! Hard alee! Hard alee!"

Like an electric shock that sound passed through the souls of the
sleepers, spreading consternation, and rousing them to a sense of
dreadfully imminent danger. With one impulse all rushed on deck, to
behold through the darkness of the night a long uninterrupted line of
breakers, and to hear, above the stern words of command and the tread of
hurrying feet, the wild angry roar of the surf. But even in that time of
dread, hope was with us, and as the ship, still obedient to the will of
her master, came slowly to the wind, there yet remained a chance of
escape. The awed stillness of all on deck proclaimed how deep was the
suspense. One brief moment more and the ship will be headed to sea; but
suddenly she strikes; she trembles through all her strong timbers, and
then resigns herself to her fate, and the breakers wash around her
decks.

All hope of saving her was now at an end, and preparations were
immediately begun to get the gig and whale-boat alongside in readiness
to receive the women and children. Some delay occurred before this could
be accomplished, and it was fully an hour before the boats were ready.
During this time no expression of fear escaped from either of the
ladies.

Notwithstanding the violent shocks that the ship received as she rose
and fell upon the rocks with the heave of the sea, the children slept
soundly, and when the boats were reported ready, with a small quantity
of provisions, water, and clothing, they and their mothers were passed
into them without the smallest accident, although the exploit was
attended with much danger, as the ship had by this time been driven
close on to the roughest water about the reef.

As soon as the whale-boat had her full complement of passengers, I among
them, she was hauled astern of the ship, which was lying parallel to the
shore, and pulled seaward. When about a hundred yards away, the men lay
on their oars, and all waited anxiously for the dawn to reveal the full
extent of the danger.

Half an hour after we left the ship we heard an awful cracking of
timbers above the roar of the breakers, and could just make out through
the gloom of night the falling masts as they tottered one by one, and
fell over to leeward. We immediately pulled toward the ship, and hailed
her to inquire if any one was injured and how they were getting on. Some
one replied that all was well, and that the vessel was lying much
easier.

About half past four the waning moon rose, and we supposed that day was
about to break, and that the sun would soon appear to show all the
circumstances of our perilous position; but although we were in a
condition of the most trying nature--our ship ashore on a frightful
coast, and ourselves tossed about on the open sea in a leaky boat,
totally ignorant of the character of the island and its extent--no one
despaired.

At last, the day dawned, and revealed to our anxious eyes a line of low
coast twenty or twenty-five miles in extent, making out in a
considerable point to the north and west, the shore bounded, as far as
the eye could reach, by a line of sullen breakers. In the indistinctness
of the twilight some imagined that they could see houses, but these
proved afterward to be clumps of low bushes scattered here and there
upon a sandy and uninhabited island.

Soon after sunrise the Captain joined us in the gig, and, upon
consulting together, we concluded to pull around the point referred to,
and seek a landing under the lee side of the island. Had this plan been
carried out we must all have suffered very much before we could have
procured relief, as we had but a small breaker of water and a few
biscuits in the boat, and would have had to pull a long distance before
finding a suitable landing-place. After pulling about a mile to the
westward we reflected on this want of provisions, and decided to return
and try to land under the lee of the ship.

Preparatory to making the attempt, the gig was sent alongside to get a
full crew, and then to land before us; but in attempting to board the
ship she got into the rollers, and was capsized before she could be
pulled clear. Some of the men were injured, but they finally reached the
shore, although with a badly stove boat.

This was poor encouragement for us, but having come to the conclusion
that there was only one course for us to take, we made all necessary
preparations, and confiding the steering-oar to an experienced hand,
waited for a smooth time to make our effort.

After waiting a few moments a favorable time came, and the boat was
headed for the seething breakers. As we approached them all conversation
ceased, and the compressed lip and rigid features showed our painful
appreciation of the approaching crisis. Soon a huge roller lifted the
little boat far above the surrounding water, and she sped on like an
arrow. Scarcely had we begun to feel the swiftness of our flight before
we struck the beach, and the ladies and children were landed and out of
present danger. During the whole of the day they remained on the beach,
with nothing but two small umbrellas to shelter them from the rays of a
tropical sun, while the gentlemen, Captain, and crew were engaged in
saving provisions and baggage from the wreck. This work continued until
four in the afternoon, when the sea became so high and the surf so
violent as to render further efforts impracticable.

We also saved some sails and spars, by means of which we erected a
commodious tent for the ladies and passengers, and another for the men.

Shortly after being installed in our new quarters dinner was served, and
was enjoyed by every one, as it was the first food we had had for
twenty-four hours.

Before this, Mr. Christie, one of the passengers, had come in and
announced that he had seen two sails in the offing, and without rest or
refreshment he, the Captain, and a couple of sailors started off to make
an effort to communicate with the welcome strangers. The rest of us
retired to rest upon rude couches made from the wreckage, and after the
fatigue and excitement of the day our sleep was sound.

About eight in the morning the exploring party returned with the news
that they had found the wreck of the ship _Mozart_ upon the eastern end
of the island, that from a slip of paper they had found that she had
gone ashore on the 7th of the previous December, and that the supposed
sails in the offing were a couple of tents erected for shelter by her
crew. Although our disappointment regarding the supposed ships was
great, we were glad to learn from the note left that the crew of the
_Mozart_ had been taken from the island by a passing vessel within a
week of her misfortune, and that therefore there seemed a reasonable
prospect of our own early rescue.

Meanwhile we had to consider the necessities of a food and water supply.
The water of the island was brackish and almost undrinkable, and food
was scarce in the extreme, consisting mainly of the scanty stores taken
from the _Maria Helena_, and some biscuits found aboard the _Mozart_.
Sea-birds were plentiful, but difficult to capture.

The Captain and I soon overcame the water famine, however, by
constructing a distiller from a rusty musket barrel and the remains of
an old copper boiler.

About a week after the wreck the _Maria Helena_ went to pieces during a
storm, and in a short time her broken and ragged timbers strewed the
shore. Soon after this the whale-boat, with Mr. Christie, the second
mate, and four sailors started off to a low promontory about fifty miles
away, to erect a signal for the attention of any passing ship, and to
learn something of the character of the island.

In three days one of the men returned with the news that the boat had
been upset in the breakers about forty miles away, and two seamen so
badly injured that the rest of the party had been compelled to leave
them behind with all the water that had been saved. The uninjured ones
then started to return to the ship, which they reached after incredible
difficulty and hardship, and a few days afterwards the wounded men were
found and brought back.

In the mean time the long-boat of the _Mozart_ had been found and decked
over for sea-service. We intended to send her to Honolulu to give
intelligence of our precarious situation, and to beg for relief. During
the time occupied in her refitting we passed many long hours in writing
to our friends. At last the letters were finished, the boat ready, and
we only awaited a smooth time for her launch. This came on a Sunday, but
we all felt that our situation justified a seeming violation of the day.

The word was given to shove off, and with lusty strokes the little boat
was impelled forward. Breaker after breaker followed each other in quick
succession, like the sturdy blows of the smith; yet she rode safely. But
like a stealthy thief in the night was the insidious wave that began to
form beyond the breaking waiters. At first but a barely perceptible
undulation, it acquired volume and power as it approached the reef, and
came thundering on as though conscious of its fearful majesty and might.
Nearer and nearer came that dreaded enemy, rearing its horrid form
aloft, until it struck the boat, and its work was accomplished. We
watched the receding wave with straining eyes, and were right joyous to
see all the crew clinging to the capsized boat or striking out manfully
for the shore. All but one landed safely, and four or five of the
watchers dashed in to his rescue. At last the Captain succeeded in
hauling him ashore, but although for two hours we made every effort to
restore him to consciousness, all our exertions failed.

After this fruitless attempt we were obliged to wait a fortnight until
the surf was moderate enough to warrant another trial. On the 7th of
February the boat was launched again, placed in charge of her crew,
which consisted of the first mate and four men, and anchored outside the
reef in safety. The rest of the day was passed in provisioning her for
her cruise, and on the morning of the next day the little vessel weighed
anchor, made sail to the northward and eastward, and went gallantly on
her way amid our cheers and blessings.

A long period of suspense was now passed, but on the morning of the 16th
of March a sail hove in sight, and soon proved to be the French frigate
_Sarcelle_, which had been despatched to our assistance by the French
consul at Honolulu as soon as he heard of our disaster from the first
mate. The long-boat had made her perilous journey in twenty-two days.

The surf was too rough to attempt embarkation the morning after the
_Sarcelle_ arrived, and we sent a message off to her by a Kanaka, who
was the only one of the party that could be trusted in the heavy
sea--which no boat could have lived through. He was furnished with a
small surf-board, and the note was hung in a bottle, which he tied
around his neck. He then walked out to the edge of the breakers, and
waited for a favorable opportunity before he attempted to breast them.

The enterprise that he was about to undertake was hazardous in the
extreme, and his every movement was watched intently by all hands
standing on the beach. The quick succession in which the rollers
followed each other, their irregularity, and the sharp coral rocks just
below the surface made the surf here particularly dangerous. Skill and
courage were necessary to pass safely through the boiling waters.

For ten or fifteen minutes after the boy was ready he stood silently
watching the breakers, waiting for a lull, and then sprang forward,
keeping his surf-board extended before him. The skill and ease with
which he ascended the perpendicular rollers as they came towering on,
and the courage which he displayed throughout, were the admiration of
all. As some huge breaker, more formidable than any that had preceded
it, formed outside and came thundering on, all expected to see him
thrown back before its tremendous power; but with his board raised
perpendicularly before him, he climbed to the lofty crest, and was lost
to view behind the conquered wave that came rushing on to break sullenly
on the shore. Again and again he encountered his enemy, again and again
to succeed.

In returning, the surf-board was thrown away, and awaiting a good
opportunity as before, he swam boldly into the rollers, keeping his face
toward them, and diving whenever they threatened to break. In this way
he reached the shore without a single bruise, bringing an answer that
the _Sarcelle_ would go around to the lee side of the island, where we
could embark in safety.

The next morning our caravan started, and after much suffering from
fatigue and thirst, we reached the French camp at 11 P.M. of the second
day.

We were treated with the utmost kindness and courtesy, and on the 26th
of March got under way for Honolulu. By ten o'clock Christmas Island,
the resting-place of so many weeks, sunk below the horizon, and in
sixteen days we stood once more on the wharf at Honolulu, surrounded
again by our welcoming friends.




SAN JACINTO CORN.[1]

[1] The writer had this incident from one who was present on the
occasion.

BY LILLIE E. BARR.


  There are thousands who remember the shout of sympathy
  That rolled from the New England hills down to the Mexic sea
  When the brave and gallant Houston, with his desperate little band,
  On San Jacinto's flowery plain won freedom for the land.

  They brought before him Santa Anna, the crafty and the bold,
  The wretch who wrote the cruel words: "Slay both the young and old.
  Spare no American you see; set all their homes ablaze;
  For they are heretics in faith, foreign in speech and ways."

  A fugitive, a captive bound, he stood that bright May day
  Among the stern and angry men that he had vowed to slay,
  And bowed with all his Spanish grace, and said, in accents bland:
  "General, you are most fortunate to lead so brave a band!

  "Are they Americans? If so, I do not understand
  The men whom Mexico permits to settle in this land.
  I am a soldier, but ne'er saw such men since I was born."
  Then Houston took out of his pouch part of an ear of corn.

  "No, sir, you do not understand," he, smiling proudly, said.
  "For four days we have lived on corn, tasted not meat or bread.
  How could you hope to e'er enslave men that were free men born?
  And who can watch and march and fight upon an ear of corn?"

  Young Zavala made answer swift: "The hope indeed is vain.
  General, from off that ear of corn give me, I pray, one grain;
  And I will plant the precious seed, and hoard whate'er it yields,
  Till I can freely scatter it o'er all my pleasant fields!"

  "And I a grain!" "And I a grain!" cried all the eager band.
  Till Santa Anna surely felt he could not understand
  The men who prized a grain of corn because in memory
  It linked itself with a Texan fight for faith and liberty.

  But in a few short years each grain increased a million-fold,
  And over many a lovely mile the pleasant story told.
  I heard it rustling in their leaves one sunny July morn
  Camping among the tasselled ears of the San Jacinto corn.




[Illustration]

THE BUFFALO DOLL SHOW.

BY ELIZABETH FLINT WADE.


All the Jenny Wrens of Buffalo were busy for weeks beforehand, preparing
for the event of the season--the _News_ Doll Show at Music Hall--and
when the opening day arrived the result of their labor must have
surprised even these industrious little workers. The first impression as
one entered the great hall was that not only all the dolls in Buffalo,
but in all the towns in the vicinity, had accepted the invitation to be
present. There were dolls everywhere. They hung from the balcony, and
clung to the fronts of the boxes; they clustered in pyramids against the
walls, and crowded the boughs of huge Christmas trees; they stood on
tables, and filled the evergreen arches; and each one seemed to be doing
her "sawdust best" to make this the finest doll show ever given.

A more democratic gathering of dolls could hardly be imagined. They came
in silks and velvets, in calicoes and muslins, in wools and in laces;
they wore gorgeous Worth costumes, tailor-made gowns, and party,
walking, and working gowns. Two came in bloomers, but seemed rather
ashamed of themselves, and tried to hide behind a group of demure-faced
nuns. There were newsboys, college-boys, Indian warriors, boy
choristers, brave knights in shining armor, and solemn priests with gown
and book. There were nurses in caps and aprons, milkmaids with milking
stools and pails, Salvation-Army lasses, royal queens of England, and
Quakers in soft gray gowns, with looks of mild astonishment at finding
themselves in such a mixed company.

The doll show was planned for the purpose of giving to every little girl
in Buffalo, between the ages of two and ten years, whom Santa Claus
seldom if ever visits, a doll at Christmas. All the dolls were to be
given away, except some of the groups, and those which were to compete
for prizes, and be afterward sold. The money taken for admission and
from the sale of dolls was to be divided between the Buffalo Fitch
Crèche and free kindergartens, so it was no wonder that every one was
interested.

Dolls were arranged to illustrate scenes from stories and from real
life, and, of course, the two charities which were to have the benefit
of the show were represented. A perfect fac-simile of the interior of
the crèche nursery, even to the wall-paper, was shown in miniature. The
nurses and babies were dolls. Baby dolls were sleeping in cradles;
others were playing in the fenced and cushioned "pond," where the little
one learns to creep; and others were sitting in the laps of doll nurses,
taking real milk out of tiny bottles. This group was made and donated by
the pupils of St. Margaret's School, and over the nursery was suspended
a beautiful doll representing St. Margaret, made after the figure of St.
Margaret in the famous painting in Glasgow.

The representation of the other charity--the free kindergarten--was so
perfect in every detail that it seemed as if a fairy must have touched a
real kindergarten with her magic wand, causing both room and pupils to
shrink to Lilliputian size. So natural were the attitudes of the dolls
at their work, play, and study, that one almost expected them to move
about like real kindergartners.

[Illustration: THE MAYPOLE DANCE.]

One of the gayest groups was arranged on a raised platform in the centre
of the hall. This was the Maypole dance, where, holding the ends of
bright ribbons, merry-faced dolls danced about two Maypoles, which were
festooned with flowers. "How natural!" was the exclamation of each
spectator, while the dolls in the balcony looked down on this group as
if envying them their good time, and wishing themselves in their places.

Two groups of special interest to the boys--for even boys condescended
to visit the doll show--were the football game and the bowling-alley.
For the football a ground had been marked off on green baize, and here a
lively scrimmage was going on; the make-up of the players was exact,
even to the long hair. One poor fellow, who had doubtless been in the
thickest of the "rush," was limping off the ground, his clothes torn and
muddy, his face stained with blood, and his football hair standing out
in every direction. In direct contrast to this scrambling group were the
tenpin-players in the bowling-alley. Two were playing--for it was a
double alley--while the others stood in order, watching the game and
waiting their turn at the bowls, each of them as silent and as grave as
the famous tenpin-players of the Kaatskills.

[Illustration: THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS.]

Whoever had read Chaucer's enchanting _Canterbury Tales_ could not fail
to recognize in one quaintly attired group the pilgrims on their way to
Canterbury, with Chancer riding in their midst. The stately knight was
at the head; following him was the "younge squire," and "short was his
gown with sleeves long and wide"; and bringing up the rear was the fat
and jolly priest. Having seen this merry company, one longed to hear
again the charming tales they told at the old Tabard Inn in Canterbury.
Next to this Old-World group was what might be called nineteenth-century
pilgrims--a band of Salvation-Army lasses marching to the sound of drum,
waving their banners, and shouting their "War-Cry."

[Illustration: THE SALVATION ARMY.]

The most elaborate group exhibited was called "A Hunt Breakfast"
(reproduced at the beginning of this article), representing the annual
"meet," when the Duke of Beaufort and the Earl of Bathurst join in a
fox-hunt, an event of great importance among English sportsmen. The
group surround a breakfast-table spread with every eatable found on an
English breakfast-table on a "meet" morning, the food, both in form and
color, being an exact imitation. The men were dressed in hunting
costumes, the Duke of Beaufort and his huntsmen wearing blue broadcloth
coats with buff facings, while the Earl of Bathurst and the "Vale of
White Horse" men wore pink broadcloth, the cloth being imported from
England expressly for these tiny huntsmen. Both parties wore white twill
hunting-breeches and high top hunting-boots, and the latter would have
taxed the skill of a fairy's boot-maker. At a side table one of the
hostesses was pouring tea, the tea-set being of Dresden china, decorated
in pink and blue, the sportsmen's colors. The whole scene was duplicated
in a three-panelled mirror at the back, which was twined with holly and
evergreens. At either side of the room was arranged an English park
scene. Pink water-lilies floated on tiny ponds, statues showed amid the
shrubbery, and a background of evergreen gave the appearance of a real
wood. This peep at the way English aristocracy amuses itself was
originated and arranged by Mrs. Harry Hamlin, of Buffalo, whose husband
takes an active part in the well-known Genesee Valley hunts, which were
described a short time ago in HARPER'S MAGAZINE.

The doll which attracted the most attention was one which had come all
the way from Paris--where she had just taken a prize at a doll show
there--to attend the Buffalo doll show, and see how such things were
done in America. From the tip of her fluffy parasol to the toe of her
slender boot she was a true Parisian. Her gown was of pink brocaded
satin, her coat and high poke bonnet were of moss-green velvet. In one
hand she held a lace fan, and in the other a ruffled chiffon parasol,
and a point-lace handkerchief peeped from a jewelled shopping-bag which
she carried on her arm. Her clothing was not her chief attraction, for
Mademoiselle could do wonderful things--for a doll. She turned her head,
fanned herself, twirled her parasol, bowed gracefully, winked in a most
coquettish manner, and shrugged her shoulders now and then as if the
great doll show was all very well for America, but couldn't compare with
Paris.

[Illustration: "THE LAST ONE!"]

One group that attracted a great deal of attention represented a little
newsboy, who is a well-known figure in Buffalo, selling his "last one"
to a lady. The doll which won first prize was a copy of Bartholdi's
Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, and was of perfect proportion,
even to the base on which it stood. Instead of a torch, she held in her
hand an incandescent light.

Saturday was children's day, and all of that day the hall was filled
with them. All the children's institutions had been given tickets of
admission, and not one child missed the show. To them it must have been
a glimpse into fairy-land. An East-Side free kindergarten teacher took
the precaution of tying the children under her charge all together with
a rope, after the fashion of a Swiss mother who passed through Buffalo a
few years ago on her way to the far West, with her ten children tied
together with a clothes-line. The children exclaimed over and admired
the grown-up dolls, but not one was heard to wish for one for her _very
own_.

"Wouldn't you like that nice doll for yours?" said an older sister to
the little maid in her charge, pointing to a doll in a wonderful Worth
gown.

"No, I would not," came the quick reply. "She's far too old. Do you
think I want to be a grandmother?"

"They're just lovely," said one little girl, as she walked round the
stage looking at the prize dolls; "but they're not nice to play with. I
want a doll that will wash."

"Here is the doll I like best of all," said a brown-eyed maid, stopping
before a two-year-old baby doll with curly hair and laughing black eyes.

"And I! And I too!" said half a dozen others, crowding closer. "She's
just the doll you could cuddle and take comfort with."

An agent of Santa Claus was at the show on children's day. A poorly clad
child was gazing wistfully at a table loaded with "every-day" dolls.
"Which of those would you like best?" said a voice at her elbow, and
there stood a stout gentleman looking down at her in the most friendly
manner. "This, sir, if you please, sir," pointing to a doll in pink
gingham. In a moment it was in her arms, and the gentleman was gone; but
he was heard from at various tables, though no one could keep track of
him very long; and owing to his kindness many children who never had a
"boughten" doll before carried one home then. No one found out who he
was, but one five-year-old, who hugged a flaxen-haired doll to her
heart, said she "guessed he was Santa Claus's brother."

There were ten thousand dolls at the doll show, and the day before
Christmas the police force and the members of the charity organizations
distributed them, and on Christmas morning there were many happy doll
mothers in Buffalo who, for the first time in their little lives, tended
doll babies--thanks to the _News_ Doll Show at Music Hall.




A PATIENT TUSSLE.


  If I were you I wouldn't mind
    A tussle with my Latin verb;
  I'd rule myself in study hours
    As if with steady rein and curb.
  One day you'll find that Latin text,
    If you'll have patience, just superb.




AMATEUR COOKING FOR LITTLE GIRLS.


The amount of pleasure that a little girl can have with a cooking-stove
that will really and truly cook is difficult for any one who has not
tried it to realize. In these days toy cooking-stoves are so made that a
real true fire can be made in them, and very good meals can be cooked,
even if the stove is a small one.

Two little children, a boy and girl aged respectively six and eight,
think there is no fun in the world like that of cooking their supper on
their stove, which stands on the hearth in their nursery. Their mamma is
a good housekeeper, and has a wonderful old-fashioned receipt-book, in
which she has written receipts for grown-up people's food, but which she
finds can be used by the children if only a third of the materials are
taken. Last week these two children--we will call them Howard and
Marion, although these are not their real names--were allowed to invite
their cousin Ruth to take supper with them, and to cook the supper
themselves. Howard made the fire very carefully, with only just enough
paper to start the shavings of wood. Then when it blazed up and the
draught was good he put in some more wood and some very fine coal.
Marion in the mean time was busy preparing the materials for cooking;
she had to get ready creamed chicken, creamed potatoes, and cup-cake.
The chicken had already been roasted and the potatoes boiled, but she
had to cut up both the meat and vegetable into small pieces.

The cream sauce had to be made by adding two teaspoonfuls of flour to a
half-cup of cream, and stirring it well before putting on to warm. When
the sauce was ready to heat, two saucepans were filled, one with the
chicken and the other with the potatoes, and the sauce was poured over
them. A pinch of salt was added, and they were left on the fire until
thoroughly cooked. As the fire was burning well, this was about five
minutes. Served hot, these were two delicious dishes, I can assure you.

The cake both children helped to make from the following receipt, called
cup-cake: 1 cup of butter, 2 cups of sugar, 3 cups of flour, 1 cup of
milk, 4 eggs, 1 teaspoonful of soda. This receipt is for grown-up
people, so the children only used a third of it; but it was quite as
good. Marion beat the sugar and butter together until it looked like
thick cream, while Howard was beating the eggs. Then the flour and
beaten eggs were stirred up with the sugar and butter, and the soda
(dissolved in milk) was added as a finishing touch. Then it was poured
into the cunningest little patty-pan imaginable, all buttered so it
would not stick to the bottom, and was put in the oven, where it only
had to stay fifteen minutes, as the fire was burning just right.

There are many other things these children have learned to cook, but
these three are their favorites, and they say they really can't tell
which they enjoy most, the cooking or the eating.




THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

CHAPTER III.

GRACE TAKES A HAND.


"Mother darling, may I have a good long talk with you to-day, a
confidential talk, we two by ourselves?"

"Yes, Grace, I shall be delighted."

"And when can it be? You always have so many around you, dear: and no
wonder, this is the centre of the house, this chair, which is your
throne."

"Well, let me see," said Mrs. Wainwright, considering. "After dinner the
children go to Sunday-school, and papa has always a few Sunday patients
whom he must visit. Between two and four I am always alone on Sunday,
and we can have a chat then. Mildred and Frances will probably walk home
with Miriam, and want to carry you off to the Manse to tea."

"Not on my first home Sunday, mamma," said Grace. "I must have every
littlest bit of that here, though I do expect to have good times with
the Manse girls. Is Mrs. Raeburn as sweet as ever? I remember her
standing at the station and waving me good-by when I went away with
auntie, and Amy, the dearest wee fairy, was by her side."

"Amy is full of plans," said Mrs. Wainwright. "She is going to the
League to study art if her mother can spare her. Mildred and Frances
want to go on with their French, and one of the little boys, I forget
which, has musical talent; but there is no one in Highland who can teach
the piano. The Raeburn children are all clever and bright."

"They could hardly help being that, mamma, with such a father and
mother, and the atmosphere of such a home."

All this time there was the hurry and bustle of Sunday morning in a
large family where every one goes to church, and the time between
breakfast and half past ten is a scramble. Grace kept quietly on with
the work she had that morning assumed, straightening the quilts on the
invalid's chair, bringing her a new book, and setting a little vase with
a few late flowers on the table by her side. Out of Grace's trunks there
had been produced gifts for the whole household, and many pretty things,
pictures and curios, which lent attractiveness to the parlor, grown
shabby and faded with use and poverty, but still a pretty and homelike
parlor, as a room which is lived in by well-bred people must always be.

"Well, when the rest have gone to Sunday-school and papa has started on
his afternoon rounds, I'll come here and take my seat, where I used to
when I was a wee tot, and we'll have an old-fashioned confab. Now if the
girls have finished dressing, I'll run and get ready for church. I'm so
glad all through that I can again hear one of Dr. Raeburn's helpful
sermons."

Mrs. Wainwright smiled.

"To hear Frances's and Amy's chatter, one would not think that so great
a privilege, Grace."

"Oh, that amounts to nothing, mamma! Let somebody else criticise their
father, and you'd hear another story. Ministers' families are apt to be
a little less appreciative than outsiders, they are so used to the
minister in all his moods. But Dr. Raeburn's _Every Morning_ has been
my companion book to the Bible ever since I was old enough to like and
need such books, and though I was so small when I went that I remember
only the music of his voice, I want to hear him preach again."

"Grace," came a call from the floor above, "you can have your turn at
the basin and the looking-glass if you'll come this minute. Hurry, dear,
I'm keeping Eva off by strategy. You have your hair to do, and I want
you to hook my collar. You must have finished in mother's room, and it's
my belief you two are just chattering. Harry, please, dear!"

"Yes, Miriam, I'm coming. But let Eva go on. It takes only a second for
me to slip into my jacket. I never dress for church," she explained to
her mother. "This little black gown is what I always wear on Sundays."

"I wish you could have a room of your own, daughter. It's hard after
you've had independence so long to be sandwiched in between Miriam and
Eva. But we could not manage another room just now." The mother looked
wistful.

"I'm doing very well, mamma. Never give it a thought. Why, it's fun
being with my sisters as I always used to be. Miriam is the one entitled
to a separate room, if anybody could have it."

Yet she stifled a sigh as she ran up to the large ill-appointed chamber
which the three sisters used in common.

When you have had your own separate individual room for years, with
every dainty belonging that is possible for a luxurious taste to
provide, it is a bit of a trial to give it up and be satisfied with a
cot at one end of a long barnlike place, with no chance for solitude,
and only one mirror and one pitcher and basin to serve the needs of
three persons. It can be borne, however, as every small trial in this
world may, if there is a cheerful spirit and a strong loving heart to
fall back on. Besides, most things may be improved if you know how to go
about the task. The chief thing is first to accept the situation, and
then bravely to undertake the changing it for the better.

"Doctor," said the mother, as her husband brushed his thin gray hair in
front of his chiffonier, while the merry sound of their children's
voices came floating down to them through open doors--"Doctor, thank the
dear Lord for me in my stead when you sit in the pew to-day. I'll be
with you in my thoughts. It's such a blessed thing that our little
middle girl is at home with us."

The Doctor sighed. That bill in his pocket was burning like fire in his
soul. He was not a cent nearer meeting it than he had been on Friday,
and to-morrow was but twenty-four hours off. Yesterday he had tried to
borrow from a cousin, but in vain.

"I fail to see a blessing anywhere, Charlotte," he said. "Things couldn't
well be worse. This is a dark bit of the road." He checked himself. Why
had he saddened her? It was not his custom.

"When things are at the very worst, Jack, I've always noticed that they
take a turn for the better. It may not be my way; it may not be thy way;
but yet in His own way the Lord will provide." Mrs. Wainwright spoke
steadily and cheerfully. Her thin cheeks flushed with feeling. Her tones
were strong. Her smile was like a sun-beam. Doctor Wainwright's courage
rose.

"Anyway, darling wife, you are the best blessing a man ever had." He
stooped and kissed her like a lover.

Presently the whole family, Grace walking proudly at her father's side,
took their way across the fields to church.

Perhaps you may have seen lovely Sunday mornings, but I don't think
there is a place in the whole world where Sunday sunshine is as clear,
Sunday stillness as full of rest, Sunday flowers as fragrant, as in our
hamlet among the hills, our own dear Highland. Far and near the roads
wind past farms and fields, with simple happy homes nestling under the
shadow of the mountains. You hear the church-bells, and their sound is
soft and clear as they break the golden silence. Groups of people,
rosy-cheeked children, and sturdy boys and pleasant-looking men and
women pass you walking to church, exchanging greetings. Carriage-loads
of old and young drive on, all going the same way. It makes me think of
a verse in the Psalm which my old Scottish mother loved:

  "I joyed when to the house of God
    'Go up,' they said to me,
  'Jerusalem, within thy gates
    Our feet shall standing be.'"

"Oh, Paradise! oh, Paradise!" hummed Amy Raeburn that same Sunday
morning as, the last to leave the Manse, she ran after her mother and
sisters. The storm of the two previous days had newly brightened the
landscape. Every twig and branch shone, and the red and yellow maple
leaves, the wine-color of the oak, the burnished copper of the beech,
were like jewels in the sun.

"If it were not Sunday I would dance," said Amy, subduing her steps to a
sober walk as she saw approaching the majestic figure of Mrs. Cyril
Bannington Barnes.

[Illustration: "THIS BEING BEHIND TIME IS VERY REPREHENSIBLE, MY LOVE."]

"You are late, Amy Raeburn," said this lady. "Your father went to church
a half-hour ago, and the bell is tolling. Young people should cultivate
a habit of being punctual. This being a few minutes behind time is very
reprehensible--very rep-re-hen-sible indeed, my love."

"Yes, ma'am," replied Amy, meekly, walking slowly beside the also tardy
Mrs. Barnes.

"I dare say," continued Mrs. Barnes, "that you are thinking to yourself
that I also am late. But, Amy, I have no duty to the parish. I am an
independent woman. You are a girl, and the minister's daughter at that.
You are in a very different position. I do hope, Amy Raeburn, that you
will not be late another Sunday morning. Your mother is not so good a
disciplinarian as I could wish."

"No, Mrs. Barnes?" said Amy, with a gentle questioning manner, which
would have irritated the matron still more had their progress not now
ceased on the church steps. Amy, both resentful and amused, fluttered,
like an alarmed chick to the brooding mother-wing, straight to the
minister's pew. Mrs. Barnes, smoothing ruffled plumes, proceeded with
stately and impressive tread to her place in front of the pulpit.

Doctor Raeburn was rising to pronounce the invocation. The church was
full. Amy glanced over to the Wainwright pew, and saw Grace, and smiled.
Into Amy's mind stole a text she was fond of, quite as if an angel had
spoken it, and she forgot that she had been ruffled the wrong way by
Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes. This was the text:

"Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good."

"You are a hateful, wicked girl, Amy," said Amy to herself. "Why, when
you have so much to make you happy, are you so easily upset by a fretful
old lady, who is, after all, your friend, and would stand by you if
there were need?"

Amy did not know it, but it was Grace's sweet and tranquil look that had
brought the text to her mind. One of the dearest things in life is that
we may do good and not know that we are doing it.

When the Sunday hush fell on the house of which Mrs. Wainwright had
spoken Grace came softly tapping at the door.

"Yes, dear," called her mother; "come right in."

"Mamma," said Grace, after a few minutes, "will you tell me plainly, if
you don't mind, what is worrying papa? I don't mean generally, but what
special trouble is on his mind to-day?"

"Potter's bill, I have no doubt," said the mother, quietly. "Other
troubles come and go, but there is always Potter's bill in the
background. And every little while it crops up and gets into the front."

"What is Potter's bill, dear mamma, and how do we come to owe it?"

"I can't fully explain to you, my child, how it comes to be so large.
When Mr. Potter's father was living and carrying on the business, he
used to say to your father: 'Just get all you want here, doctor; never
give yourself a thought; pay when you can and what you can. We come to
you for medical advice and remedies, and we'll strike a balance
somehow.' The Potters have during years had very little occasion for a
doctor's services, and we, with this great family, have had to have
groceries, shoes, and every other thing, and Potter's bill has kept
rolling up like a great snowball, bit by bit. We pay something now and
then. I sold my old sideboard that came to me from my grandparents, and
paid a hundred dollars on it six months ago. Old Mr. Potter died. Rufus
reigns in his stead, as the Bible says, and he wants to collect his
money. I do not blame him, Grace, but he torments poor papa. There are
two hundred dollars due now, and papa has been trying to get money due
him, and to pay Rufus fifty dollars, but he's afraid he can't raise the
money."

Grace reflected. Then she asked a question. "Dear mamma, don't think me
prying, but is Potter's the only pressing obligation on papa just now?"

Mrs. Wainwright hesitated. Then she answered, a little slowly, "No,
Grace, there are other accounts; but Potter's is the largest."

"I ask, because I can help my father," said Grace, modestly. "Uncle
Ralph deposited five hundred dollars to my credit in a New York bank on
my birthday. The money is mine, to do with absolutely as I please. I
have nearly fifty dollars in my trunk. Uncle and auntie have always
given me money lavishly. Papa can settle Potter's account to-morrow. I'm
only too thankful I have the money. To think that money can do so much
towards making people happy or making them miserable! Then, mother dear,
we'll go into papa's accounts, and see how near I can come to relieving
the present state of affairs; and if papa will consent, we'll collect
his bills, and then later, I've another scheme--that is a fine,
sweet-toned piano in the parlor. I mean to give lessons."

"Grace, it was an extravagance in our circumstances to get that piano,
but the girls were so tired of the old one; it was worn out, a tin pan,
and this is to be paid for on easy terms, so much a month."

Grace hated to have her mother apologize in this way. She hastened to
say, "I'm glad it's here, and don't think me conceited, but I've had the
best instruction uncle could secure for me here, and a short course in
Berlin, and now I mean to make it of some use. I believe I can get
pupils."

"Not many in Highland, I fear, Grace."

"If not in Highland, in New York. Leave that to me."

Mrs. Wainwright felt as if she had been taking a tonic. To the lady
living her days out in her own chamber, and unaccustomed to excitement,
there was something very surprising and very stimulating too in the
swift way of settling things and the fearlessness of this young girl.
Though she had yielded very reluctantly to her brother's wish to keep
Grace apart from her family and wholly his own for so many years, she
now saw that there was good in it. Her little girl had developed into a
resolute, capable, and strong sort of young woman, who could make use of
whatever tools her education had put into her hands.

"This hasn't been quite the right kind of Sunday talk, mother," said
Grace, "but I haven't been here three days without seeing there's a
cloud, and I don't like to give up to clouds. I'm like the old woman who
must take her broom and sweep the cobwebs out of the sky."

"God helping you, dear, you will succeed. You have swept some cobwebs
out of my sky already."

"God helping me, yes, dear. Thank you for saying that. Now don't you
want me to sing to you? I'll darken your room and set the door ajar, and
then I'll go to the parlor and play soft, rippling, silvery things, and
sing to you, and you will fall asleep while I'm singing, and have a
lovely nap before they all come home."

As Grace went down the stairs, she paused a moment at the door of the
big dining-room, "large as a town-hall," her father sometimes said.
Everything at Wishing-Brae was of ample size--great rooms, lofty
ceilings, big fire-places, broad windows.

"I missed the sideboard, the splendid old mahogany piece with its deep
winy lustre, and the curious carved work. Mother must have grieved to
part with it. Surely uncle and aunt couldn't have known of these
straits. Well, I'm at home now, and they need somebody to manage for
them. Uncle always said I had a business head. God helping me, I'll pull
my people out of the slough of despond."

The young girl went into the parlor, where the amber light from the west
was beginning to fall upon the old Wainwright portraits, the candelabra
with their prisms pendent, and the faded cushions and rugs. Playing
softly, as she had said, singing sweetly "Abide with me" and "Sun of my
soul," the mother was soothed into a peaceful little half-hour of sleep,
in which she dreamed that God had sent her an angel guest, whose name
was Grace.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XIV.

HIGH LIVING.


The gift of mimicry had now served the young spy in good stead. He lay
hidden for some time, chuckling over having barked to such good purpose.
Then he retraced his steps, and at last he found the tree. No doubt the
man he had seen there had been one of the mysterious people he was
expected soon to meet.

By leaning far out from one branch to the other, George could insert his
hand in the hole of the projecting limb. It was empty, and he dropped
his letter into the hollow. Then he returned carefully through the town
to the inn, and without much difficulty gained the top of the wall, the
projecting roof, and once more his chamber window. The falling snow, he
knew, would hide his footprints.

He was awakened the next morning by a loud knocking. He had slept late,
and the glaring sunlight, reflected from the white expanse outside, was
pouring into the room. He arose hastily and unlocked the door. One of
the inn servants was standing there. He touched his finger to his
forehead respectfully.

"The landlord's compliments, sir, and your box is here. Shall I bring it
up?" he inquired.

George had made up his mind to be surprised at nothing. "By all means,"
he answered. "Glad it has arrived."

"Oh, it has been here this fortnight," returned the man.

"Of course," George laughed; "and longer, mayhap, eh?"

"I don't know, sir. Have you the key?"

The fictitious Mr. Blount did not know what to reply. "Mr. Gerry has
it," he answered at last, mentioning the landlord's name at a venture.

"I will ask him, sir," said the servant, "and bring up the box at once."

He disappeared.

"What did it all mean?" thought George to himself.

In a few minutes the servant reappeared with a large leather-covered,
nail-studded trunk. "And here's the key," he puffed. "Mr. Gerry had it,
as you said, sir."

George raised the lid. Silk stockings, plush and velvet coats, satin
waistcoats, and frilled shirts!--the wardrobe of a dandy--was exposed
before his eyes. But instead of showing his astonishment, he merely
closed the top and said:

"Is there naught else?"

"I think not, sir," said the servant, pocketing his tip.

When he had gone, "Mr. Richard Blount" took out the articles one by one.

"This may be part of the scheme," he said. "I suppose that I shall have
to wear them. What's next to do?" He tried on the clothes. They fitted
him as if made for him. He looked at himself in the greenish-yellow
glass. "Whoever I look like," he said, "I do not resemble George
Frothingham of the Twelfth New Jersey Infantry, that's one thing
certain." Looking for a closet or a place to hang up his finery, he
espied a small door at the farther side of the room. It opened upon a
narrow stairway, and the odor of cooking showed that it led probably to
the kitchen.

The only thing the trunk contained that George did not make use of was a
white wig. The strong dye he had used had taken the curl out of his
hair, and he drew it back from his forehead straight and glossy as an
Indian's.

He chose a rather quiet wine- coat, crimson waistcoat, and pearl
breeches, and setting the lace-trimmed hat jauntily on his head, went
down into the coffee-room.

"Ah, good-morning, Mr. Blount!" said the landlord. "There was an officer
of his Majesty's horse here this morning asking for you. But he
requested that you should not be disturbed." George bowed his thanks,
and asked the landlord to hurry with his breakfast.

As he turned about he could have fallen, for there, quite close to him,
was standing Schoolmaster Anderson. He was not blind at all! His keen
ferretlike eyes had the same quick glance, and his thin lips that same
Sphinx-like expression. But the beauty of George's disguise was proved
in an instant to his satisfaction, for Mr. Anderson looked at him
curiously, and asked Mr. Gerry his name in a voice that was quite
audible.

"Richard Blount," the latter replied.

"Ah, indeed!" answered the ex-schoolmaster. "The nephew of our
friend--eh?"

"The same," the landlord replied, as his young guest seated himself at
the table.

George's hands were shaking so with excitement that he could hardly hold
his knife and fork at first, but he quickly got over it, and a feeling
of exultation came into his mind. If Mr. Anderson had not recognized
him, no one else would, surely. If no one who actually knew the real
Richard Blount turned up, he was safe enough.

At this moment a loud blustering voice was heard, and a great figure
came from the hallway into the coffee-room.

It was Rivington, the King's printer, the man the early patriots had
wished to tar and feather for his utterances. He scarcely acknowledged
Mr. Anderson's nod, but turned to an officer who was following him.

"How that little schoolmaster does put on airs!" he said. "Why he
receives toleration I do not see."

"He is rather clever, I fancy," replied the officer. "His imitation of
General Washington is most amusing."

"Yes, he is amusing," responded Rivington.

George looked at Mr. Anderson once more. His small head seemed to
retreat into the folds of his neck-cloth, and the lace at his wristband
hung below his finger-tips. His clothes were as gorgeous as the plumage
of a peacock, and he had a way of bringing his heels together with a
click like a dancing-master. But the keen eyes and that protruding chin
would have told an accurate observer that a brain of no mean quality was
hidden underneath the curled white wig. But Rivington and the officer
were approaching.

"Ah, here's my friend of the other morning!" exclaimed the
officer--"young Blount of Albany." The speaker was the young cavalry
Captain who had met George on the hill-side two days before. "I see you
have found your tailor," he went on.

"No; better luck, my wardrobe," answered George. "I feared me I had lost
it."

"Good! Allow me to present our loyal friend, Mr. Rivington, long-time
printer to his Majesty," replied the officer.

"Your service, sir," replied Mr. Rivington, looking at George
thoughtfully. "You have not changed since I saw you last at Albany."

Imagine the surprise of the fictitious Richard Blount! Everything was
certainly playing into his hands. But he merely bowed, and asked the two
gentlemen to breakfast with him. They accepted, and seated themselves.

George once more had to recount the story of his supposed adventures on
the way from the city up the river.

Occasionally Rivington would interrupt with leading questions. "Ah, from
there you turned to the left and took the Lime Kiln Road beyond
Hudson--eh? Then down into the valley by Cloverburgh?"

A fear welled into George's heart. Was this man trying to trip him? So
to all questions he replied in the negative, and told of another way; to
which Rivington agreed, generally speaking, thus:

"Yes, 'tis the better route, I understand. A very clever ruse, indeed.
Think you not so, Captain?"

"Quite wonderful," the other replied. "Mr. Blount should tell it to
General Howe. The Yankees are not so clever as he thinks."

"Oh, by no odds!" Rivington had responded.

"You mentioned having despatches to his Lordship and his brother," said
the younger officer. "Do you not think it would be well to deliver them
as soon as possible? Pardon my suggestion."

"'Tis my intention to deliver them to-day. Can you secure an interview?"
inquired George, eagerly.

"Beyond all doubt I can," said Rivington, interrupting. "They will be
glad to see you."

An hour or so later George was waiting, with the florid printer, in the
little anteroom of the polished hallway of one of the large private
houses that belonged to New York's most wealthy family. It was here that
General Howe and his brother, the noble Lord, lived when on shore. They
both had quarters also on board the flag-ship in the bay.

Something was going on, for aides and orderlies streamed in and out of
the big house, and despatches were being taken to the various commands;
secretaries, with their arms full of papers and with pens behind their
ears came out occasionally, filled with importance.

At last an orderly stepped up to where our hero and Rivington were
pleasantly chatting. "General Howe will see you, gentlemen," he said,
saluting.

George caught himself in the act of replying to the salute. That would
never do at all. He was supposed to be ignorant of military tactics, and
he trembled at his narrow escape.

General Howe glanced over the despatches lazily. He appeared to be an
easy-going man of indolent habits, for he lounged in his chair. He had a
good-natured face.

"So the American General Schuyler is disgruntled, eh?" he said. "'Tis
quite like opera-bouffe. And they say that Farmer Gates from
Massachusetts may supersede him. Well, well, the plot thickens.
Burgoyne's army is obstructed by broken roads and felled trees. Let them
take their time. They will encounter nothing worse. 'Tis my opinion that
we forced things too hard in Now Jersey. I thank you for the news these
despatches contain, my dear young sir," he said, "and it is good news to
hear of our friends up the river. Can I do anything for you? You can
most certainly command me. I trust I shall see you again."

A splendid hound was sprawled out on the rug before the fireplace.
George looked at him carefully. He knew the dog in an instant. It was
one that had been raised by Mr. Wyeth. General Howe followed the lad's
glance.

"I see you know a good dog when you see him," he said. "'Twas a present
to me from a soldier. He seems to have an antipathy for Yankees, but
likes a scarlet coat."

The dog turned over on his back and lazily tapped the floor with his
tail. Seeing George, he arose and stretched himself; but as he
approached closer he suddenly grew excited, and jumped up on the young
man's breast, trying his best to lick his hands and face.

"How strange!" said General Howe. "I have never seen him pay aught of
attention to a stranger here before. Down, down! you devil!" The dog
slunk beneath the table, and at last Rivington and "Richard Blount"
stepped out in the hallway.

"'Tis strange about dogs," the older man was saying. "They are both
faithful and capricious."

George went back to his hotel. On his way he had another proof that his
disguise was quite impenetrable, for whom should he pass walking along
the street but Abel Norton, the chief clerk. George held his breath. The
old man, however, looked him in the face and passed on.

All this lack of recognition gave George the necessary assurance to
carry on his fictitious position. He listened to the talk of the
soldiers in the grill-room at the City Arms, but gained little knowledge
of the plans even from the conversation of the officers. It was evident
that the leaders of the British feared their divulgence. It was not Lord
Howe's intention to let Washington know the destination of the fleet,
which he could turn either northward to the assistance of Burgoyne, or
southward into the Chesapeake and the Delaware. While this uncertainty
remained, both forces were at a standstill.

It had thawed during the day, and a drizzling rain had set in. Late at
night George opened the window, and once more stood upon the roof. Then
he dropped over the wall to the ground. He had once more donned the old
suit which he had worn as his first disguise, and with his collar drawn
up to his ears he strode northward. He had not gone far when, as he
turned about the corner of a lane, he thought he heard the sound of some
one screaming. Then a doorway burst open, throwing a flood of light out
into the darkness, and a female voice was heard screaming shrilly:

"Thieves! robbers! help!"

A man's figure was seen struggling at the doorway with a woman, who had
grasped him firmly by the throat.

George, animated by an impulse, jumped the fence and ran to the house.
But before he reached there, a man turned the corner at top speed and
disappeared.

George knew the little house well; it was in a room in the second story
that he had passed many a night thinking of the past and planning for
the future. It was Mrs. Mack's.

"For the love of Heaven, Mr. Frothingham!" exclaimed a voice.

George had come within the ray of light, and it was none other than the
good washer-woman who was standing there.

"The blackguard tried to rob me," she said. "He stole in the back way,
and I found him in the pantry; but he didn't get a thing," she added,
"He might have murthered me intirely if you hadn't come up, sir."

George stepped inside the house and closed the door. "Would you have
known me, Mrs. Mack?" he asked.

"Indade in a minute, sir," she said, "I think. No, but you have changed.
Perhaps it was the way you leaped the fince. Your hair, sir--what has
happened it?"

"Mrs. Mack," said George, "I must speak quickly. I am here on dangerous
business. If you see me anywhere you must not recognize me--until you
see me in my uniform. Do you understand?"

"Shure," said the good woman. "Now I recall your face, you're a perfect
stranger, sir."

George smiled. "Have you seen the deaf-and-dumb man who brought the
money to me?"

"I do now and then. And shure he often asks fer ye."

"And what do you tell him?" asked George.

"That I hope ye're well," she responded.

"Now, Mrs. Mack, how can you do it?"

"And indade and with signs, and why not?" she asked, giving the same
answer that she had once before. "P'r'aps I have promised not to tell."

"Well," was the response, "remember, would you know me now? I have to
hasten."

"I would not," replied the widow. "Good-by, and may the Lord bless ye!"

"It was strange that she recognized me and the others did not," George
was thinking to himself, as he approached the lonely orchard, whose path
was rarely used except by the occupants of the two farms that bordered
it. "It may have been the walk," he added.

The snow had melted so that he could find no trace of any one having
been there before him on this day, but when he reached his hand back
into the limb of the tree, he touched a paper. How it thrilled him! Now
he would find out what things meant. There was something else there
also, and stretching out his fingers, he grasped a leather bag, which
clinked musically as he drew it forth. It was more gold! He hurried back
to the inn, and climbed to the top of the wall. But what was his dismay
and horror when he saw a figure on the roof bending on its knees trying
to look into the window of his room! A light was burning brightly
within.

George lowered himself cautiously and turned about the corner. What was
he to do? How was he to regain the second story? The papers must be read
at once.

George did not know that the man on the roof had caught sight of his
head as he had drawn himself up to the top of the wall, and had called:
"Hist! Blount! Oh, Blount!" in a low tone.

Then the stranger had crawled to the edge of the roof, and whispered
again: "Hist! Number Four! I am Number Two."

But he looked and listened in vain for an answer, for at this moment
George had disappeared in the darkness. He had not heard the hail.

With the agility of a sailor the small figure slid to the ground and
walked away quickly. If the young spy had heard the footsteps he would
have known that it was his old friend the schoolmaster.

When George reached the corner he leaned back against a buttress,
puzzling what to do.

Then he remembered with a start the door in his room that he had opened
thinking it would be a closet, but had discovered it to be a narrow
stairway that led down into a sort of servants' hall off the kitchen. If
he could gain it now he might be able to see within his apartment and
find out what was going on. The man on the roof prevented him, of
course, from getting back the way he left.

The tap-room opened upon the alley. It was thick with the clouds of
tobacco smoke, and noisy with the conversation of the crowd. He knew
that if he could once get beyond it to the kitchen he might be able to
find the door that led to the stairway. And now an idea struck him. The
walls were covered with rough cartoons and sheets of somewhat vulgar
songs, which most of the crowd had learned by heart. He had seen the men
often edging along, with their faces close to the wall, as if they had
been bookworms searching in a case for a mislaid volume. He stepped
inside the room, and followed the same tactics. No one paid the least
attention to him, and with his back to those seated about the tables, he
made his way to the kitchen. Here good luck also favored him, for a fat
man in a greasy apron snored in the corner. He was the only occupant,
and a door partly ajar disclosed to him the servants' stairway.

George stole softly up, and reached a little landing, which he knew at
once was the one he had looked at from his own room. He could hear the
sound of voices from within. One was loud and hearty, and the other he
knew at once as Landlord Gerry's.

"He is out on some escapade with the young officers, I promise you,"
said the landlord, "or mayhap he has gone over to the fleet, though all
below-stairs say that they did not see him go out. Why don't you wait
until the morning, sir? He appears a popular young gentleman, and may
possibly stay out late."

"No, he is a sleepy-head, my nephew," responded the other. "And he will
return soon if summat has not befallen him."

"He is a handsome lad," put in the landlord.

The other laughed. "Well, that depends where you look for beauty," he
responded. "I never reckoned him as such."

George saw it all now. It was the uncle from Connecticut, who had
returned, and, to use the expression, "the jig was up."

But what meant the man on the roof?

Seating himself on the stairway, his courage almost left him. What was
he to do? A hiding-place must be found before morning.

He thought at once of Mrs. Mack's. There lay his only hope. But there
was now some movement in the kitchen. The fat man, who had been
sleeping, was stirring a rasher of bacon over the fire. The talking had
ceased in his room, and suddenly he remembered with a start of fright
that the cipher and locket he had left under the pillow of the bed. It
almost made him sick with fear. He moved from his hiding-place, and
putting his eye to the key-hole, looked within.

The candle was guttering, and a huge shadow wavered across the opposite
wall. As his eye became accustomed to the light and the draught of air
blowing through the key-hole, he made out the figure of the large man
sitting in an easy-chair. His breast was rising and falling. He was
asleep.

[Illustration: IN TWO STEPS HE WOULD BE IN FULL VIEW.]

George tried the door. It moved, and in a moment he was standing in the
room. Here he paused. In two steps more he would be in full view of the
person looking through the window. He carefully measured the distance
and the direction of objects about him; and drawing a long breath he
blew with all his might at the candle on the dressing-case. It flickered
and went out. Then he stepped across in the darkness and placed his hand
beneath the pillow.

The heavy man drew a long breath and moved his head. "Confound that
light!" he said, and George heard him arise to his feet and fumble along
the wall.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




RIDDLES IN FLOWERS.

BY WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON,

AUTHOR OF "HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS," "SHARP EYES," ETC.


Indeed, are they not all riddles? Where is the flower which even to the
most devoted of us has yet confided all its mysteries? In comparison
with the insight of the earlier botanists, we have surely come much
closer to the flowers, and they have imparted many of their secrets to
us. Through the inspired vision of Sprengel, Darwin, and their
followers, we have learned something of their meaning, in addition to
the knowledge of their structure, which comprised the end and aim of the
study of those early scholars, Linnæus, Lindley, Jassieu, and De
Candolle. To these and other eminent worthies in botany we owe much of
our knowledge of _how_ the flowers are made, and of the classification
based upon this structure, but if these great savants had been asked,
"You have shown us that it _is so_, but _why_ is it thus?" they could
only have replied, "We know not; we only know that an all-wise
Providence has so ordained and created it."

Take this little collection, which I have here presented, of stamens and
petals selected at random from common blossoms. What inexplicable
riddles to the botanist of a hundred years ago, even of sixty years ago!
For not until that time was their significance fully understood; and yet
each of these presents but one of several equally puzzling features in
the same flowers from which they were taken.

[Illustration: PUZZLING FORMS AND FACES.]

In that first anther, for example, why those pores at the tip of the
cells, instead of the usual slits at the sides, and why that pair of
horns at the back? And the next one, with longer tubes, and the same two
horns besides! Then there is that queer specimen with flapping ears--one
of six from the barberry blossom; and the pointed, arrow-headed
individual with a long plume from its apex; and the curved C-shaped
specimen--one of a pair of twins which hide beneath the hood of the sage
blossom. The lily anther, which comes last, is poised in the centre.
Why? What puzzles to the mere botanist! for it is because these eminent
scholars _were mere_ botanists--students and chroniclers of the
structural facts of flowers--that this revelation of the truth about
these blossom features was withheld from them. It was not until they had
become philosophers and true seers, not until they sought the divine
significance, the reason, which lay behind or beneath these facts, that
the flowers disclosed their mysteries to them.

Look at that random row of petals too!--one with a peacock's eye, two
others with dark spots, and next the queer-fingered petal of the
mignonette, followed by one of that queer couple of the monk's-hood
blossom which no one ever sees unless he tears the flower hood to
pieces. We all know the nasturtium, but have we thought to ask it why
these petals have such a deep crimson or orange  spot, and why
each one is so beautifully fringed at the edge of its stalk?

These are but a dozen of the millions of similar challenges, riddles,
puzzles, which the commonest flowers of field and garden present to us;
and yet we claim to "know" our nasturtium, our pink, our monk's-hood
larkspur, our daisy, and violet!

No; we must be _more_ than "botanists" before we can hope to understand
the flowers, with their endless, infinite variety of form, color, and
fragrance.

It was not until the flowers were studied in connection with the insects
which visit them that the true secret of these puzzling features became
suspected.

[Illustration: FERTILIZATION OF A FLOWER AS BELIEVED BY GREW AND
LINNÆUS.]

We all know, or should know, that the anther in flowers secretes and
releases the pollen. For years even the utility of this pollen was a
mystery. Not until the year 1682 was its purpose guessed, when Nehemias
Grew, an English botanist, discovered that unless its grains reached the
stigma in the flower no seed would be produced. But the people refused
to believe this, and it was not until fifty years later that Crew's
statement was fully accepted, and then only because the great Linnæus
assured the world that it _was_ true. But about fifty years later
another botanist in Germany, Sprengel, made the discovery that the
flower could not be fertilized as these botanists had claimed, that in
many blossoms the pollen could not fall on the stigma.

[Illustration: LINNÆSUS'S IDEA WAS WRONG.]

Sprengel knew that this pollen must reach the stigma, but showed that in
most flowers it could not do so by _itself_. He saw that insects were
always working in the flowers, and that their hairy bodies were
generally covered with pollen, and in this way pollen grains were
continually carried to the stigma, as they could easily be in these two
blossoms shown at B. Sprengel then announced to the world his
theory--the dawn of discovery, the beginning of the solution of all
these floral riddles. The _insect_ explained it all. The bright colors
and fragrance were intended to attract him, and the nectar to reward
him, and while thus sipping he conveyed the pollen to the stigma, and
fertilized the flower.

[Illustration: WHAT SPRENGEL DID NOT EXPLAIN.]

But now Sprengel himself was met with most discouraging opposition to
his theory, showing that he had guessed but half the secret after all.
Flowers by the hundreds were brought to his notice, like those two shown
in Diagram C, in which the insect could not transfer the pollen from
anther to stigma, as the stigma is closed when the pollen is ripe, and
does not open until the pollen is shed. For seventy years this
astonishing fact puzzled the world, and was at last solved by the great
Darwin, who showed that nearly all flowers shun their own pollen, and
are so constructed, by thousands of singular devices, that the _insect_
shall bring to each the _pollen of another flower_ of the same species,
and thus effect what is known as _cross-fertilisation_.

We must then look at all flowers as expressions of welcome to some
insect--day-flowering blossoms mostly to bees and butterflies, and
night-bloomers to moths. And not only expressions of welcome, but each
with some perfect little plan of its own to make this insect guest the
bearer of its pollen to the stigma of another flower of the same
species. And how endless are the plans and devices to insure this
beautiful scheme! Some flowers make it certain by keeping the stigma
closed tight until all its pollen is shed; others place the anther so
far away from the stigma as to make pollen contact impossible; others
actually imprison these pollen-bringing insects until they can send them
away with fresh pollen all over their bodies.

Take almost any flower we chance to meet, and it will show us a mystery
of form which the insect alone can explain.

[Illustration: THE TWO-FORMED FLOWERS.]

Here is one, growing just outside my door--a blossom "known" even to
every child, and certainly to every reader of the ROUND TABLE--the
pretty bluets, or Houstonia, whose galaxy of white or blue stars tints
whole spring meadows like a light snowfall. We have "known" it all our
lives. Perhaps we may have chanced to observe that the flowers are not
all constructed alike, but the chances are that we have _seen_ them _all
our lives_ without discovering this fact. If we pluck a few from this
dense cluster beside the path, we observe that the throat of each is
swollen larger than the tube beneath, and is almost closed by four tiny
yellow anthers (Fig. 1). The next and the next clump may show us similar
flowers; but after a little search we are sure of finding a cluster in
which a new form appears, as shown in Fig. 3, in which the anthers at
the opening are missing, and their place supplied with a little forked
stigma! The tube below is larger than the first flower for about
two-thirds its length, when it suddenly contracts, and if we cut it open
we find the four anthers secreted near the wide base of the tube. What
does it mean, this riddle of the bluets? For hundreds of years it
puzzled the early botanists, only finally to be solved by Darwin. This
is simply the little plan which the Houstonia has perfected to insure
its cross-fertilization by an insect, to compel an insect to carry its
pollen from one flower and deposit it upon the stigma of another. Once
realizing this as the secret, we can readily see how perfectly the
intention is fulfilled.

[Illustration: 1st Clump.--Flower enlarged. Insect's Tongue inserted.]

[Illustration: Pollen high on Insect's Tongue after withdrawal from
Blossom.]

[Illustration: 2d Clump.--Flower enlarged. Pollen thrust against high
Stigma at top and touching Pollen below.]

[Illustration: Pollen at Base of Insect's Tongue after withdrawal from
Blossom.]

[Illustration: 3d Clump.--Flower enlarged. Pollen thrust against low
Stigma.]

In order to make it clear I have drawn a progressive series of pictures
which hardly require description. The flowers are visited by small bees,
butterflies, and other insects. At the left is an insect just alighting
on a clump of the blossoms of the high-anther form indicated below it.
The black probe represents the insect's tongue, which, as it seeks the
nectar at the bottom of the tube, gets dusted at its thickened top with
the pollen from the anthers. We next see the insect flying away, the
probe beneath indicating the condition of its tongue. It next alights on
clump No. 2, in which the flowers happen to be of the high-stigma form,
as shown below. The tongue now being inserted, brings the pollen against
the high stigma, and fertilizes the flower, while at the same time its
tip comes in contact with the low anthers, and gets pollen from them. We
next see the insect flying to clump No. 3, the condition of its tongue
being shown below. Clump No. 3 happens to be of the first low-stigma
form of flowers, and as the tongue is inserted the pollen at its tip is
carried directly to the low stigma, and _this_ flower is fertilized from
the pollen from the anthers on the same level in the previous flower.
And thus the riddle is solved by the insect. From clump to clump he
flies, and through his help each one of the pale blue blooms is sure to
get its food, each flower fertilized by the pollen of another.

Another beautiful provision is seen in the difference in size of the
pollen grain of the two flowers, those of the high anthers being much
larger than those from the lower anthers. These larger grains are
intended for the high stigma, which they are sure of reaching, while
those of smaller size, on the top of the tongue, which should happen to
be wiped off on the high stigma, are too small to be effective for
fertilization.




HOW RUFUS TRAPPED THE BURGLARS.

BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.


The squealing of dry snow under horses' hoofs awakened Rufus Walker. His
room was the nearest to the turnpike crossing. Perhaps that was why he
was the only sleeper in the railroad station at Winona to be aroused by
the approaching sleigh. It was a sleigh, that was certain; for now Rufus
could hear the smooth, easy, half-shuffling sound of the runners on the
well-packed snow. Who could it be travelling at that time of night? The
horses were going at a walk. Neither of them wore a bell. "Maybe some
one has come to wake up father and send a telegram," thought Rufus,
sleepily. But no, the sleigh bumped over the railroad tracks and passed
on. The boy heard the shrill crunching of the snow a few times more, and
then he fell asleep again. If he had only felt enough curiosity to get
up and look out of the window he would have seen something to make his
heart beat very fast indeed; but the cold air nipped the tip of his nose
and made it numb, and he buried his face in the blankets and slept.

Rufus Walker's father was the station agent and telegraph operator at
Winona, in the heart of a vast wheat-raising section of Dakota. For
miles the country stretched away in gentle undulations. In the spring
you looked out on a sea of waving, tossing green, crinkled and fretted
by every passing breeze. In the fall the green sea had turned to gold,
and those noisy ships, the mowing-machines, went clattering through it.
Now the vast expanse lay white and still under its frosty blanket. The
wheat harvest had been gathered into the barns, and for weeks little
Rufus had heard the farmers talking about "number one hard," and "number
one," and all the other varieties of the grain. Right opposite the
station and across the railroad track stood a grain elevator. Its
gigantic shape rose over the little station like a castle towering above
a tiny cottage. The farmers for miles around would begin to haul wheat
to the elevator to-morrow, for Mr. Price, Pillsbury's elevator
superintendent, had arrived that day. He had brought a satchel full of
packages of new crisp bank-notes, and fat little rolls of gold eagles
and double-eagles. He always paid cash for the wheat as he bought it.
That is the custom all through the wheat country.

The thick black bag of alligator-skin that held more than five thousand
dollars was locked in the safe that stood in the office of the grain
elevator. The money was the attraction that had brought the three men,
who silently got out of the sleigh in the shadow of the tall building.
They tied their horses to a ring near the office door, then stealthily
crept through the snow to the railroad station.

Little Rufus Walker woke up with a start. A big man with a handkerchief
tied across the lower part of his face was shaking him by the shoulder.

"How old are you, sonny?" asked the stranger.

"Ten years last August," Rufus answered, huskily.

"Well, you're old enough to have sense," said the man. "All you've got
to do is to keep still. We're just goin' to relieve Mr. Price of that
bag o' money. You keep still, d'ye hear?"

The big man strode out of Rufus's room and joined his two companions at
the further end of the hallway. They had gathered Mr. Price, Rufus's
father, Mrs. Walker, and big Tom Walker in one of the rooms. Evidently
the strangers had awakened Rufus last of all. He sat up, shivering, with
the blankets wrapped around him. His hair was standing up so straight
that it seemed to bend backward. His teeth chattered.

"Where's the boy?" he heard a strange voice ask.

"Oh, I left him in his bed!" replied the voice of the big man. "He's no
bigger than your thumb, and he--"

"Better bring him in here with the rest," said the strange voice.

"No; let him stay in his bed," said the big man's voice. "He ain't
sizable enough to make trouble. He couldn't live to go two miles to the
nearest house for help."

"All right," said the strange voice. "Now, Mr. Price, we don't aim to
bust your safe. If you was a polite gentleman you'd just skip over and
open her for us. However, we've got the little implements here, and
we'll have her open in less than an hour fair an' easy. Bill, you keep
these folks quiet till we whistle for you."

Rufus heard two men go down stairs. Then he heard them stamping through
the snow toward the grain-elevator. There was silence for five minutes
or so, and then he heard the "bink! bink! bink!" of hammers falling on
steel wedges. Rufus suddenly wondered if he couldn't call help in a way
the robbers hadn't thought of. He stealthily got out of bed and put on
his coat, trousers, and thick woollen stockings. His heart fluttered and
jumped so hard that he was afraid he'd lose it as he crept inch by inch
to the stairs that led down to the ticket and telegraph office. How glad
he was when at last he stole in there as silently as a ghost! How glad
he was that his father had encouraged him to learn how to telegraph! He
wasn't a fine operator yet, but he thought he could manage to telegraph
something useful. Very slowly he pulled out the plug in the switchboard
that cut in the instrument on the telegraph line. He threw over a little
brass lever so that the noisy "sounder" was cut off from the "relay"
instrument. He screwed the points of the relay down so fine that the
instrument ticked no louder than a watch. He tightened up the key, too.
From upstairs he could hear the gruff voice of the big robber as he made
jokes at the expense of his victims. Rufus knew that the night
train-despatcher at Springfield was always at the wire, so he
telegraphed,

"Sg--Sg--Wn!"

That meant, "Springfield, Winona is calling you!"

In a moment the relay ticked out, "Ay--ay--Sg." That meant that the
despatcher heard the call. Then Rufus, his fingers stiff from the cold
and clumsy with fright, bravely ticked this message:

     "3 robrs hv held us up. 2 are brkg opn safe in elevator, and 1 is
     guardg our ppl. Pls send help qk. Do you 13?"

This meant: "Three robbers have held us up. Two are breaking open the
safe in the elevator, and one is guarding our people. Please send help
quickly. Do you understand!"

The despatcher gave a quick "Ay, ay!" closed his key, and rushed out
into the railroad yard. Within two minutes a locomotive was running
westward toward Winona, eighteen miles away. Besides the engineer and
fireman, there were four freight brakemen in the cab. Each one had a
rifle. The engineer kept the throttle wide open until he was within a
mile of Winona. Then he shut off steam.

"Her headway'll carry her a long way," he remarked to his companions,
"and it's all down grade from here."

Within a quarter of a mile of Winona the fireman put all his strength on
the brake-wheel and brought the engine to a stop. The four brakemen
cautiously plodded up the track.

Little Rufus sat in the dark office, numb with cold and fear. Every
sense was on the alert. He thought the glare of the moonlight in the
snow would blind him as he gazed down the track, minute after minute,
through a knothole in the shutter. At last he saw a black dot away down
the track. The dot turned into four dots as it swung around the curve.
They came nearer, and he could make out the burly figure of Tim Ryan and
the other three brakemen, each with a gun resting across the hollow of
his left arm. The four figures silently passed by the office window,
and crossed over to the grain elevator. Rufus could still hear the
"bink! bink! bink!" of the hammers on the steel wedges. If he had dared
to follow, he would have enjoyed what happened. The door of the safe was
almost off when the robbers heard Tim Ryan's soft voice bidding them "Be
aisy, now, an' lift yere hands above yere heads!" The two thieves almost
fell over in their surprise.

The fourth brakeman easily captured the lone robber upstairs. Little
Rufus went up stairs as soon as the excited men stopped talking. When
the three thieves had been tied hand and foot, and Rufus had explained
to his father and mother how he had summoned help, everybody looked at
him in surprise.

"Weren't you scared?" asked his father.

"So scared I could hardly hold on to the key," said Rufus. "But I was
too scared to let go of it, too."




THE JOYS OF WINTER.


  Hurrah for the joys of winter!
    For the jolly sparkling weather,
  For the lake like glass where the skaters pass,
    For the flying flake and feather!
  Hurrah for the fun of rushing
    Down the long toboggan slide,
  For the dash ahead of the winning sled
    Round the curve of the steep hill-side!

  Hurrah for the joys of winter!
    Jack Frost and the boys are friends;
  To the girl's bright face what a witching grace
    The touch of his pencil lends!
  Hurrah for the wild northwester,
    And the crisp cold wintry night
  When the rough wind blows and we toast our toes
    In the glow of the hearth-fire's light!




THAT BIT OF LOOSE FLAGGING.

BY GEORGE GRANTHAM BAIN.


That piece of loose flagging should have been fixed long before. It was
one of those wicked, insidious suggesters of temptation which are quite
as bad in their moral effect as the temptation itself. Probably not a
man or woman stepped on that wobbling piece of stone but thought of the
possibilities that lay below it. Directly beneath were the vaults in
which were kept the millions on millions of silver and gold dollars
belonging to the government Treasury. The first thought that the loose
flagging suggested to the mind was always: Suppose it should turn over
and drop me into the vault where the gold is kept; and suppose it was as
easy to get out as to get in; and suppose--for I do not believe there
was any one wicked enough to want to steal the coin--suppose there was
no objection on the part of any one to carrying away as much gold as the
pockets would hold. What a jolly time one could have with it!

That is what Harry Holt thought every night when he left the Western
Union Telegraph Building and started home. He always crossed over to the
Treasury Department sidewalk and walked on the loose piece of stone.
There was no harm, he thought, in imagining all of the delightful things
that he could do with a pocketful of the gold. For he was quite sure
that even if the flagging was as loose as it seemed to the pressure of
his foot, and even if he could move it--and he was tempted often to
stoop and see--the top of the vault below was of heavy steel, and the
only thing he would get if the flagging gave way was a good bumping, if
not a broken leg. So the loose flagging was only a touchstone to a
little world in which Harry lived on his way home each night from his
telegraph desk--a world where all the hot summer days were made of trips
to Nova Scotia, and the winter of sunny sojourns in the everglades of
Florida.

"My wire's clear at both ends; I think I'll go home," said Harry to the
chief operator one hot night. It was five minutes before his time for
leaving the operating-room, and Western Union orders are strict. The
chief operator shook his head and went on. Harry turned sulkily back to
his desk and picked up a fan. On a night like this, when every one in
the room was steaming with the heat of the overcrowded room, the click
of the instrument before him and the hum of the other instruments all
about jarred on his nerves. He wanted to get to his little room uptown,
where at least he could take a plunge in the bath-tub if his blood was
overheated. He hated the slavery of the operating-room, and the set
rules that made him only a part of the machine to earn dividends for a
lot of New York people in whom he had no interest. Harry was not a
philosopher, or he would have said to himself that the surest way of
heating his blood still more, and increasing his discomfort on this
trying night, was to worry about something, to fret, to be discontented.

Well, five minutes is not a very long time. Harry took his coat on his
arm and his hat in his hand; for it was long past the hour when every
one but a few night-workers and an occasional policeman had gone to bed.
The electric lights sputtered and spit as he came out of the building,
and the hot white light dazzled him a little. Then the steam from the
overheated asphalt came up into his face as he cut across diagonally
toward the Treasury building. It looked cool and comfortable in its
dress of white marble, and Harry thought how pleasant the air must be
down in the sub-basement, far below the heat of the street. Then he
stepped on the loose flagging, his steps turning to it as naturally as
though there had been no other path, and the flagging gave way. It was
so sudden that he had no chance to struggle or to try to regain the
solid ground. Before he could even spread his arms to catch the edges of
the stones about the opening, he had fallen below the surface of the
sidewalk.

He had an awful consciousness that he was doing something wrong--as
though his dreams about that loose flagging had exercised some weird
influence on it, and so far loosened it as to make it give way under the
weight of his body. And he suddenly remembered that he had read
somewhere of a little army of watchmen who guarded the treasure vaults
with weapons in hand, and who had been known to shoot first and make
inquiries afterward. That would be very awkward, thought Harry; and all
of this passed through his mind in the little space of time which it
took for a fall of--well, he thought it was one hundred yards, but every
one knows that the Treasury vaults have ceilings no higher than the
ceiling of your room.

"Hello!" said a voice at his elbow. Harry had alighted somewhere. Just
how he had managed to do it after that tremendous fall without breaking
a leg he could not understand; but here he was on his feet, with no
evidence of any damage done, and opposite him was a pleasant-faced old
gentleman with a white beard, wearing a pair of steel-bowed spectacles
which gave his face a benevolent aspect. Just behind the old gentleman
was a stack of wooden boxes as high as the ceiling--and Harry saw now
that the ceiling was not so very high after all--and lying around the
room were white canvas bags with figures stencilled on them. There was a
table not far away, with a delightful-looking cold luncheon spread on
it, and there was a bowl of lemonade or something that looked like
lemonade with a big square piece of ice floating on its surface. Harry's
tongue had been parched all evening in the hot operating-room. He longed
for a little of that lemonade, but he hesitated to ask the stranger for
it.

"You came by the balloon route," said the old gentleman, not
inquiringly, but as though he stated a recognized fact.

"I really don't know how I came, sir," said Harry, finding his tongue.
"I didn't know I was coming."

"I fancied you came in a hurry. I see you haven't had time to put on
your coat," said the old gentleman.

Harry felt very much ashamed of his shirt sleeves, and he tried very
hard to put his coat on. But, curiously enough, whether it was from
embarrassment or some other reason which he could not understand, he
could not get his arms into the sleeves. Moreover, the more he tried,
the more the sleeves of his shirt showed a disposition to come off his
arms and leave him in a more embarrassing condition. In fact, all of his
clothing felt loose and unstable, and Harry was much worried for fear
that he would find himself in the presence of this critical old
gentleman without a stitch of clothing on. The old gentleman came to his
rescue.

"Never mind," he said; "we must make some allowance for the Czar's
messenger. I suppose it is hot in America for one so recently in
Russia."

Harry thought that the best way to do with his strange new acquaintance
was to agree with him. He seemed kindly disposed, if he was a little
eccentric. So Harry ventured to stammer out: "It is a little colder in
St. Petersburg."

"Of course it is," said the old gentleman, sitting down on a pile of the
canvas bags and rubbing his hands together. "The last messenger was
actually sunstruck. But he came in his fur-lined robes of office. You
were sensible to leave yours behind."

Harry accepted the tribute with a vague smile. He was a little puzzled,
but even in his uncertain mental condition he felt reasonably sure that
he had never owned any fur-lined robes. Still he was certain that any
one who left fur-lined robes behind on a day like this, whether they
were his own robes or those of some one else, was a very sensible person
and deserving of commendation.

"I suppose you have come after the fifteen millions for the Grand Duke!"
said the old gentleman.

"Not at all," said Harry, for he was seized with a fear that the old
gentleman might deliver to him some other man's property, and then have
him arrested for theft when the mistake was discovered.

"That's all right," said the old gentleman, reclining on the canvas
bags, and nodding his head encouragingly. "You can trust me."

"But I have not come from the Grand Duke," said Harry.

"What's that?" said the old gentleman, jumping up and speaking very
fiercely. Then he sat down again. "Of course you have," he said, calmly.
"Otherwise how would you be here, and how would you be able to carry it
away?" And Harry thought it best not to contradict him again.

"There is the lot over there," said the old gentleman, indicating
another pile of canvas bags just beyond, and to Harry's left. "It isn't
much of a load when you know how to carry it."

"Am I to carry all that?" asked Harry; for the bags looked as though
they might weigh a ton.

"And a very light load," said the old gentleman, nodding and smiling.
"Sit down." He pointed at the bags.

Harry was glad of the invitation, though an invitation to supper or to a
drop of that cooling lemonade would have pleased him more. The old
gentleman seemed to divine his thoughts, for he pointed at the lemonade
bowl, and said, with a smack of his lips, "A little later." Then he
motioned again to the pile of coin-bags. Harry threw himself down on
them. Then a dreadful feeling went through him. He felt as though he
were afire. The bags were hot--as hot as boiling water--so hot that he
sprang from them with a scream.

[Illustration: "YOU ARE AN IMPOSTOR. YOU ARE A THIEF."]

"What's that?" said the old gentleman, springing up. "Then you're not
the Czar's messenger. You haven't the key. You are an impostor. You are
a thief."

He caught up one of the canvas bags on which he had been sitting. It
burst, and the yellow gold pieces flew out in a shower on Harry's head.
Each of them seemed to burn a hole where it struck. Harry fell to the
floor. The old gentleman caught up another bag and poured its contents
over Harry. His face had the expression of a fiend now. More and more
gold he poured on Harry's prostrate form, until all but his head was
quite hidden from view. Each gold piece burned, and burned, and burned.
The heat was intolerable. Harry screamed with the pain of it.

"What's the matter with you, Holt?" said a voice in his ear. The
chinking of the gold pieces as they fell seemed like some old familiar
sound. Some one took hold of his shoulder, and the voice said again,
"Here, what's the matter with you!" The chinking now was like the
clicking of the telegraph instruments in the operating-room. Harry
opened his eyes and looked about him. The old gentleman was gone; the
bags of gold were gone. The old desk was under his arm, and the chief
operator was bending over him.

"Your time's up, Harry," he said. "I thought you were in a hurry to get
home. This isn't a very good place to sleep on a hot night, anyhow."

The clock on the wall opposite said half past two; it was twenty-five
minutes past when Harry had told the chief operator that he wanted to
go. He had been asleep perhaps three minutes, and every garment on him
was wet with perspiration. His hat and coat were not in his hands. He
looked for them, and then he remembered. They were still in the closet.
He got them, and walked slowly down the four flights of stairs. When he
came out on Fifteenth Street his footsteps turned instinctively in the
direction of the Treasury building. But Harry resolutely turned them the
other way.

"I don't want any more dreamland riches," he said, as he thought of the
old gentleman and his red-hot coin.




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


In the lull following upon the activity of football, and preceding track
athletics and baseball, I shall devote as much space as possible in this
Department to comment on seasonable sports, and on the methods for
training and preparation for spring work. So many letters come each week
asking for suggestions about training, especially for the running
events, and requesting information on the various outdoor sports for ice
and snow, that it seems advisable to award to these subjects the
preference, for the next few weeks at least. Concerning training for
field sports, I shall endeavor to treat of putting the shot in an early
number of the ROUND TABLE, and soon afterward we shall have hints and
advice on training for the sprints and the middle distances. This week I
want to devote almost all available space to the prime winter sport of
curling, about which I have been asked for a description by a number of
correspondents in the Northern and Western States and Canada.

[Illustration: A CURLING-MATCH.]

Curling is essentially a Scottish game, and one over which the stolid
Scotsmen manage to work up considerable enthusiasm and excitement. It
has been imported into this country, and especially in Canada have
American curlers become almost as proficient as any in the world. Few
games afford better sport and exercise, and a certain amount of muscular
strength is demanded of the players. The game is played on ice, of
course, and the space marked out for playing is called a "rink." This is
usually a strip of ice on a pond or a stream, forty-two yards long and
eight or nine yards wide, swept clear of snow. A "tee," or goal, is set
down at each end of the rink. The tees are 39-1/2 yards apart. Seven
feet behind each tee is a small circle called a "foot-circle," from
which the curlers launch their stones. From each tee as a centre a
circle must be drawn, with a radius of seven feet, and every stone which
is not outside of this circle when it has stopped moving counts as one
point in the reckoning. Outside and beyond the tee circle a line is
drawn across to the rink, and the stones which pass this boundary are
called dead--that is, they do not count. Seven or eight yards inside of
each tee another line is drawn across the rink, and every stone that
does not pass this "hog-score," as this line is called, is removed from
the ice, out of the way of coming stones. The "middle line" is drawn
half-way between the tees across the rink. Perhaps a better idea of this
complicated delineation of a curling-rink may be gathered from the
diagram at the top of the next page.

[Illustration: DIAGRAM OF A CURLING-RINK.]

There are usually four players on a side, and each player is armed with
two stones. These stones are of circular shape, with flattened sides,
and must not weigh more than fifty pounds nor less than thirty pounds.
Neither must they be more than thirty-six inches around, nor less in
height than one-eighth of the greatest circumference. Curling
enthusiasts attach great importance to their stones. They have them of
various weights to suit their own fancy, and of every possible variation
of form. Some players prefer flat stones, while others have a liking for
high ones. As a rule, however, the favorite is that which is neither
very flat nor very high, the reason for this being that such a stone is
well "centred," having the centre of gravity about in the middle, and
being therefore more easily handled. These stones are usually cut out of
granite; they are then highly polished, and frequently fitted with very
ornamental and highly expensive handles.

The players are also provided with brooms, with which they sweep off the
snow and other obstacles from the rink. One point of judgment in curling
is to know when to sweep the way clear for a coming stone and when not
to, the sweeper knowing about how fast the stone will go for its weight,
and about where it will land if allowed to travel over a rough or a
smooth surface. The number of points ordinarily appointed as decisive of
a curling-match is thirty-one, and the side which first scores that
total is the winner. The chief aim in the game is to hurl the stone with
the proper amount of strength, so that it will take its place close to
the tee. Then a certain amount of generalship must be used by one side
to so distribute its stones that the opponents may not be able to
dislodge those nearest to the centre of the tee circle. It will be seen
that curling is a sort of giant game of shuffle-board, but much more
susceptible to scientific work than the latter. A close finish in
curling frequently arouses both parties to the highest excitement, and
many funny stories have been written about staid Scottish squires and
dignified dominies who have found themselves hotly disputing with one
another on a curling-rink. For those who may be interested in the sport,
and who care to become more familiar with it or to learn the many rules
which experience and practice have shown to be necessary, I recommend an
article on curling in the volume on skating in the Badminton Library.

The many protests in the recent contests held by the New York
I. S. A. A. have led the officers of that organization to formulate and
adopt some new rules which will now make the conditions of contests
perfectly clear. The changes in the constitution recently adopted are
good ones, and have all been framed with a view to purifying sport, and
with the intention of holding all New York school-boy athletes to the
closest interpretation of the spirit of amateurism.

A very vague idea of the rules and regulations which govern amateur
sport has been held by the majority of school athletes in this city
until recently. I think this must have been because they were not as
familiar as they might have been with the laws enacted by their own
association. These laws were perhaps not as strict as they should have
been, and I am now glad to see that the managers are tightening the
reins. Every boy who goes into athletics here or anywhere else should
know exactly what his rights and his duties are in matters of sport, and
especially in the matter of eligibility in these days, when
professionalism is so steadily trying to steal into the camp. I cannot
but believe that if every scholar in this town had known by heart the
N. Y. I. S. A. A. rules of eligibility last year, the errors of some
misguided athletes would never have been made.

The new rules governing eligibility are clear and unequivocal, and it is
hard to see how even the most professionally inclined can now beat about
the stump. The first section of the new Article XI. states that "no one
shall represent any school as a competitor in any athletic contest who
has not been a member of that school from the first of January of the
school year in which the contest is held, or who has actually been paid
wages for services during the school year, or who has been enrolled as a
member of any college, or who has attained the age of twenty years, or
who is not in good standing with the Amateur Athletic Union of the
United States."

The article proceeds to explain that having been a member of the
sub-Freshman class of the College of the City of New York does not debar
a scholar from competing, and this is eminently just. A most important
provision follows, and I cannot urge too strongly upon the I.S.A.A.
committee to enforce this rule to the letter if it results in having
only one contest a year. It is to the effect that any school wishing to
enter a team for the baseball, football, tennis, or track-athletic
championship must file a list of all players or competitors with the
chairman of the committee governing that special branch before such team
can enter any contest. The next two sections specify that in such list
the ages of all players or competitors shall be given, and the list must
be signed by the principal of the school, to certify that all the
intended players or competitors are eligible.

In view of recent events, the revision of Article XIV. also cannot be
too gladly welcomed: "Section 1. No school shall, through any of its
officers or by any other means, directly or indirectly, by offering any
inducements, influence or try to influence a pupil of any other school
to sever his connection with said school. Section 2. The offering of a
regularly established or other scholarship by any school or officer
thereof, as an inducement to change from one school to another, shall be
considered an inducement." Much annoyance would have been saved if these
paragraphs had been in the constitution when it was first formulated,
and I think that this revision might be even further fortified by
inserting the words "directly or indirectly" in the second section as
well as in the first.

It is a wise provision also that any school entering a team for the
baseball or football championship must play all games for which they are
scheduled under penalty of $5 fine for each game forfeited. My only
criticism is that the penalty might be doubled or trebled. The
championship series of football games last fall, in Brooklyn, was
greatly interfered with by the continual forfeiting of games by the
weaker teams. This Department spoke of the evil at the time, and I would
now urge the Long Island League legislators to insert some such by-law
in their code as the New Yorkers have just established.

Athletics are progressing so vigorously in Philadelphia that a new
interscholastic league, in addition to the Inter-Academic A. A. of some
years standing, has been organized. Tho new association held a meeting a
few weeks ago, at which delegates from the Central High-school,
Wilmington High-school, and the Central and Northeast Manual Training
schools were present. A committee was appointed to see the Friends'
Central, Catholic High and Swarthmore College Grammar Schools, and
invite them to join the association. The meeting then adjourned to meet
at the call of the chair to receive the report of this committee. This
committee should at once communicate with the officers of the National
I. S. A. A., and apply for membership. The new league has some strong
schools in it, as readers of this Department may see by glancing over
the list. The Central High-school of Philadelphia is probably the
largest school in that city, and both the Wilmington and Swarthmore
Grammar schools have already acquired enviable records in sport.

An Interscholastic Polo League has been formed in Boston, under the
auspices of the B.A.A., with the following schools as members: Melrose
High, Cambridge High and Latin, Roxbury Latin, and English High. A
provisional schedule has been arranged, but as the weather is an
important factor in polo, it may be necessary to postpone several of the
contests. The dates chosen are:

CAMBRIDGE H. AND L.

  Dec. 31.--E. H. S. on Spy Pond.
  Jan. 17.--Roxbury Latin on Spy Pond.
  Jan. 25.--Melrose on Spy Pond.

ENGLISH HIGH.

  Dec. 31.--Cambridge on Spy Pond.
  Jan. 14.--Roxbury Latin (undecided).
  Jan. 17.--Melrose at Melrose.

ROXBURY LATIN.

  Jan. 14.--English High (undecided).
  Jan. 17.--Cambridge on Spy Pond.
  Jan. 21.--Melrose at Melrose.

MELROSE HIGH.

  Jan. 17.--English High at Melrose.
  Jan. 21.--Roxbury Latin at Melrose.
  Jan. 25.--Cambridge at Spy Pond.

It is to be hoped, if the season proves a successful one and the cold
weather holds out, that the winner in this Boston League will arrange
for a championship game with the winner in the Connecticut League.

[Illustration: H. D. CAREY, JUN.,

Hamilton Institute.]

[Illustration: THEODORE LUTKINS,

Brooklyn Latin School.]

On account of this delay in receiving the portraits of Messrs. Carey and
Lutkins, who were selected for members of the All-New-York football
team, the pictures could not be reproduced until this week. Carey of the
Hamilton Institute would play right half-back, and Lutkins would rank as
first substitute on the All-New-York eleven, the full details of which
were given in the ROUND TABLE of January 7th.

The game of basket-ball promises to become popular among the colleges
and the larger schools of the country this winter. This Department will
devote some space to the game at an early date, which is taking up the
attention of scholastic sportsmen in Connecticut.

     J. A. BAKER, B. BAY, MASSACHUSETTS.--There is no rule prohibiting
     tackling above the shoulders, unless Section B of Rule 27 of the
     Football Rules of 1895 can be construed as such. It is a matter for
     the umpire to decide in every case.

     H. C. MORRIS, EVANSTON, ILLINOIS.--There will be an article on
     running in this Department some time during the winter. I should
     advise you to use sprinting shoes without spikes to train in, but
     wear spikes in a contest or when running for time.

     W. H. B., MINNEAPOLIS.--You can find out what you want to know in
     _Walter Camp's Book of College Sports_ (The Century Company, New
     York), or in the _American Boy's Handy Book_ (Charles Scribner's
     Sons, New York).

     J. J. SMITH, RIDGEWOOD, NEW JERSEY.--There is a very good chapter
     on "Toy-boat Making and Sailing" in _Coventry Pastimes for Boys_
     (Longmans, Green, & Company, New York).

     H. C. D., MERIDEN.--The arrangement of players for the game of ice
     polo, described briefly in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE for January 14th,
     is as follows:

[Illustration]

  THE GRADUATE.

       *       *       *       *       *

A POUND OF FACTS

is worth oceans of theories. More infants are successfully raised on the
Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed Milk than upon any other food. _Infant
Health_ is a valuable pamphlet for mothers. Send your address to N. Y.
Condensed Milk Co., N. Y.--[_Adv._]




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[Illustration]

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[Illustration: Royal Baking Powder]




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_After the beady, sparkling draught, who wants the dregs?--The DELONG
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[Illustration]

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[Illustration: Thompson's Eye Water]




[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 much valuable data kindly supplied from the
     official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen.
     Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L. A. W., the
     Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership
     blanks and information as far as possible.


[Illustration: Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers.]

Continuing our trip from New York to Washington, we take up the journey
at Westminster for the run thence in Baltimore. The road is a turnpike
of limestone, as are most of the important roads in that part of the
country. It is moderately level nearly all the way, and there is little
difficulty in keeping to it on this particular stretch of the trip.
Leaving Westminster you pass out of town under the railroad, and start
out at once on the turnpike for Carrolton, taking care to take the left
fork a little less than a mile out. From Carrolton through Sandyville to
Finksburg, and thence to Reisterstown the way is direct and
unmistakable, there being almost no road of an equal importance to the
main pike, and therefore little opportunity for any one to get off the
route. This makes up a run of about fourteen miles over an easy road,
and you are strongly advised, therefore, not to make much of a stop
here, but to run on to Pikesville at least, unless the company happens
to be made up partly of women, when a stop may to advantage be made
here, and another at Pikesville or Howardsville.

From Reisterstown the pike runs almost due southeast five miles to
Greenspring Junction, and then two miles further on to Pikesville.
Keeping straight on over a remarkably good road in pleasant weather, you
pass through Howardsville less than two miles further, and finally bring
up in Arlington, twenty-four or twenty-five miles from Westminster. If
no stop is to be made at Baltimore, and the rider determines to include
this run and the next day's run in one twenty-four hours, he should take
the right fork here, and follow the road marked like a barber's pole on
the map. For many reasons, however, it is better to go on, because
Baltimore is a good and comfortable place to put up at, especially if
you go to the Carrolton; and should you be making the trip in quicker or
longer stages than we have been doing, you should make it a point to
reach Baltimore at night, instead of putting up at Westminster.

Proceeding then from Arlington along the railroad, the rider soon comes
in to Druid Hill Park, and through or along the edge of this enters the
city, where it is easy to make his way to the centre of the town and
reach the Carrolton.

     NOTE.--Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of
     route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford,
     Connecticut in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New
     Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814.
     Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816.
     Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson to No.
     818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No.
     820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822.
     Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West
     Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City--First Stage in
     No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland--First
     Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to
     Boston--Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth
     Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833.
     Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to
     Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to
     New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839.
     Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to
     Nantucket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843.
     Philadelphia to Washington--First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in
     No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846.

       *       *       *       *       *

About New Zealand.

     Auckland is a city of 60,000 inhabitants, situated on the southern
     bank of the Waitamata Harbor. It has a fine library and art
     gallery. To the former Sir George Grey gave a very valuable
     collection of books, and to the latter the late Mr. McKelvie left
     his entire collection of works of art. Not very far from the city
     is Mount Eden, an extinct volcano, from the top of which one has
     some of the most beautiful views in the world.

     We live about six miles from town, and at the back of our place are
     the Three Kings, so called because it is supposed that three Maori
     kings were buried there--one on each peak. At the side of the
     mountain is the entrance to some caves. There is a tradition that
     before New Zealand was inhabited by white people there was a tribal
     war; the defeated tribe was driven into the cave, the successful
     one hoping to starve it into submission. The tribe in the cave,
     however, knew of an opening near the harbor by which it escaped to
     its canoes. The distance they had to traverse was several miles.
     There is a very beautiful tree here called Pohutukawa (Metrosideros
     tomentosa). The nearest approach to pronouncing it is, for the
     beginner, "poetry-cow." The tree grows to a great height, and at
     Christmas-time is covered with bright scarlet flowers. So it is
     generally called Christmas-tree.


  ESTELLA ULRICH.
  AUCKLAND, N. Z.




[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.


A girl's luncheon? You mean the school luncheon? Let it be as nice as
possible, and take pains to pack it very neatly for her, so that when
the recess hour comes she may take an interest in what she eats.

Of course the ideal luncheon for Gertrude and Caroline is something hot,
a nice hash or scrambled eggs, or else a chop and a baked potato, with
some gingerbread, stewed fruit, oranges, or a cup-custard after it. A
cup of chocolate or cocoa is good for growing girls at luncheon, and a
glass of milk is a very nice addition to their bill of fare.

But these beautiful hot luncheons cannot always be managed at school.
Often the girls must carry their noonday meal from home, and as a
general thing they take very little care about the matter themselves.
Mamma or sister Mary must think for them.

A dainty box or little basket, a fine soft napkin, and some paraffin
paper are indispensable to the preparation of lunches. Sandwiches must
be made of _thin_ bread and butter, with potted meat, cream cheese, or
jam spread between the slices. Rough edges and crusts must be cut off,
and the bread and butter be of the very best. There are many delicious
crackers, some salted, some sprinkled with cheese-flakes, some sweet and
crisp like cookies, which are appetizing with one's luncheon. And fruit
is always in order.

If it is possible, and it usually is, to get a little boiling water, let
the school-girl make for herself a cup of bouillon at luncheon. There
are several excellent kinds of bouillon which come in small jars and
bottles, and of which a spoonful added to a glass or cup of either hot
or cold water makes a very refreshing drink. I prefer hot bouillon
myself, but cold bouillon is very refreshing too, and much better with
bread and butter than cold water, if the luncheon is a simple affair of
that.

A girl who eats her luncheon regularly, and avoids sweets, pastry, and
candy between meals, will have bright eyes and a good complexion. She
will not look sallow and pasty, nor have pimples and other signs of
indigestion on her face.

Suppose a young girl wishes to give a luncheon to a few friends, what
would be a nice menu? Well, she might begin with oranges or grape-fruit,
cut in two and sprinkled with sugar; these are eaten with a rather
sharp-pointed spoon. This might be followed by oysters on the
half-shell, in a little bed of crushed ice, if the luncheon is to be
elaborate. Then comes bouillon, served in pretty cups; there are covered
cups for bouillon which are simply fascinating to the heart of the
china-loving girl. After this course comes minced fish or scolloped
oysters, in little china or silver shells. Follow this with dainty
chops, Saratoga chips, and green pease. Then have a salad, with thin
wafers or salted crackers, cream cheese, and guava jelly or gooseberry
jam. After this may appear dessert, of charlotte-russe or ice-cream, or
frozen pudding, or, if you please, a hot pudding with cold sauce. Have
salted almonds and olives on the table, to pass between the courses, and
finish everything up with bonbons, cream peppermints, or any pretty
candies or confections which you like.

Of course this is the way to have a formal luncheon. I know a little
girl; her name is Delsie, and she isn't very tall, but I wouldn't ask a
better luncheon than she gave me one day, and she did everything about
it herself. She had beautiful wheat cakes with maple syrup, and she
baked them brown on the griddle like a fairy, and then she gave me the
most beautiful heaping saucerful of popped corn, white and salted and
buttered. I wish I had some of it now.

[Illustration: Signature]

       *       *       *       *       *

A Suggestion for the Founders.

     Would you not like a temperance club or something of the sort in
     the Table? I think a society that wishes to be one of the noblest
     should have a place for one of the greatest questions in the world.
     I would like to correspond with some one interested in temperance.
     Winter set in some time ago, but last week it thawed nearly all the
     time, and as it has turned cold again the ground is covered with
     ice. All the horses that are not needed on the farm are turned
     loose in the winter, and as there are almost no fences they have a
     good time.

  BRENDA E. NEVILLE.
  PROSPECT HALL, COTTONWOOD, ASSA, CANADA.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




The

Columbia

Bicycle

Pad Calendar

For 1896

[Illustration]

YOU NEED IT.

A Desk Calendar is a necessity--most convenient kind of storehouse for
memoranda. The Columbia Desk Calendar is brightest and handsomest of
all--full of dainty pen sketches and entertaining thoughts on outdoor
exercise and sport. Occasionally reminds you of the superb quality of
Columbia Bicycles and of your need of one. You won't object to that, of
course. The Calendar will be mailed for five 2-cent stamps.

Address Calendar Department,

POPE MANUFACTURING CO.,

HARTFORD, CONN.




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.




Postage Stamps, &c.




I SEND OUT

approval sheets of U. S. adhesive, envelopes, revenues, at from 10% to
25% discount; Foreign at 25%. No trash, no 50% sheets, and no stamps
marked over catalogue so as to give big discounts. If you want to =BUY=,
write me; must have reference. New catalogue, just issued, 50c.

FRANK P. BROWN,

235 Washington Street, Boston, Mass.




JAPANESE POSTAGE STAMPS.

       *       *       *       *       *

Every one who sends me 100 good stamps of his land will receive 100
stamps, in 20 varieties, from Japan.

K. TODA,

BINGO MITSUNOSHO -- JAPAN.




[Illustration]

STAMPS! =800= fine mixed Victoria, Cape of G. H., India, Japan, etc., with
fine Stamp Album, only =10c.= New 80-p. Price-list =free=. _Agents wanted_
at =50%= commission. STANDARD STAMP CO., 4 Nicholson Place, St. Louis, Mo.
Old U. S. and Confederate Stamps bought.




STAMP COLLECTORS!

12 South America, 9c.; 15 Mexico and Central America, 10c.; 18 West
Indian, 10c.; 15 Australia, 11c.; 16 Asia, 10c. Large monthly price-list
free. Approval Sheet agents wanted; 50% com. and prizes given. C. W.
GREVNING, Morristown, N. J.




[Illustration]

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




FOREIGN STAMPS ON APPROVAL.

Agents wanted at 50% com. Lists free. CHAS. B. RAUB, New London, Conn.




500

Mixed Australian, etc., 10c.; =105 varieties=, and nice album, 10c.; 15
unused, 10c.; 10 Africa, 10c.; 15 Asia, 10c. F. P. Vincent, Chatham,
N.Y.




=FINE PACKETS= in large variety. Stamps at 50% com. Col's bought.
Northwestern Stamp Co., Freeport, Ill.




STAMPS! 100 all dif. Barbados, etc. Only 10c. Ag'ts w't'd at 50% com.
List free. L. DOVER & CO., 1469 Hodiamont, St. Louis, Mo.




[Illustration: Thompson's Eye Water]




[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.


CAMERA CLUB COMPETITION.


JUNIOR PRIZE-WINNERS.


MARINES.

FIRST PRIZE, $15; Sir Knight Joseph Lovering, 1 Larch Street, Cambridge,
Mass.

SECOND PRIZE, $10; Lady Bessie Turner, 16 Sunnyside Avenue, Weehawken
Heights, N. J.


LANDSCAPES.

FIRST PRIZE, $15; Sir Knight Frank Smith, Cumberland, Md.

SECOND PRIZE, $10; Sir Knight Samuel J. Castner, 3729 Chestnut Street,
Philadelphia, Pa.


FIGURE STUDIES.

FIRST PRIZE, $25; Sir Knight Andrew M. Phillips, Nunda, N. Y.

SECOND PRIZE, $10; Sir Knight Luke S. Murdock, Point View, Pine Hill,
Cincinnati, O.


COMPETITION OPEN TO ALL AMATEURS.


LANDSCAPES.

FIRST PRIZE, $15; R. Hamilton Craig, Patron, Newburgh, N. Y.

SECOND PRIZE, $10; Herbert B. Shallenberger, Patron, Rochester, Pa.


FIGURE STUDIES.

FIRST PRIZE, $25; H. E. Murdock, Patron, 204 Bank of Commerce Building,
Minneapolis, Minn.

SECOND PRIZE, $10; Mrs. Nils Holm, Patron, 710 S. Farwell Street, Eau
Claire, Wis.


HONORABLE MENTION--JUNIORS.


MARINES.

W. C. Davids, Rutherford, N. J., Frederick Clapp, Boston, Mass., Octave
de Maurice, Middletown, Conn., Kenneth M. Towner, Asbury Park, N. J.,
Albert B. Russell, Ilion, N. Y., Andrew Phillips, Nunda, N. Y., Paul
Warren, Wauwautosa, Wis., Mary P. Kelsey, Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia,
Pa., Susy Brown, Keyport, N. J., John W. Horr, Worcester, Mass., Samuel
J. Castner, Philadelphia, Pa.


LANDSCAPES.

Emory J. Wendell, Albany, N. Y., Edmund C. Stone, Baird, Cal., W. H.
Tobey, Washington, Kan., Ike Baum, Uniontown, Pa., Valverd Toof, St.
Paul, Minn., May F. Barrett, Bloomfield, N. J., Stanley M. Dolan,
Portland, Ore., Robert Woodward, Montclair, N. J., Albert Russell,
Ilion, N. Y., J. A. Sinclair, Beamsville, Ont., Walter C. Bradley,
Philadelphia, Penn., Roland C. Meisenbach, St. Louis, Mo., James G.
Zimmerman, Milwaukee, Wis., Homer E. Bartlett, North Adams, Mass., Harry
<DW12>, Allegheny, Pa., Edith Van Allen, Worcester, Mass., Fleurette
Raplan, Cincinnati, O., H. P. Randall, Pasadena, Cal., Douglas Vandyke,
Milwaukee, Wis., Paul G. Warren, Wauwautosa, Wis.


FIGURE STUDIES.

Roland Meisenbach, St. Louis, Mo., S. J. Castner, Philadelphia, Pa.,
Andrew Phillips, Nunda, N. Y., Edmund C. Stone, Baird, Cal., Constance
F. Wheeler, New York City, James A. Sinclair, Beamsville, Ont., Luke
Murdock, Cincinnati, O.


HONORABLE MENTION--SENIORS.


LANDSCAPES.

Norman J. Smith, Bellville, N. J., Virginia Wells, Parkersburg, W. Va.,
Wilbur F. Powers, Evanston, Ill., Harriet L. George, Thomaston, Me.,
Mrs. Ellen E. Stevenson, Chicago, Ill., M. Alison Martin, Toledo, O.,
Frank R. Gilbert, Chester, Pa., Norman J. Smith, New York City, Max H.
Miner, Ithaca, N. Y., G. L. Blodgett, Cooperstown, N.Y., Louis H.
Flanders, Chicago, Ill., Mary A. Dougall, Newark, N. J., Chester A.
Darling, New York City, Jane Farnham Miller, Washington, D.C., Cora
Blakeslee, Sparta, Wis., Harry Drinker, Scranton, Pa., William H. Brown,
Greenville, E. Tenn., Frances H. Badeau, Washington, D.C., A. E.
Pearson, Holyoke, Mass., Lee Stillman, Red Hook, N. Y., Mrs. Geo. Conn,
Black Diamond, Wash., Warfield T. Longcope, Baltimore, Md., F. Elton
Morse, Lyon, Mass., Newell W. Edson, Portland, Me., Frank Roe,
Batchelder, Worcester, Mass., Herbert B. Shallenberger, Rochester, Pa.,
George H. Small, Everett, Mass., Arthur E. Mooney, St. Louis, Mo., Fred.
E. Turner, Willimantic, Conn., Mrs. Claud Gatch, Salem, Ore., Francis E.
Blake, Ithaca, N. Y., W. S. Thomas, Detroit, Mich., H. J. Sutton,
Philadelphia, Penn., E. D. Bull, Spartansburg, S. C., Mrs. A. O. Keplan,
Cincinnati, O., E. M. Bixby, San Francisco, Cal., Miss Hattie Howard,
Washington, D.C., H. L. Willoughby, Newport, R. I., Miss Annie E.
Hartwell, Framingham, Mass., William H. Frink, Greenfield, Mass., Howard
W. Page, Minneapolis, Minn.


FIGURE STUDIES.

H. E. Murdock, Minneapolis, Minn.: A Daughter of the Nile, See the
Conquering Hero, Five I Cast Away, Day Dreams. Mrs. Nils Holm, Eau
Claire, Wis.: A Descendant of the Vikings, Give Me a Bite? A Careless
Boy, Mistress Mischief, Multiplication is Vexation, A Portrait. Mrs.
Helen E. Stevenson, Chicago, Ill.: A Little ROUND TABLE Artist, Sleep
with Fairy Fingers. C. J. McLain, Fort Wayne, Ind.: A Little Bather.
Miss Helen Owen, Okalona, Miss.: A Sliver. Horace William Dresser,
Brooklyn, N. Y.: In Fairyland. George B. Phillips, Milwaukee, Wis.:
Study of a Child. Miss Marian Otter, Doyleston, Pa.: Girl Reading.
Hubert E. Hoge, Brooklyn, N. Y.: The Freedman. Kate Matthews, Pewee
Valley, Ky.: Study of a Child, A Reverie. Jennie E. Smith, Iowa Falls,
Ia.: Story of Three Little Pigs, Modern Wood-Nymph. W. E. Dickinson,
Bradford, Ia.: How is That for High? Chas. H. Voorhees, New York City:
In a New England Lane. Arthur E. Mooney, St, Louis, Mo.: Want Me to Read
You a Story? Under the Old Apple-Tree. A. E. Pearson, Holyoke, Mass.:
Ironing Day. Bertha Lothrop, Riverton, N. J.: Three Scamps, Dolly and
Me. Capt. Berkeley Macaulay, U. S. A., Fort Apache, Ari.: Drop it,
Tenderfoot. Theodore H. Hugo, Bridgeport, Conn.: Chores. Willis F. Lee,
Brooklyn, Pa.: Tired Hands. W. J. Browning, Salt Lake City: Future
Defenders of the Cup. Dorothy Roys, New York City: Berkshire
Blackberries. W. C. Davis. Lieut. of Artillery, Fortress Monroe, Va.: A
Youthful Granger. S. Roy Baker: Figure Studies.


ANIMAL STUDIES.

Louis H. Flanders, 512 Fullerton Avenue, Chicago, Ill.: Head of Jersey
Cow. Orville Bassett, New Bedford, Mass.: Good Friends. Hubert Hoge,
B.H.S., Brooklyn, N. Y.: Fallen Majesty. Louis Flanders, Chicago, Ill.:
Waiting for the Master. Bertha Lothrop, Riverton, N. J.: Playmates.
Franklin H. Conant, Providence, R. I.: Study of a Cat. W. Yost,
Cumberland, Md.: Study of a Cat. Lieut. W. C. Davis, U.S.A., Fortress
Monroe, Va.: A Fifteen-dollar Horse. Mrs. Claud Gatch, Salem, Ore.: A
Good Square Meal.


SPECIAL SUBJECTS.

C. H. Voorhees, New York City: Lightning. Edward H. Murray, Watertown,
N. Y.: Cows at Water's Edge. Newell W. Edson, Portland, Me.: Sunset
Effect (Day is Dying in the West). Mrs. Geo. Conn, Black Diamond, Wash.:
Snow Scene. Warfield T. Longcope, Baltimore, Md.: Moonlight. Arthur E.
Mooney, St. Louis, Mo.: Above the House-tops (Cloud Effect).

In the Camera Club column of No. 844 (December 31st), in "Answers to
Queries," a formula for a developing solution is given to Sir Knight
Milton Pease. There is a mistake in Solution No. 1. It reads, "Add
enough water to make the solution up to 8 oz." It should be, "Add enough
water to make the solution up to 16 oz."

       *       *       *       *       *

A Picture in a Word.

WHAT IS IT?

A bold headland on the coast of Spain, the headquarters of a band of
Moorish robbers; fishermen's boats, merchants' vessels, ships of war
sailing stealthily by in the darkness with muffled oars, or crowding all
sail in a fair wind to escape, if possible, the extortions of the gang
of pirates who exacted tribute from every passing vessel.

Answer.--Tariff, from Tarifa, a promontory on the Strait of Gibraltar.

       *       *       *       *       *

That Virgil Query.

     The ancients _did_ have "some idea of the roundness of the earth."
     In fact, they possessed much knowledge of it. The great Aristotle,
     who lived about three centuries before Virgil, advanced
     substantially the same theories to prove the rotundity of our
     planet that are commonly taught to-day. But they were not
     considered conclusive, which, in truth, they are not. Going even
     further back than the time of Aristotle it is found that the
     ancient Pythagoreans believed the earth to be round. It was one of
     their philosophers who discovered this fact.

  SIMON THEODORE STERN.
  NEW YORK CITY.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I think Virgil's line, _intonnere poli_, has reference to the north
     pole of the heavens, which was part of the system of astronomy
     invented by Hipparchus. Instead of saying, "the poles thunder," I
     would use the derived meaning of _poli_, _heavens_. I would like to
     ask some Knight or Lady interested in astronomy why planets do not
     twinkle as the stars do.

  C. F. HUNTER, R.T.F.
  MELLENVILLE, N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

Prizes for Funny Verses.

We offered five packets of fifty engraved visiting-cards bearing the
winners' names, with copper plate for future use, to the five who sent
us that number of ridiculous _funny_ verses--the funnier the better.
Here are the best five we received, with names of their authors:

  Yankee Doodle had a cat,
    Its tail was double-jointed;
  He took it to the dentist shop,
    And had its molars pointed.

  SAMUEL BYERS.
  PHILADELPHIA.

  He received a prospectus of the Round Table--
    Harper's,
        And tried to read
  The names of the Knights on the table of King
    Arthur;
        And now his need
  Is the man who can fix his jaw--the Doctor.

  CHARLES FREDERIC HOFFMANN.
  NEW YORK.

  A young man from old Honolulu
  Met up with a terrible Zulu,
  The Zulu's warm smile stretched forth nigh a mile,
  And the young man was turned into tulu.

  NED A. HIGGINS.
  GALENA, ILL.

  Said the Bishop to the Abbot,
    I'd give a five-pound note
  To see that ballet-dancer
    Get the tip-top vote.

  When the dancer got the vote
    And the five-pound note,
  Then the Bishop to the Abbot said,
    I'm sorry that I spoke.

  JOHN B. CAUTLEY.
  WOBURN SANDS, BLETCHLEY, ENGLAND.

JUVENILE LOGIC.

  "Pa, did Juno Juno?"
    Asked curious little Ned.
  "No, I didn't know Juno,"
    His startled father said.
  "But, pa, Juno was No-ju,
    That you surely know.
  And then if Juno No-ju,
    Why didn't Juno Juno?"

  UPTON E. SINCLAIR, JUN.
  NEW YORK.

The prizes have been ordered, and will be forwarded as soon as ready.

       *       *       *       *       *

Questions and Answers.

Frank Cope asks us to name an arithmetic well adapted to the needs of
one who is compelled to study without an instructor. Good ones, for
elementary study, are Fish's No. 1, 30 cents, and Fish's No. 2, 60
cents, to be had from the American Book Company, Chicago; or, if an
advanced book is wanted, Harper's Advanced Arithmetic, $1.20, Harper &
Brothers, New York. Are you interested in plants and flowers? M. S.
Newman, 111 Avenue B, New York, wants to hear from you if you are. Wyatt
and Peyser, 82 Lexington Avenue, New York, publishers of _The Comet_, a
clever amateur paper, want literary contributions from amateurs.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Whittier Library Chapter, A. L. Kuhn, 615 Ninth Street, Milwaukee,
Wis., seeks members, both those residing in and out of Milwaukee.
Address as above. It is a delightful Chapter to belong to. A Lady asks
how to get ready for a "Looking Backward" dance. Can anyone tell her?
Paul H. Knoelk, 627 Greenfield Avenue, Milwaukee, Wis., wants to form a
literary Chapter, with corresponding members. He or any others may write
to Arthur J. Johnston, Box 136, Dartmouth, N. S. The latter wants to
join a corresponding Chapter, which, we may inform a third, a Lady who
asks, is an organization kept together by correspondence, its members
living in many States. The best combination is, we think, a Chapter
having both local and absent members. We shall be glad to hear of the
progress of the Lancelot Chapter, of Newtonville, Mass. Maximo Gomez is
commander-in-chief of the Cuban forces. He has no naval force, and a
land force variously estimated at from 25,000 to 50,000 men, the number
being constantly added to. Jno. Pohland, Ahnapee, Wis., will send
sketches to any amateur paper that applies to him for them. He wants
samples.




[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 letter issued by the American S. S. S. S., addressed to those
countries using "Seebeek" stamps, has already produced fruit. The
President of Ecuador has issued a decree cancelling the contract for the
supply of these stamps, on the ground "that it is unworthy of the
dignity of Ecuador" to continue such an arrangement.

As enterprising firm in St. Louis has begun the issue of a daily stamp
paper, edited by "The Office Cat," price $3 per year, but the publishers
reserve the right of discontinuing the paper and refunding subscriptions
at any time the "Office Cat" gets tired. Although begun in fun, the
editor has issued several numbers, and it looks as if the paper would be
a success. Great is philately and many are its devotees. The time may
come when a daily stamp paper will be issued in all the philatelic
centres, both morning and evening editions.

Stories of great "finds" are current. Ever since the Louisville
discovery of 137 St. Louis stamps, which the lucky finders (two porters)
sold for over $30,000, the attention of stamp-collectors all over the
Union has been directed to unearthing old correspondence. The South has
been a little backward so far, and yet there is no doubt that large
numbers of the rarer Confederate "locals" are still in existence. To aid
the ROUND TABLE readers to identify these stamps, I shall give reduced
illustrations next week of some or all of the stamps. A complete list of
the fourteen stamps issued by the general government of the Confederate
States, together with illustrations of the same, and their comparative
scarcity, will be found in the ROUND TABLE dated December 10, 1895.

     J. DENNETT.--As there are at least sixteen different Prince Edward
     Island stamps, I cannot know to which you refer.

     A. T. D.--An embossed stamp is, strictly speaking, one in which all
     or a portion of the stamp is in relief, but the word is frequently
     used for a _grilled_ stamp--that is, one in which a series of
     indentations has been made. See ROUND TABLE, July 16, 1895, for
     illustrations of grills. Laid paper is one in which, held up to the
     light, there appear white lines. Ribbed paper is a paper embossed
     in lines very slightly raised above the surface.

     H. MARRIETTA.--For value of cents see ROUND TABLE, December 17,
     1895. For water-marks, ROUND TABLE, January 7, 1896. Zes is Dutch
     for six. A medallion looks like but is not a coin. The stamps and
     envelopes can be bought for double face.

     H. MARTIN.--Your half-dollar is not 1813, but a worn 1843. Dealers
     ask 75c. for an unworn copy.

     M. B. GRIFFITHS, POST MASTER, M. PA., H. S. BERRY, W. SKATING, M.
     ZIMMERMAN.--See ROUND TABLE for December 17, 1895, and January 7,
     1896, for prices _asked_ by dealers for the coins.

     J. A. W.--The stamps are current Mexican. The timbre stamp is a
     Mexican revenue.

     L. A. S.--Foreign coins are not much collected in the U. S. For
     values of U. S. coins from 25 cents to $1 see last number. The
     other coins mentioned do not command a premium.

     A. A. MOSES.--See the ROUND TABLE dated January 7, 1896, for
     methods of seeing water-marks.

     M. O. CONGER.--See ROUND TABLE dated December 17, 1895, for values
     of U. S. coins from 1 cent to 20 cents. The Confederate stamp is
     worth 5 cents.

  PHILATUS.




[Illustration: Ivory Soap]

An experienced laundress will tell you that shirts never look as white
as when washed with Ivory Soap.

THE PROCTER & GAMBLE CO., CIN'TI.




[Illustration]

[Illustration]


Over the hills

and far away

The whizzing wheels speed on to-day.

As they fly along the glad shouts ring--

"Ride MONARCH, the wheel that's best and king"

MONARCH

KING OF BICYCLES

Beloved by his subjects because he does right by them. There's goodness
and merit in every inch of his kingly fame.

4 models. $80 and $100, fully guaranteed. For children and adults who
want a lower price wheel the =Defiance= is made in 8 models, $40 to $75.

Send for Monarch book.

[Illustration]

Monarch Cycle Mfg. Co.

Lake, Halsted and Fulton Sts., CHICAGO.

88 Reade St., NEW YORK.




BREAKFAST--SUPPER.

EPPS'S

GRATEFUL--COMFORTING.

COCOA

BOILING WATER OR MILK.




[Illustration]

PRINTING OUTFIT 10c.

Sets any name in one minute; prints 500 cards an hour. YOU can make
money with it. A font of pretty type, also Indelible Ink, Type, Holder,
Pads and Tweezers. Best Linen Market; worth $1.00. Sample mailed FREE
for 10c. stamps for postage on outfit and large catalogue of 1000
Bargains. Same outfit with figures 15c. Larger outfit for printing two
lines 25c. post-paid. Ingersoll & Bro. 65 Cortlandt St., N. Y. City




CARDS

The FINEST SAMPLE BOOK of Gold Beveled Edge, Hidden Name, Silk Fringe,
Envelope and Calling Cards ever offered for a 2 cent Stamp. These are
GENUINE CARDS, NOT TRASH.

UNION CARD CO., COLUMBUS, OHIO




CARDS

=FOR 1896. 50 Sample Styles= AND LIST OF 400 PREMIUM ARTICLES FREE.
HAVERFIELD PUB. CO., Cadiz, Ohio.




[Illustration: Thompson's Eye Water]




HAVE YOU THESE BOOKS?

       *       *       *       *       *

"Harper's Round Table" for 1895

Volume XVI. With 1096 Pages, and about 750 Illustrations. 4to, Cloth,
Ornamental, $3.50.

     There is nothing, we imagine, that the young reader would be likely
     to prize more.--_N. Y. Sun._

     A fascinating book from cover to cover. It just meets the needs of
     youth and young people generally. Indeed, no age could be so
     advanced as to find nothing interesting in it.--_Living Church_,
     Chicago.

     Full of delightful things for boys and girls. It is an excellent
     periodical, well written, and well illustrated; and it contains
     wholesome food enough to satisfy the most exacting young
     appetite.--_Dial_, Chicago.

     A literal mine of instruction and entertainment.... The young
     person who receives this beautiful book ... is an enviable person
     indeed.--_Examiner_, N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

By Kirk Munroe

=Snow-Shoes and Sledges.= A Sequel to "The Fur-Seal's Tooth." Illustrated.
Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

     It would be hard to find a more fascinating and at the same time
     more instructive story for boys.--_Boston Beacon_.

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR:_

THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH.--RAFTMATES.--CANOEMATES.--CAMPMATES.--DORYMATES.
Each one volume. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1.25 each.

WAKULLA.--THE FLAMINGO FEATHER.--DERRICK STERLING.--CHRYSTAL, JACK &
CO., and DELTA BIXBY. Illustrated. Square 16mo. Cloth, $1.00 each.

       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.




[Illustration]

THE CHASE OF THE BONNET BIRD.


  "Oh what is the use," said the Fays from the Moon,
  "Of spending the whole of an afternoon
            In fishing for fish,
            To serve on a dish,
  When you can go birding for birds like that,
            With feathers upon it
            Just right for a bonnet,
                Or theatre hat?

            "All fishes are cheap--
            E'en those from the deep--
            But bonnets come high!
                That's why
            'Stead of fishing for fish,
            To serve on a dish,
            We are birding instead
  For that bird with the wonderful feathery head."

       *       *       *       *       *

ALWAYS READY TO TELL.

"When I grow up," observed Walter, "I'm going to be the editor of a
newspaper."

"You'll make a good one," put in Sallie, scornfully, "you're such a
tattle-tale."

       *       *       *       *       *

A POOR RULE THAT WON'T WORK BOTH WAYS.

"Don't you know, Clement," said Clement's mother, "that candy is very
bad for your teeth?"

"No, ma'am," replied Clement. "I know that my teeth were bad for the
candy, though."

       *       *       *       *       *

  I'm very fond of pa,
  I dearly love my ma;
  But when it comes to making pie,
  The cook, I think, just takes my eye.

       *       *       *       *       *

EARLY-MORNING PERSIFLAGE.

"Johnny, get up!" called his father, the other morning.

"Too cold," called Johnny, in return.

"If you are not up in five minutes I'll come up after you," returned his
father.

"All right," said Johnny. "Bring an ice-pick with you."

       *       *       *       *       *

A LITTLE MIXED.

"There she is," said Bobbie, pointing to the cruiser.

"She?" retorted Hal. "She ain't a she--she's a he. That boat's a
_man_-of-war."

       *       *       *       *       *

A COASTER'S CONCLUSION.

  The down-hill glide takes my breath away,
    As over the snow I pop;
  And that is why, I suppose, I pant
    When plodding up to the top.

       *       *       *       *       *

A REASONABLE DEMAND.

"See here, papa," said Willie, "do you remember how badly you felt
because I sent you a comic valentine last year?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"Well, if you want a nice one this year you'll have to double my
allowance. I can't afford more 'n a cent on five cents a week."

       *       *       *       *       *

NOT WHAT IT WAS CRACKED UP TO BE.

The tumblerful of cracked ice had melted, and little Mabel was peering
curiously into the water that was left.

"Zat's verwy funny," she said. "Zat ice was all cwacked, an', now it's
melted, ze cwacks is all gone."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SNOW MAN CRACKS A JOKE.

"You look very warm," said the Sun to the Snow-man.

"Why shouldn't I?" retorted the Snow-man. "I've got on my meltin'
overcoat."

       *       *       *       *       *

JOEY'S PLAN.

  This poor little <DW54> he wished to be white.
    That was all that he wished for--heigho!
  And he washed his brown face both day and night
                          With snow--
                          Poor Joe!
  "Yo' face gits all soapy 'f yo' wash it wiv soap,
  And dat is de reason, kind sir, dat I hope
        In usin' dis snow 'twill git snowy,"
                          Said Joey.
                          Heigho!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A BIRD'S NESTING ADVENTURE, OR HOW A WICKED APE MET WITH
HIS REWARD.]





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, January 21, 1896, by Various

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