



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1895. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 844. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

THE FATE OF LA SALLE.

BY ROBERT H. FULLER.


In early times America was to the Spaniards a region of silver and gold,
which were to be wrung from the natives and squandered in Europe; to the
French and the Dutch it was a country of furs, which were to be
purchased from the Indians for beads, knives, and guns, and sold across
the sea at an enormous profit; to the English it was a land of homes,
with liberty to think and act. Thus, while the Spaniards were delving in
the mines of Mexico and Peru and freighting their argosies, and while
the French couriers of the woods were steering their fur-laden canoes
down the St. Lawrence, the English colonists along the Atlantic coast
were cultivating the soil, making and enforcing laws, and gaining a
foothold which was to remain firm long after their more restless and
adventurous neighbors had vanished from the New World.

Nevertheless, the early French explorers, heedless of danger, bold and
free as the Indians themselves, threading rivers and exploring lakes in
their canoes, ranging through limitless solitudes of forest or over
interminable wastes of prairie, performed a service of the utmost value
to the future nation. They mapped out the road which slower but surer
feet were to follow, and if they could not organize and hold the
enormous territory which they claimed, at least they prepared it for
those who could.

Above the crowd of ragged and fearless adventurers who throng through
the history of France's vain endeavors to found an empire in the Western
World, the figure of Réné-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de la Salle, towers
like a statue of bronze. He was born in 1643, and was the son of a rich
merchant of Rouen. A brief connection with the religious order of the
Jesuits deprived him of his inheritance, and at the age of twenty-two he
sailed for Canada to seek his fortune, turning his back upon the Old
World, as did many another young Frenchman of gentle breeding at that
time.

He was granted an estate, afterward named La Chine, near Montreal. The
name of the place is a memory of the belief, long cherished by the
French, that by way of the St. Lawrence, the Great Lakes, and the
Mississippi, a passage to the Pacific Ocean and the wealth of the East
might be found. On his domain, which served as an outpost of Montreal
against the incursions of the ferocious Iroquois, he lived a life of
rude freedom, ruling like a young seigneur over the tenants who gathered
about his stockade.

But he could not long remain quiet. The thirst for adventure was strong
upon him, and, listening to the tales of his Indian visitors, he
determined to explore the Ohio and the Mississippi to the "Vermilion
Sea," or the Gulf of California, into which he was convinced the great
river flowed. At his own expense he fitted out an expedition, and pushed
boldly into the trackless wilderness.

This was the beginning of a career of hardship and danger, of successes
achieved in the teeth of seemingly insurmountable obstacles and in spite
of the plots of powerful enemies, with a steadfast fortitude
unparalleled in the annals of discovery. La Salle's dream of reaching
the Pacific was soon dispelled; but it was the nature of his mind to
rear new plans on the ruins of the old. He never grew discouraged. In
the presence of calamities which would have overwhelmed a less stout
heart his brain was busy seeking new paths to the end he had in view.

At his first step he encountered the jealous hostility of the Jesuits,
then powerful both at Quebec and Paris. To this was added the enmity of
those interested in the fur trade, who feared that he would disturb
their traffic; the hatred of all who had betrayed, deserted, and robbed
him--no small number; and the annoyances of such as had been induced to
invest in his schemes when his own resources were exhausted. While he
was absent, bearing the flag of France over thousands of miles of new
territory, slanderers and detractors were busy at home destroying his
credit, thwarting his plans, ridiculing his hopes, and seeking to rob
him of his honors. The obstacles cast in his path by nature or savage
tribes were slight when compared with those reared against him by his
own country men. But, unshaken in his purpose, he toiled on year after
year, enduring exposure, hunger, cold, illness, and treachery, exploring
the Ohio and the Illinois, and finally, in 1682, descending the
Mississippi to its mouth.

This was his crowning exploit. He was now a man of middle age, inured to
peril and hardship, and burdened with a heavy load of responsibility. He
was stern, reserved, and self-reliant. There were few besides Tonti, his
devoted lieutenant, upon whom he could rely. His followers were fickle
savages or, worse still, the idle and insubordinate offscour of Europe.
He had built and equipped a vessel on the lakes, and she had been sunk
with her cargo. He had nearly finished another on the Illinois, when his
men mutinied in his absence, and deserted. He had erected forts and
planted colonies, which were destroyed or ordered abandoned by a hostile
governor. He had been robbed again and again of the stores and supplies
which he had transported at great cost into the wilderness, and of the
furs which he sent back to Canada. At last he felt that if he was to
secure for France the rich valley of the Mississippi and the boundless
region drained by its tributaries, and repay his creditors through the
monopoly of the trade which he hoped to establish there, he must secure
the support of the King himself. Accordingly he turned toward France.

His plan found favor with Louis XIV. and his ministers. He was given
four vessels, which carried, besides supplies, a hundred soldiers,
mechanics and laborers, several families, a number of girls who hoped to
find husbands in the new colony, and thirty volunteers. Among these last
were several boys, two of them his own nephews, of whom one was destined
to be the cause of his death. The expedition was to make a settlement at
the mouth of the Mississippi, and organize a force to sweep the
Spaniards out of New Mexico. This La Salle promised to do. At last,
after so many trials and disappointments, he seemed to stand on the
threshold of success.

But the dark cloud of misfortune which had so long lowered above his
head reappeared when the vessels approached their destination. Numbers
of the colonists fell ill on the voyage. At St. Domingo, La Salle
himself was stricken down by fever, and his life was despaired of. One
of his vessels was taken by Spanish pirates, and his men grew
discontented and undisciplined. To cap the climax, the fleet missed the
mouth of the Mississippi, and the colonists landed four hundred miles to
the westward, at Matagorda Bay. There another vessel was lost while
attempting to enter the harbor, and a third, which had acted as escort
only, returned to France.

It did not take the unhappy pioneers long to discover that they were not
on the Mississippi, and La Salle, with unabated energy, set out in
search of the "fatal river." He did not find it, and on his return the
last of the vessels was lost, removing all hope of escape by sea. The
sufferings of the little colony were great, and La Salle formed the
desperate resolution of penetrating through the wilderness to Canada for
help. Some of his followers afterward escaped by this dangerous path,
but he himself was never to see Canada again. On the march food ran
short, and seven men were sent out to forage. Among them was a man named
Duhaut, who hated La Salle, and had once deserted him. The party killed
some buffaloes, and were curing the meat when one of La Salle's nephews,
Moranget, who had been sent in search of them with a companion, arrived.
Moranget did not lack courage, but he did lack prudence. He angered the
men by finding fault with them unjustly.

Duhaut seized the opportunity, and drew four of the others into his
plot. That night Moranget and his companion, with La Salle's faithful
Indian servant, were murdered as they slept. The next morning, La Salle,
full of anxious foreboding at his nephew's failure to return, went after
him in company with a priest. Even in his defenceless condition the
wretches who had resolved on his death did not dare to attack him
openly. Crouched in the dry grass like savages, they awaited his coming,
and shot him through the brain as he approached. Then they came out of
their concealment and triumphed over the body, crying: "There thou
liest, tyrant! There thou liest!"

So on the prairies of Texas perished La Salle. His name heads the list
of resolute adventurers who pierced the secrets of the wilderness, and
led the march of civilization across the continent. He was a man of
action. When beset, as he often was, by doubts and difficulties, he saw
at once what must be done, and did it without delay. Had his life been
spared he would, no doubt, have rescued the colonists. Without his aid
they perished miserably, Duhaut, the chief murderer, being shot down by
another of the accomplices. Of all the expedition only seven, including
the explorer's brother and his remaining nephew, reached Canada.




GRATITUDE.


  I think all little children should
    Be thankful in their prayers
  To God for having been so good
    To make their parents _theirs_.




HOW HARRY SOWERBY EARNED PROMOTION.

BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.


"May I go out to Blairstown on your special, Mr. Gannon?" asked Harry
Sowerby, the telegraph operator at Hammonds.

"What do you want to go for, bub?" replied the superintendent of the
Lexington and Danville Railroad. "It's a nasty night for travelling,
and--"

"I haven't been home in two months," said the boy, eagerly. "I may not
have another chance for a long time, and it's near Christmas. I can
report the departure of your train to 'X' office, and then there's
nothing more to be done here till 6.45 to-morrow morning."

"Come on, then," answered the superintendent. He knew that Harry
Sowerby, the youngest telegraph operator on the road, was anxious to see
his mother and sisters, and he knew what a lonely place Hammonds Station
was.

The sounder clicked rapidly for a few moments as Harry notified the
night train-despatcher at "X" office that the superintendent's special
was passing westward. Then he quickly cut out the telegraph instruments,
quenched the office lamp, and jumped aboard the car as it slowly rolled
past the glare of the bright platform light and out into the black rain.
He could not remember having ever heard such a heavy downpour. The snow
that had hidden the earth for weeks was fast melting under it.

Harry Sowerby was only sixteen years old. He had been at Hammonds one
year, and he was heartily tired of it. The nearest house to the station
was a quarter of a mile away. He was anxious to be promoted to the
train-despatcher's staff at "X" office, that mysterious place whence the
orders came that governed all the trains on the road. But Mr. Gannon had
put him off, telling him that he was too young.

"When you've had more experience, bub," said the big, good-natured
superintendent, "maybe the dispatcher will need you. You're young yet,
you know."

This was a tender point with Harry. He knew he really looked as old as
most fellows of eighteen, and he felt that he had more experience at
railroading than many fellows of twenty-five. Besides, if he were sent
to "X," his pay would be increased to sixty-five dollars a month, and he
could send his sisters to a better school.

Suddenly steam was shut off. Harry knew it by the silence with which the
light train plunged forward, without a sound from the exhaust or the
cylinders. Then came the sharp hissing of the air-brakes, but the train
ran on unchecked. One blast of the whistle called the brakeman to the
platform, where he whirled the brake-wheel swiftly, and set it up as
hard as if his life depended on that one act. A grinding noise forward
and a snarling from the driving-wheels told Harry's experienced ears
that the engineer had "thrown her over and given her sand"--that is, he
had reversed the lever and opened the sand-box, so that the
driving-wheels, now turning backward, might grip the wet rails firmly.

Mr. Gannon, in his hip boots and mackintosh, was out in the snow and mud
and up ahead in less than half a minute. The front of the locomotive was
within thirty feet of the beginning of Williston cut. Tom Jackson had
not stopped her a moment too soon. The heavy rain had washed down tons
of earth and bowlders from the banks on to the track. The cut was
blocked for fully thirty yards. What it was that whispered danger to the
engineer he himself could not tell, but he had felt a sudden premonition
that it was not safe to run through the cut.

Harry Sowerby saw the brakeman go back with a red lantern to protect the
superintendent's special train from No. 576, the way freight that was
due thirty minutes later. Suddenly the light flickered out. The wind and
rain were too much for it. Harry knew that the same thing might happen
just as the heavy freight train came along. It sickened him to think of
what would follow. He thought of the train crew scattered on the snowy
ground, bruised, perhaps killed.

The boy's head throbbed with excitement. If he only could do something
to save the train! He had heard Ryan, the rear brakeman, say that there
was not a danger torpedo on the car. He ran hopelessly up to the
locomotive tender, knowing that there was none there either, but
thinking that perhaps he might find something. And as he searched in the
grimy tool-box he saw a long piece of heavy copper wire. There flashed
across his mind the recollection of how Kline, the lineman, had once
said it was possible for a "good man" to telegraph from any point on the
line. Here was something worth trying.

"Bring a torch, Phil," he said to the fireman. Away he ran down the
track, the coil of wire in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other.
Throwing the coil around his neck and sticking the pliers in his pocket,
Harry began to climb the nearest telegraph pole, while Phil helped him
all he could with his free hand.

The young telegrapher soon threw his leg over the cross-arm, and braced
himself securely. Fireman Phil held the flaring torch as high as he
could, so that the light was only fifteen feet below the wire. The torch
was so liberally soaked with petroleum that the wind could not blow it
out.

Harry felt thankful when he saw, on the opposite end of the cross-arm
from that which held the single telegraph line, a new glass insulator
that had been placed for another line which was soon to be strung. That
made his work easier. Using his pliers dexterously, he quickly spliced
one end of the coil of copper wire around the wire of the telegraph line
about six inches away from the cross-arm. He twined the copper wire
around and around the live wire, so that it clung like a wild-grape vine
tendril to a tree bough.

Then he took three turns of the copper wire around the empty insulator.
Now was the trying moment. If he cut the line, would its sagging weight
break his splice of copper wire? Yet if he was to carry out his plan he
must separate the telegraph line into two parts, so that by bringing the
ends together he could make the Morse signals. With a few nips of the
pliers he cut the telegraph line, and although it fell away with a sharp
snap, the copper-wire splice held it safely hung to the new insulator.

Now he was in possession of a rude but effective telegraph key. By
touching the west end of the broken line, which was the jagged bit of
wire that stuck up from the old insulator, against the east end of the
line, which was the end of the copper wire leading back from the new
insulator, he could complete the electric circuit. He tapped the end of
the copper wire upon the line wire that stuck up. A tiny blue spark
flashed out, and he felt sharp pains in his wet right hand as the
current shot through it. But what mattered the pain? Because the current
shocked him so, he felt sure that the line was "O K." Now he began
tapping again. He let the wires barely touch to make dots, and held them
together an instant to make dashes. He began to call up the station at
Woodside, where No. 576 was due to pass within the next ten minutes.
Then he held the wire ends together to receive an answer. He soon could
feel the stinging, burning current bite the dots and dashes into his
hand like this:

  "-- --  -- --  -- ---- ----  ---- -- --."

Now he telegraphed this order:

"Operator, Woodside,--Flag and hold all west-bound trains. Williston cut
blockaded, and a special is stuck at east end."

He signed Mr. Gannon's name to this. Then he held the wires together
while the operator telegraphed back the order, according to the railroad
rules, to show that he understood. The man at Woodside was surprised at
the message, but he quickly understood its importance.

Harry twisted the loose end of the copper wire around the little piece
of wire that stuck up, so that the telegraph line should not be broken,
and then he slid down the pole.

"They're holding all west-bound trains at Woodside!" he shouted to Phil
as his feet touched the ground.

Phil gave him a congratulatory slap on the back that nearly upset him.
Then Phil ran to where the superintendent and the train crew were
standing, two hundred yards back of the train, trying to shield a red
light and keep it burning. He yelled the good news to them, and as
Harry came slowly up to the little group, the crew cheered him and
hugged him and told him he had saved the six lives on No. 576.

"Bub," said Mr. Gannon, as he gravely shook Harry's burned right hand,
"I guess you've had enough experience to go to 'X' office. We need men
as quick-witted and plucky as you in this business. I'm going to report
your conduct to the directors of the road at their next meeting."




HOW MAGIC IS MADE.


I.

When Samuel Butler wrote

  "Doubtless the pleasure is as great
  Of being cheated, as to cheat,"

he afforded evidence that he had never been a conjurer.

There is a nervous strain, an excitement, in the act of cheating at
conjuring that is entirely wanting when we are cheated.

For the one who does the tricks there is a fascination that has never
been known to be even alleviated, but, like the proverbial brook, "goes
on forever." Yet, knowing this, I propose to lure my readers to this
incurable habit by teaching them the whole art and mystery of deceiving
one's neighbor--in an honest way.

As an explanation of "palming," whether of coins, balls, or cards, or
any of the preliminary exercises necessary in order to become a
proficient conjurer, makes but dull reading, I shall postpone
instruction in such finger movements until actually needed, and begin
with a complete trick. I shall not content myself, however, with showing
the mere bare bones of the illusions, but will present something more
solid, and give such suggestions, with accompanying _patter_ and other
details, as will enable the student in what the French call "White
Magic," with some practice, to perform the tricks to his own
satisfaction and the delight of his audience.

At the start let me caution my readers against being too quick. The
success of a sleight-of-hand trick depends on diverting the attention of
the audience upon misdirection rather than on rapidity of movement. It
is a fallacy that "the hand is quicker than the eye." The most
accomplished conjurers this country has ever seen, men like Buatier de
Kolta or the late Robert Heller, never made a rapid movement; they were
deliberate. They relied more on a nimble wit, a turn of the head, a
glance of the eye, a motion of the hand, and yet they successfully and
artistically deceived the keenest-eyed witness of their performance.

And now to begin with our first lesson. As an opening for a performance,
something that will impress an audience with your skill, there is
nothing better than

THE EVANESCENT HANDKERCHIEF.

The performer begins by rolling up his sleeves, and showing his hands to
be empty. Yet bringing the latter together the next moment, he produces
a piece of  silk about twelve inches square, which, in spite of
its diminutive size, he dignifies by the name of _handkerchief_.

"This," he says, holding it out, "is property number One, and here,"
picking up a candle from his table, "is number Two. This candle is
simply the _light_ and airy product of the chandler, and has not been
tampered with by any _wicked_ trickster since it left his hands. And yet
I propose to pass into its very centre this handkerchief."

[Illustration: THE CANDLE.]

A narrow strip of card-board, bent into semicircular form and having a
round hole cut in its centre, serves as a candlestick, and in this the
candle is stood.

"You can readily see," continues the performer, "that there is
absolutely no chance here to gall you--no apparatus of any kind. And now
to begin."

He rolls the handkerchief between his hands, and then extending his
closed right hand, while the left, also closed, goes behind his back,
says: "I shall now cause the handkerchief which is in my right hand to
pass invisibly into that candle. That will be a miracle, and a
prerequisite for a miracle is faith. You must believe that the
handkerchief is in my hand."

"But," whispers a sharp-eyed, keen-witted spectator, "the handkerchief
is not there. He kept it in his left hand, and has thrust it into his
coat-tail pocket."

Ah, suspicious mortal, how grievously mistaken you are! As Josh Billings
has wisely said, "It's better not to know so much than to know so much
that's not so." The performer opens his hand and shows that the
handkerchief is still there.

Again he goes through the same manipulation, and again suspicion is
aroused.

"Ah, ye of little faith!" he exclaims. "There is no need of concealing
my hands for such a simple trick. See! I merely roll the handkerchief,
so, between my hands"--suiting the action to the word--"and on opening
them we find them empty, nothing concealed in them, and nothing up my
sleeves," which he bares in proof. "Where has the handkerchief gone? It
has passed, as I promised it would pass, into the candle."

"Should I cut open the candle," he goes on to say, "and in it find the
missing bit of silk, you would conclude that I use a prepared candle. To
prove this is not so I light the candle, and from its flame I thus
extract the handkerchief." Which he does.

[Illustration: THE FALSE FINGER.]

Pretty and mysterious as this trick is, it is very simple. The
handkerchief which is produced from the empty hands is concealed in a
hollow metal finger, which is painted a flesh-color, and is open at the
lower end, where it is cut in the following shape >. This finger is
placed between the second and third fingers of the left hand, and as the
performer keeps all the fingers close together, and turns his hands
rapidly backward and forward when showing them to be empty, it will be a
keen eye indeed that will detect the apparatus. When the hands are
brought together the false finger is quickly taken off, the handkerchief
is pulled out and shown to the audience. In laying the handkerchief on
the table the finger is placed there with it, or is retained in the hand
and afterward pocketed.

Fastened to the performer's left arm, just below the elbow and under his
coat sleeve, is a strong cord--a piece of fine fish-line is
excellent--which passes up the sleeve, through the armholes of his vest,
across his back, and down the right sleeve, where it ends in a loop
placed over the right thumb. This cord is of such a length that it will
only reach the thumb when the arms are held with the elbows at the hips
and the forearm extended from that point. Releasing the loop from the
thumb, and straightening the arms forward and slightly upward, carries
the loop and anything in it well into the upper part of the sleeve. When
the handkerchief is to disappear, the performer, under cover of his
clasped hands, runs it through the loop, extends his arms quickly, and
the handkerchief flies up the sleeve. Just here comes in a little piece
of the _misdirection_ already alluded to. The performer does not open
his hands at once, but continues to rub them as if they still contained
the handkerchief; then he closes the right hand and holds it well out
from his body, letting the left hand fall, open, to his side. He
continues for a second to work the fingers of the right hand, as though
compressing the handkerchief, and finally, opening one finger after
another, shows the hand empty. Next he bares his arms, but in doing so
is careful to push up the left coat sleeve and turn his shirt sleeve
over it, so as to conceal the place at which the cord is fastened.

[Illustration: THE MATCH-BOX AND THREAD.]

The production of the handkerchief from the candle is as ingenious as
the rest of the trick. A _duplicate_ handkerchief is folded as small as
possible, and tied with very fine black cotton thread, to which is
attached a loop of horse-hair. This is placed in one end of the cover of
an ordinary parlor-match box, one of the kind that slides into its
cover, like a drawer. The box, half-way open, stands on the table, the
loop protruding. In picking it up to take out a match the forefinger of
the left hand is run through the loop, and the act of closing the box
pushes out the handkerchief, which dangles in the palm of the hand, and,
as the back is kept toward the audience, is not seen. _Care must be
taken not to_ PULL _out the handkerchief lest the thread should break_.
To produce it the hands are closed quickly over the flame of the candle,
extinguishing it, a sharp jerk breaks the thread, and the handkerchief
appears as if pulled from the wick.

The metal finger has recently been improved on, but as the substitute
requires more delicate handling, I shall defer the explanation of it for
the present.

This little trick originated with De Kolta, the famous French conjurer,
who, besides being the inventor of most of the tricks, great and small,
exhibited by the other magicians, is an accomplished actor. In his hands
it almost reaches the dignity of a work of art. Another trick of his is

THE MISSION OF A PLATE.

The performer shows a soup plate and two small handkerchiefs, a red one
and a blue, "made of raw silk," he remarks, adding, "Though the silk is
raw, let us hope the trick will be well done."

That there may be no suspicion of a trap in the table, it is covered
with a newspaper. The plate is laid on it, mouth down. With his arms
bare to the elbow, the performer picks up one handkerchief, rolls it in
his hands, and after a moment shows first his right hand empty, then the
left. The second handkerchief is treated in the same way, and on lifting
the plate the handkerchiefs are found under it.

Of course two sets of handkerchiefs are used, one of which is concealed
in the plate by means of a double bottom. The construction of the plate
is quite simple. A hole about one-eighth of an inch in diameter is
drilled in the bottom at the centre. A false bottom is made of
metal--zinc or tin--one side painted white to match the plate, the other
covered with newspaper. Soldered to the centre on the newspaper side is
a short wire, slightly hooked at the end, which passes through the hole
in the plate and just catches the edge. A touch with the finger of this
projecting hook dislodges the bottom. The handkerchiefs cover the wire,
while the newspaper lining, matching the paper on the table, conceals
the false bottom.

[Illustration: CHANGING THE CORD.]

So much for the plate. Now for the disappearance of the handkerchiefs.
For this a small black bag of some soft dull black material is used.
This bag ought not to be more than an inch and three-quarters long by
about the same measurement in width. In the mouth must be sewed a
curtain ring about seven-eighths of an inch in diameter, and extending
from the centre of one side of the bag to the centre of the other should
be a loop of fine flesh- sewing-silk, long enough to pass over
the forefinger and thumb when the former is held out from the fingers.
This bag is lying on a table or hanging at the back of a chair, and is
picked up with the first handkerchief. Shaking out this handkerchief,
the performer pretends to gather it into his hands, in reality stuffing
it into the bag by the help of his left forefinger. When completely in,
he runs that finger and the left thumb through the loop, works the bag
to the back of the left hand, and closes that hand. The right hand, of
which the back has been toward the audience, is now turned and shown to
be empty. The fingers of the left hand still keep moving, as if rolling
the handkerchief into still smaller compass, and then that hand is
opened and also shown empty. Almost at the same moment the tips of the
right-hand fingers are laid, for an instant only, near the left palm, as
if to emphasize the fact that the handkerchief has gone, but without
saying a word. This brings the right forefinger about the centre of the
loop, through which it passes. The hands almost immediately separate,
the bag is lifted off and brought against the right palm, in which
position it cannot be seen by the audience. Without calling attention to
it by words, the audience are made to see that the left hand is empty,
as the performer picks up the second handkerchief with it, thus showing
the back and front.

The second handkerchief is now worked into the bag, which this time is
left hanging from the forefinger of the _right_ hand. This hand is
opened, but the audience, though not allowed to see the palm, conclude
it is empty, as it was in the case of the first handkerchief. The left
hand is kept closed, as if containing the handkerchief; then it is given
a sudden upward movement, as if throwing the handkerchief into space,
and opened. "The handkerchiefs are gone," says the performer, "and are
here." At this he touches the hook on the plate with the left
forefinger, disengaging the false bottom, lifts up the plate, and
reveals the duplicate handkerchiefs. These he picks up with his right
hand, thus covering the bag therein concealed.

One who has not seen this trick cannot conceive the beauty of it, but if
the young conjurer will follow literally the instructions here laid
down, he will, with comparatively little practice, soon be able to
surprise and delight his friends with it.

Mr. Adrian Plate, of New York, a most accomplished sleight-of-hand
performer, who confines himself to giving drawing-room entertainments,
has so far improved upon this trick that he dispenses with a prepared
plate. His duplicate handkerchiefs, closely folded, are concealed
beneath his table-top, and are drawn under the plate when lifting it,
ostensibly to show that nothing has been smuggled under it.

There are two other very pretty handkerchief tricks easy of
accomplishment, but I must reserve them for my next paper.




A SWIM FOR LIFE.


"Here is an account, Grandfather," said Ralph, "of a sailor who kept
himself afloat at sea for ten hours with only an oar to cling to. Do you
think such a thing possible?"

"Not only possible, my boy, but very probable," answered the old
captain. "I once knew a sailor who swam for two hours in a heavy sea
when he had not as much as a wooden toothpick to buoy him up, and if you
want the yarn here it is.

"We were on our way from Cape Town to Boston, and when we reached the
parallel of Bermuda we lost a man overboard in the following way: Just
as evening fell, the wind that had been light all day freshened with a
long-drawn-out moaning sound through the rigging, and the captain sang
out to settle away royals and top-gallant sails, and to haul down the
flying-jib. As it was raining heavily we all kept our oil-skins on when
we went aloft. Upon reaching the cross-trees I laid out on the
top-gallant yard, while a seaman named Porter kept on past me, going up
to furl the royal. I had passed the gaskets around the sail and was
about to lay down from aloft, when something large and dark flashed by
me, fetched up against the top-mast rigging, then bounded clear of the
vessel, and fell into the sea. Porter had missed his footing, and was
now plunging down into the ocean's depths as the ship tore rapidly
onward.

"'Man overboard!' I yelled; and, seizing a backstay, I slid down on
deck, repeating my warning in the descent.

"There is no cry that will nerve a seaman to greater exertion than the
one that tells him a shipmate is in dire peril, and although each one
worked fiercely and with the natural strength of two men, the vessel had
swept fully a mile ahead before we could lay the main-yard aback and so
heave the ship to. Nimble hands cast one of the lee boats adrift from
her gripes, and the mate, followed by five seamen, tumbled into her, and
were lowered to the water alongside.

"'I will burn a flare,' called the captain, 'so that you may keep the
ship in sight!'

"Four of the sailors pulled at the long oars with powerful, sweeping
strokes, while the second mate guided the little vessel back into the
blackness of the night, and I stood in the bows peering ahead and
sending a ringing shout of encouragement across the waters every minute
or two. But not one of us expected to see poor Porter again; for
although he was known as a strong swimmer, how long, we reasoned, could
he keep afloat in that breaking sea, weighted down with his clothes--a
suit of oil-skins, and heavy sea-boots? However, we worked as zealously
as though the sight of a shipmate's struggling, drowning, beseeching
face were before us. The ship had been running free when Porter fell
from the yard, so to fetch the place where he had first sunk we had only
to pull dead against wind and sea. The men labored at the oars until
their breath was drawn in choking gasps, and the heavy oak blades were
almost swept from cramped and weakened arms.

"'Cease rowing, and listen!' called the mate.

"The ceaseless washing of the waves was the only sound that reached us.
The ship had continued to drift from us under the influence of the wind
upon her hull and rigging, and although we could still make out the
flare that was burned over her quarter, it had grown so faint with
distance that it now showed only as a blot of fire far away to leeward.
Then we 'darned the water,' as it is called, pulling this way and that,
while all the time I sent powerful cries into the teeth of the gale. At
last we gave up the search, and turned the boat's head around for the
ship. Not a word was spoken, each one of us silently busy with his own
gloomy thoughts, picturing a lost companion sinking down and down
through the unfathomable depths of the sea, to find at last a
resting-place upon the white sand and coral of the ocean's bed. Only the
thump, thump of oars against rowlocks; only the incessant seething of
the curling crests; only the hissing of the rain as it smote the water
about us, and oars rose and fell mechanically as the boat went
staggering down to where the glowworm light showed the ship to be.

"Suddenly a faint, long-away cry trembled out of the darkness.

"''Vast rowing!' shouted the mate, as he jumped excitedly to his feet.
Then he put his hands to his mouth and sent an ear-splitting shout
rolling across the sea. A moment later the answer came to our strained,
eager ears--another cry, but fuller than the first one, as though there
was heart in it.

"'Give way, my lads! bend your backs, my boys,' thundered the mate,
sweeping the boat around with such a fierce pull at the yoke-lines that
she laid down until the top of a comber spilled over the gunwale. Then,
under the frenzied exertions of the men, we went smoking through the
water at right angles to the course we had been making.

"'I see him!' I shouted. 'Cease rowing! Stern all!' And the next moment,
laughing and crying, we dragged our shipmate over the rail. We pulled
_him_ into the boat, but that was all. He was as naked as on the day he
came into the world. After coming to the surface from his plunge he
realized that the weight of his clothes would soon drag him down; so
amid the blackness, and in that jumping, tumbling sea, that broke and
boiled about his head, he kicked off his boots, and one by one got rid
of his garments, catching a long breath and allowing himself to sink
while he pulled and tore his clinging clothes away from him. He told us
that all hope of rescue by his shipmates had been given up, and that he
was trying to keep himself afloat until daylight, in hopes that some
vessel would pass within hail of him, when he heard the sound of oars,
and gave out the cry that the mate had first heard."




THE WINNING OF THE "Y."

BY S. SCOVILLE, JUN.


The day of the Yale-Harvard meeting has come, and with it Jack Vail's
chance of becoming a "'varsity man," and winning the right to wear the
'varsity Y on sweater and jersey front. What that right means none but a
college man can really appreciate. Scores and scores of men spend long
years in training, hoping to win the coveted honor, and out of them all
only a few are chosen. To the 'varsity men more than to all others is
the college honor entrusted. They personify the courage and manliness of
the university, and must show themselves worthy of the trust, and the
man who "makes the 'varsity" by so doing obtains the respect and
consideration of the whole college world, for only one possessing
unusual qualities of mind and body is chosen as worthy to join the few
who represent their alma mater on track and field. And to-day, if Jack
can win his race against Harvard in the annual competition for the great
challenge cup, he wins his Y.

The sun rises in a cloudless sky, and the day gradually grows hotter,
until, by afternoon, the last trace of heaviness has been burned out of
the cinder path, and the tiers of "bleachers" are packed and jammed with
cheering, sweltering college men and groups of equally enthusiastic
college girls. Three of the bleachers are a mass of crimson flags,
dresses, and ribbons--the Harvard "rooters," a loyal band who have come
down from Cambridge to encourage their team. And now the air is
shattered by volleys of cheers from the Yale tiers. Before each section
stand prominent Seniors who in ordinary life bear themselves with a
dignity befitting their high position in the college world, but who are
now devoting every atom of the energy which has made them marked men to
waving their arms and hats as leaders of the cheering, terminating each
effort with a peculiarly enthusiastic bound. A triple "Rah! Rah! Rah!"
from one section is followed from another by the classical
"Brekity-kek-coax-coax"--a cheer adopted from Aristophanes. The cause of
all the commotion is a great blue 'bus, which has just lumbered up to
the training-house, a short distance from the track, with "Varsity"
painted on the side. Out of this are pouring strapping hammer-throwers
and shot-putters, slim distance-runners, wiry jumpers, and all the other
competitors who go to make up an athletic team. And now the crimson
delegation have their innings as the Harvard team file into the
training-house. The Yale men are located on the ground-floor, while
above them in the same house are their rivals.

In the training-house is the faint feverish smell of raw alcohol, and
the sound of resounding slaps as the brawny rubbers massage divers
sinewy legs. The sprinters and quarter-milers, whose events come first,
are slipping into their scanty jeans and lacing up spiked shoes, every
muscle quivering with that deathly nervousness which even veteran
runners feel before a race.

Mike, the grim old trainer, is trotting around with a fixed smile on his
face that he fondly imagines to be reassuring, answering numberless
questions, encouraging this man, advising that, looking up lost
articles--in short, giving backbone to the whole team by his presence.
Suddenly the noise stops. The Captain of the team, a hammer-thrower with
a frame like a young Hercules, has climbed upon the rubbing-table, and
with a sixteen-pound hammer for a gavel, is calling for silence with a
series of crashing blows on the long-suffering table-top.

"Boys, in five minutes we clinch with Harvard. All I've got to say is
that I am proud of every one of you. I had a good eye when I chose this
team, and there isn't a man on it but's full of sand. Keep cool, grit
your teeth, and go in to win, and if we get whipped Harvard'll know
she's been fighting."

Bang! goes the hammer, and the customary last words are over.

"Now, boys, a good big cheer for the Cap'n," shouts Mike, hopping up and
down in his excitement. And a good big cheer it is. Hardly has the last
deep-throated "Rah" died away before the door opens, and a field
official with a flowing badge shouts, "All out for the hundred!" and the
fight between the two great rivals is on.

Jack's race, the mile run, is the next to the last event. To-day is his
first great race, for it was only this season, when he won the mile at
the college spring games, that Mike had recognized him as a runner
worthy to compete against Harvard. And he is not seasoned enough to
endure well the tremendous suspense. Very weak and nervous Mike finds
him as he rushes in from the track to see if all be well.

"Sort of shaky, eh?" the latter growls, looking him over critically.
"Well, I wouldn't give a cent for a man that wasn't. You'll be all right
the minute the pistol goes off. Lay well back until the last ten yards!"
and Mike gives Jack a little shake to emphasize his words, "The last ten
yards, mind, and you'll win. You won't if you don't. Save your strength
for a last jump when you hear me yell. Throw yourself forward just
before you get to the tape. I'll be there to catch you. And oh, my boy,
win this race and the college is yours! Why--"

But all further conversation is cut short by the precipitous entrance of
the Captain. He is all adrip with perspiration, for he has just won the
hammer throw.

"We win the hammer," he shouts, "and the points are a tie. Now
everything depends on the mile. Harvard will take the high jump and the
two hundred and twenty, and we'll get the shot and pole-vault. So it's
the mile that will decide everything. They'll call it the next event,
Jack. Now, boys," and he again climbs upon the table, "I think a little
music will quiet Jack's nerves." And in a voice that shakes the windows
he commences the college slogan: "_Here's to good old Yale--drink it
down! Drink it down!_"

"Every man on his feet and sing!" yells Mike.

Off the beds and from retired corners rolled in blankets they stagger
into the circle, even the quarter and half milers, still deathly sick
from their races, add a few husky notes to the chorus. From above comes
a derisive yell and the rival strains of "Fair Harvard!"

"Last call for the mile," comes through the open door.

"Now, Jack," says the Captain, "we're all looking at you."

"Remember what I told you, Jack!" shouts Mike, and then somebody else
calls for a cheer for Jack Vail. So Jack goes out of the door with their
voices still ringing in his ears. The three Harvard milers are already
out by the start, jogging up and down the track. Jack's appearance is
the signal for a burst of cheers from the Yale bleachers, and a similar
roar from the Harvard adherents.

"Now, boys," remarked Dickie Arnot, Jack's chum, who is leading the
cheering in front of one tier, "save your voices until Jack turns into
the homestretch; then we'll ejaculate a few feeble notes just to let him
know that we're here."

Jack takes a little spin down the stretch to be sure that his legs are
in proper working order, and then trots back to the starting-line, where
the customary ceremony between the runners takes place. Each Harvard man
shakes Jack's hand, and politely expresses great pleasure at the
meeting, and Jack looks each one over, and wonders how fast he can go,
and withal feels a bit lonely and lost--one man against three--without
his running-mate "Shorty" Farnham, who became ill a week before the
games, and had to stop training.

[Illustration: HE CROUCHES IN THE REGULATION SPRINT START.]

"Now-boys-I-shall-tell-you-to-get-set-and-then-fire-you-off.
Any-man-breaking-off-his-mark-before-the-pistol-goes-back-ten-yards,"
clatters the starter, jumbling the words all together, according to the
time-honored custom of starters. Jack is on the extreme edge of the
track furthest from the pole. So when the command "Get set" comes, he
crouches in the regulation sprint start, much to the astonishment of the
Harvard milers, who are standing erect, as mile-runners usually start.

"Bang!" goes the pistol, and Jack springs from his mark as if beginning
a hundred-yard dash. For nearly thirty yards he sprints, and rounds in
ahead of the startled Harvard men, and secures the pole. A roar from the
Yale men attests their appreciation of the neat manoeuvre. But now the
famed team-work of the Harvard men begins. With a tremendous spurt one
of them comes up from the rear, passes Jack, and secures the pole just
ahead, while at the same time another man tries to run up on the outside
and complete the "pocket." But Jack avoids the attempt by suddenly
swerving away from the pole. Immediately the other swerves out too, and
Jack is forced to run yards wide of the pole.

He tries dropping back and trailing the others. But the two drop back
with him, and continue their worrying tactics. How Jack longs for the
faithful "Shorty" to protect him from threatened pockets. As it is now
he must either run on the outside and cover yards more than the others,
or take his chances at being cramped up in a pocket until the last lap.
Neither of these alternatives is to be considered for a moment, for
distance-runners learn by bitter experience that the amount of energy
available for a race is a fixed quantity, and that the runner who
diminishes it by the tiniest extra effort will fail in the stretch. Then
it is that a plan flashes into Jack's head. Two of the Harvard runners
he knows are only second-rate men. The other, plodding along placidly in
the rear while his two pace-makers weaken his rival, is the Harvard
record-holder, the great Cowles, and the only one of three that he need
fear. And no one but a miler of the first rank can stand a fast first
half-mile. So away goes Jack to the front, determined to make the first
half under 2.10, which will drop all but Cowles, and take his chances of
resting enough in the third quarter, undisturbed by any jockeying, to
gain strength for the last sprint. For Jack's strong point is his
sprinting, and a waiting race his best policy. So to the utter
bewilderment of his friends, who know his methods, Jack suddenly dashes
to the front, takes the pole away from the Harvard leader, and is off at
a tremendous pace.

"Poor old Jack's lost his head," remarks Dickie, mournfully. "Mike's
often told him never to set the pace. But, boys, how about a still small
cheer?" And the energetic Richard leads his band of "Assorted Howlers,"
as he has appropriately christened his section of the bleachers, in a
rattling, shattering "Brek-e-kek-kek" cheer that could have been heard
clear to the deserted campus two miles away. Only Mike appreciates the
true inwardness of Jack's action, for he has seen, with many misgivings,
the trained team-work of the crimson-barred runners.

"Good boy! good boy!" he chuckles, slapping his knee ecstatically. "It's
the only thing left to do. Jack runs with his head more than any man
I've got."

One of the Harvard pace-makers essays his old trick, and tries to sprint
up past Jack, but the latter is not to be passed this time, and the
quartet swing past the first quarter-post at a tremendous gait.

"Sixty-one," shouts Mike, who has been holding his watch on the race, so
as to announce the time of the different quarters to Jack.

The two Harvard pace-makers are unable to hold this gait, and as Jack
begins the backstretch of the second quarter at the same pace, they
begin to lag, and little by little drop back. Suddenly Cowles awakens to
the fact that he must depend upon his own efforts for the rest of the
race, and starts after Jack at a sprinting gait. Jack hears the rapid
steps close behind him, and tries a little stratagem of his own, hardly
hoping that it will succeed against a veteran runner like Cowles. By
slow degrees he swings out from the pole until nearly a yard away,
leaving a tempting gap. By the rules, any runner passing another on the
inside may be disqualified for fouling if so he interferes with the
runner ahead, for the leading runner has a right to the pole, and a
runner taking the inside does so at his own risk. Cowles knows the rules
well, but decides to take the chance and save the two or three yards
that passing on the outside would take. But just as he is almost abreast
of the crafty Jack, the latter swings back to the pole, and Cowles has
to stop almost short to avoid a collision, which by the rules would be
blamed to him, and while his stride is broken Jack gains nearly ten
yards.

Now they are at the quarter-post again, and the first half-mile has been
traversed in 2.08. Jack is still leading, and by degrees sets a slower
and slower pace to save himself for the final effort in the stretch. But
half-way around Cowles suddenly recognizes his tactics, and with an
indignant effort takes the lead with that rapid even gait which seems to
devour the ground, and which so imperceptibly draws away from a
following runner if so be the latter relax his efforts in the least. Ah,
the bitter third quarter! when the weakness creeps up from a runner's
legs breast-high, and the laboring lungs feel as if iron bands were
tight around them; when the head swims, and flashes come and go before
the eyes, and every effort of body and mind is concentrated in a
struggle not to let the white-jersey back just ahead draw away ever so
little. Past the starting-post they go, and the others are hopelessly
behind. There is a tremendous roar from the Harvard men as they begin
the last quarter, and Cowles draws away ever so little from Jack. But
the latter grits his teeth and calls upon his numb legs, and the gap
closes up again. So they run like a tandem-team, and stride by stride
the last quarter lessens and lessens.

The stretch is very near, and though the pace is terrific, Jack feels
that he has an atom of spirit left somewhere down in his heels. And as
they turn the last corner and the homestretch looms up before them, Jack
lengthens his stride a trifle, and the blue Y with two little a's on
either side, which the runner who has not won a point for Yale is
condemned to wear, is almost parallel with the crimson bar. A roar of
cheers fills the air as the two runners come down the stretch, fighting
every yard, their heads back, their eyes fixed in an unwinking stare
which sees only the red line between the finish posts but forty yards
away.

[Illustration: "COME IN--COME IN, JACK!"]

And now the band of Assorted Howlers get in their deadly work. Dickie's
hat and coat are off, his collar limp, and with most marvellous
gyrations he is leading his orchestra in a wonderfully constructed
cheer. Finally, "Nine Jack Vails!" he whoops, "and let 'em come loud."
And every Yale voice on the bleachers and grand stand joins in, and
"Jack Vail! Jack Vail! Jack Vail!" they thunder. But Jack, only ten
yards away from the finish, hears nothing but the sobbing gasps of the
runner beside him, sees nothing but the tape and the face of Mike all
working and distorted with excitement as he stands back of the judges.
And suddenly out of the din, which seems somehow far away and like a
dream, he hears Mike's voice, hoarse in its intensity: "It's the last
ten yards, me boy! Oh, _come in--come in_, Jack!"

And Jack comes. With a last desperate staggering plunge he throws
himself forward, and feels the blessed pressure of the parting tape that
tells him the race is won.

Nothing more does Jack remember until he finds himself lying in Mike's
strong arms in the training-house, while the rest of the team press up
to shake his hand, and the Captain, full of joyful chuckles, kneels
down, and with his penknife rips off the obnoxious a's, and the great
blue Y stands forth on his jersey front--won at last.




FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XI.

GLOOM AND VICTORY.


Oh, the disheartening days that followed--the constant marching to and
fro, the bitter defeats, and the hopeless feeling of being overwhelmed
by superior numbers! Oh, the heart-aches and the weariness!

Once more, so to speak, George was on his native heath, for the
discouraged and partly shattered army of Washington was in full retreat
across the northern part of New Jersey. The men marched or, better,
hurried along despondently. It was more like a rabble fleeing before the
invaders than a body of fighting-men. The short enlistments were running
out; dissatisfaction was everywhere; and very early one morning they had
been compelled to evacuate their camp, leaving behind blankets, tents,
and even their breakfasts cooking at the fire, for the British had
followed them across the Hudson, and were close upon their heels. Fort
Washington had been taken, and Fort Lee had been abandoned with
everything it contained.

And it was growing cold; the ice had formed in the meadows, and a slight
fall of snow lay melting in the muddy roads. Clothing and shoes were
scarce; the inhabitants of Newark and other towns came bravely to the
rescue. Yet there were many Tories who were praying already for the
advance of the British, and it was rumored every day that orders would
be received to resume the retreat, for recruiting had almost ceased.

These were trying times for all, but for none more so than for
Lieutenant George Frothingham. By sickness and desertion his company had
dwindled to scarcely thirty men. All of his gold had gone to help keep
the remaining few together.

And now began the weary, weary marching once more. Discouraged and
foot-sore, ragged and hungry, the patriot army retreated southward, the
British so close upon their rear that oftentimes they would come in full
sight, and skirmishes were frequent.

New Brunswick, Princeton, and Trenton successively fell into the hands
of the enemy, and at last, on the 8th of December, Washington crossed
the Delaware, and, owing to every boat being in the hands of the
Americans on the southern shore, the pursuit was abandoned for the time.

Soon, however, was a victory to be given to the shivering army, and
Washington was to astonish the eyes of the military world. But this is
casting ahead.

"George," said Carter, one snowy afternoon--for Lieutenant Hewes had
recovered from his wound and hastened to the front again--"George,
to-morrow's Christmas, and although we get no plum-pudding, in my
opinion there's something afoot."

"Then I trust that it may be forward," replied George; "this walking
backwards in order to face the enemy tires out men's souls and courage."

The two friends were standing close to a small fire, holding out their
hands to the welcome glow. In the woods about them roughly built huts
showed everywhere, and before each one huddled clusters of
hungry-looking men, soldiers of an army that had known nothing but
defeat.

"Colonel Roberts was called to attend a council at the General's
headquarters, and came back with a smile on his face. That must mean
cheering news of some sort, eh?" Carter warmed to his subject. "And
haven't you marked the gathering and mending of the flat-boats?"

"Yes," answered George. "It means they will cross the river. I think
that it is well known that the Hessians in Trenton stay much abed this
weather. But the morrow will show. I'm off to my blanket."

The boys bade each other good-night, and the fire burned low.

At daybreak the next day along the American lines everything was in the
bustle of preparation for some great movement. What it was no one knew.
Rations were being prepared, powder and balls distributed, the strongest
men were being picked out and formed into separate companies, and the
weak and sickly were distributed up and down the line of earth-works.

George awoke at the sun's first rays, and was buckling on his sword when
Carter Hewes hurriedly entered the hut he shared with Captain Clarkson.

"It is Trenton surely," he whispered; "but there is a chance for us to
volunteer for a service that will make the army grateful. I spoke for
you as well as for myself. Was I right or not?"

"Of course you were," said George, smiling.

"Here it is," was the reply. "On the way to Trenton is an English
baggage-train, eight or ten big wagons filled with stores and
plunder--powder, too, perhaps. A spy, a reliable man, has just brought
in the news. He says that it is lightly guarded, and that a dozen men
with good horses could cross the river up above, and by fast riding
intercept and burn it. The General has given his permission."

Somehow as Carter spoke he reminded George of his father, Colonel Hewes.

"I will go," he said. "But how about my Captain, and how to cross the
river?"

"Captain Clarkson will be told, and there is a big flat-boat five miles
up-stream that we can use. We will start when it is dark this evening."
He grasped George's hand.

But it was not until midnight that everything was completed; men had to
be chosen, and horses that could travel fast were scarce. But at twelve
o'clock ten men, mounted and armed, started west along the river. It was
not until dawn that they came across the road from Trenton to the north,
for they had been forced to make a wide detour. The spy was with them;
objects were growing plainer, and he pointed with his finger.

"There lies Trenton, eight miles away, and the Dutchmen all asleep," he
said, "and if my judgment fails me not, our wagon-train is encamped in
yonder hollow."

The ten riders crossed a field and entered a forest of small pine-trees;
the snow deadened the sound of the horses. Suddenly they came to a
clearing, and the guide raised his hand.

"There they are," he said. Before a small frame building ten big wagons
were halted in the road. The horses were blanketed and tethered to the
wheels; not a guard of any kind was to be seen.

"Hark!" exclaimed one of the troopers. A loud boom sounded from the
southward.

"General Washington has crossed the river," said Carter to George, who,
mounted on one of Colonel Roberts's horses, was at his elbow.

Another cannon-shot, and then a roaring of them--a constant ripple and
crash of sound. Heads appeared at the windows of the frame house, a few
figures ran out.

[Illustration: "CHARGE!" ORDERED THE CAPTAIN OF THE LITTLE PARTY.]

"Charge!" ordered the Captain of the little party.

So sudden was the attack that not a shot was fired. Then and there
twenty English soldiers and a score of teamsters surrendered to ten bold
Americans. They were disarmed, and penned in the frame house again.

"Don't let us burn the wagons; let us take them in," suggested George.

"Wait and see how it goes over there," said the guide. "Here! Hurry!
Harness up! If they retreat, it will be along the highway. I know a wood
road we can drive them into."

In a few minutes the heavy wagons had been pulled up the hill and far
into the pines. The prisoners were placed underneath and guarded.

"Here comes a man on horseback," said some one from the edge of the
thicket.

A dragoon, helmetless and without a coat, tore by on the road below,
lashing his horse.

"Hush! Don't cheer," said Carter, sternly. "Here comes another; we have
won the day."

Breathlessly the little party watched the fugitives make up the road
towards Princeton, and when the last had gone, light-hearted they took
their prizes up the road towards Trenton.

"There flies our flag," said Carter, as the houses came in sight. "Three
cheers now, men, and with a will!"

Once more did George Frothingham shake hands with Washington.

Five days flew by, and recruits swarmed in. But the British were not
idle. George was posting the guards outside of Washington's headquarters
on New-Year's night, when the Commander-in-chief accompanied by his
staff came walking by. The relief saluted, and the young Lieutenant
caught the words, "Retreat is now impossible."

The next day the British advanced on Trenton. They did not force a
battle, for it was thought that the Americans would surrender; but the
latter retreated to the further side of a little creek called the
Assumpinck, and here again commenced the dreary work of digging into the
frozen earth, and, strange to say, the order was, "Make all the noise
you can."

As soon as the darkness had settled down at night the watch-fires along
the line blazed brightly in the woods. Quickly word was passed for the
army, now swelled to five thousand men, to form into line. Washington
again was about to astonish military eyes.

Under cover of the darkness he slipped across the creek, and marched
silently northward by a road unguarded by the British. The men, looking
over their shoulders, could see their own camp-fires still burning
brightly behind them, for a force of men had been left there to keep
them going, and pick and shovel were ringing busily.

Again the British slept on, unconscious of what was happening, and in
the early morning an empty camp confronted them. But at the same time
his Majesty's forces at Princeton were astonished to see well-formed
bodies of troops swinging along the road toward their encampment on the
hill about the college buildings.

George's company had halted, and was waiting for the word. It was a very
strange sight indeed, for the command was drawn up to the side of a
little brook, just across an arched stone bridge.

As the light broadened they could see coming down the road in front of
them a line of red standing out brightly against the bare meadows and
patches of snow. They did not seem to be afraid of the forces gathered
below them in the meadow, for they did not even form a line of battle.

Everything was quiet. A rabbit jumped from a thicket, darted out and
bobbed across the field. Some snow-birds twittered in the leafless
branches overhead; but soon was the stillness to be broken.

"I declare, I don't think they see what they're about!" exclaimed a
soldier.

The fact was, the regiment of British soldiers had taken the Americans
at first for Hessians. Soon, however, they were to be undeceived, for a
volley from a company off to the right warned the officers, and the
Redcoats spread out across the hill-side. A body of Americans at this
moment came out of a hollow and met them face to face. It was a mutual
surprise, and the fighting began at once. Some horsemen galloped back in
the direction of Princeton, one and a half miles or so away.
Re-enforcements of the enemy were hurried down the road on a run. The
detachment with which George had been standing charged up to join the
hand-to-hand fighting at the front.

The battle had opened. Most of the Americans near the stone bridge were
raw militia. They could not be made to fire in volleys, but each man
apparently fought for himself. They had had little drilling, not having
been in the affair at Trenton, and this was their first sight of blood.
George saw that exhorting was of no avail. The men were full of fight,
but they were not trained to listen. He sheathed his sword, and picked
up a musket from the ground.

The Redcoats, advancing in their well-dressed line, came steadily on.
The ranks of the militia broke and retreated; only a few stood their
ground. A man on horseback rode to the front. He stood up in his
stirrups, shouted, and waved his sword about his head.

"Mark ye him there on the gray horse--'tis General Mercer," a voice
shouted, as the militia once more began to rally. "Stand firm! stand
firm!" the officer was crying. Suddenly his steed reared, and the rider
leaped up in the saddle, and, leaning across the big gray's neck, slid
to the ground. The horse stumbled and fell immediately, and the General
was seen almost alone, parrying the British bayonets with his sword. At
last down he went before any one could reach him.

As George, for the nonce a private, was reloading his piece, he saw two
soldiers draw back their muskets and plunge the bayonets into the
prostrate form. A fury seized him, and with a handful of young
militiamen he rushed at the red bristling line. He swung his musket by
the barrel and struck to right and left. How he kept from being killed
was a miracle, for men fell and shots rang all about him.

Now was the time for help, and, luckily, it came. Washington, at the
head of some hurrying troops, pushed forward from the eastward, and the
tide of battle turned. The British ran across the stone bridge, and many
fled toward the town.

The pursuit was now kept up in two directions. Part of the American
forces chased after the retreating British across the bridge toward
Trenton, another detachment swept onward toward the town, where the
Redcoats had taken refuge in the college buildings. The companies were
mixed together by this time--Pennsylvanians, Virginians, New Jerseymen,
and New-Yorkers were fighting elbow to elbow.

A strange sight that George had seen after the re-enforcements under
General Washington had been hurried up kept recurring to his mind as he
pressed forward. It was one of the small events that force themselves
upon the mind in moments of great excitement.

The leader upon whom the fortunes of the country then depended had been
regardless of all danger, and had been mixed almost with the
hand-to-hand fighters, a conspicuous object on his white horse, but as
yet not a ball had touched him.

Colonel Fitzgerald, one of the Irish officers attached to the American
service, had ridden up to Washington as soon as the British ranks had
broken. George recalled how strange it seemed. The brave Colonel's face
was contorting oddly, for he was crying like a baby, the tears rolling
down his cheeks, and the sobs almost preventing him from speaking.

"Thank God! thank God!" he said, "your Excellency is safe."

Washington had extended his hand, and replied, quietly, though he was
touched by the congratulation, "The day is ours, Fitzgerald."

The men about had cheered as they hurried on. The sleeve of George's
coat was hanging in shreds and blackened with the stain of powder. He
remembered how he had grasped the muzzle of a musket, and it had seemed
to go off almost in his hand. The flint of his own gun had become
dislodged during its short use as a club, and was lost. He fruitlessly
searched for another as he ran.

The troops of the enemy that had retreated northward had taken refuge
within the walls of the historic Nassau Hall. They had smashed in
windows, cut loop-holes, and had tried to get some artillery into
position.

"Have you a spare flint?" George inquired of a panting figure at his
side as they climbed a fence at the back of a small farm-house. The man
he addressed turned. It was his fellow-clerk at Mr. Wyeth's, the man
whom he had thought a chicken-heart.

"Ah, Frothingham," he said, his pale eyes alight with excitement, "I
have, and you are welcome."

George grasped the hand and the extended flint together. "Bonsall," he
said, "you are a brave fellow, and I have misjudged you. I must have
been a nice curmudgeon in that old counting-house."

"No, no," said the other; "we didn't understand each other, and you
thought I was a coward. Mayhap I was. Have you any ball about you?"

George had still some of the King's statue mementos. He handed them to
his companion, who placed two or three of them in his mouth, much as a
boy might marbles. The two young soldiers advanced and caught up with
the line. Some scattering shots rang from the college campus. Bonsall,
who was just taking aim, whirled half around, clasped one hand to his
breast, and extended the other feebly before him.

"I'm shot," he said, peering blindly into the young Lieutenant's eyes.

George leaped forward and caught the dying boy; he bent over him, and
placed his head on his lap.

The pale eyes opened. "Good-by, Frothingham," came the lad's voice in a
weak whisper. "In my pocket, here--here."

George thrust his hand inside the threadbare coat. There was an envelope
addressed to Mrs. Lucius Bonsall, New York.

"Give it to her," the poor boy said, "with love, with love."

George laid him down on the frozen earth, and now crying himself, much
as the Irish Colonel had, he leaned against an elm, and aimed at the
windows of Nassau Hall. A battery of artillery was playing at the bottom
of the hill, and the masonry shattered from the old brown building. It
was too hot for the British, and they fled across the green, down the
turnpike toward New Brunswick and Rock Hill, the Americans at their
heels.

"'Tis a fox chase," said a starved-looking soldier, with a grin on his
unshaven face. "I heard the General say it himself. Hurrah!" Off he
dashed.

George did not join in the pursuit, but finding his old friend Thomas
and another soldier, they made their way back to the frozen garden, and
there dug a grave, and marked the spot where poor Luke Bonsall had
fallen.

George looked into the college buildings an hour or so later. Scorched
with fire and littered with the remains of a cavalry occupation,
vandalism had been at work. Pictures were cut and slashed, and books
destroyed, and, strange to say, a cannon-ball had carried away the head
of a handsome portrait of his Majesty King George.

The stay of the Continental forces here was short, for the astonished
and chagrined Cornwallis was coming up from Trenton. The next day all
were on the move to the northward.

George searched for his company, and helped sift the men into something
of military shape. It was in horrible confusion, and had suffered many a
loss. During all this time he kept thinking of Bonsall's letter, that
was in his pocket next to that of his little sister's. It was not long
before it was to play quite an important part in our hero's personal
history.

Elated with their victories, which had revived the flagging zeal of the
citizens, the army had marched to Morristown, and there sought
winter-quarters.

They had only been a few days in the shelter of the town, resting from
the long marches and the consequences of freezing and fighting at the
same time, when Carter Hewes met George on the street.

"Roberts told me to find you," he said. "There are important orders
waiting for you."

What could it mean? George furbished up the few brass buttons left on
his famous coat, and walked up to the great house where a flag was
flying at the top of a rough pole.

Colonel Roberts met him and took him to one side as soon as he had
entered, and an aid gave him a written order, which George read
hurriedly. There was no explanation; he had been detached from his
company, and the whole thing was somewhat confusing. Carter Hewes was
waiting at the gate, and threw his arms about his friend's shoulder as
soon as he came out on the roadway.

"Is it an order for special duty or a promotion?" he inquired, much
excited.

"It is the former," answered George, "but what to do I know not."

To his intense surprise he had been ordered to report to Colonel Hewes,
to whom he bore despatches. And where could one suppose? At Stanham
Mills! A horse was placed at his disposal; he was to start at once.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




THE BABYHOOD OF DENVER.

BY JULIAN RALPH.


The first cabin in any part of what is now Denver, the capital of
Colorado, was that of a hunter and trader, and is thought to have been
an Indian's old tepee. It stood in what is now West Denver in 1857. To
that neighborhood, in the early summer of 1858, came a party of Georgia
men headed by a leader named Green Russell, and hunting for gold on the
east <DW72> of the Rocky Mountains. It had been said that some white men
had found gold there nine years before, and that three years later some
Indians also found a little. Later still a party of traders actually
carried some "pay dirt" from there to their homes in Missouri. "Pay
dirt," the reader should know, is any form of rock or earth or sand that
contains sufficient gold to pay for working it.

Green Russell and his men arrived in June, 1858. If we stop a moment to
consider these true founders of Denver, we shall see that they add a new
picture to the varied, highly  gallery of paintings that make the
true pictorial history of the growth of our country. We have seen the
stolid, dignified Dutchmen sail into New York Harbor with their swords,
banners, queer old flint-lock guns, and quaint long pipes. We have seen
the grave Puritans assemble in Massachusetts with their sober garments,
their stern faces, and their muskets and Bibles carried side by side. We
have seen the gorgeously dressed servants of the kings of France and
Spain at their work of founding New Orleans, having their wives sent to
them in ships, to make their acquaintance and be their wives after they
got there. And at St. Louis we came upon the same sort of men who built
up Canada--rough, brave boatmen in furs, singing and dancing, and
throwing away their money that they earned in pathless forests and in
savage Indian camps. When we came to study the birth of Helena, Montana,
we saw upon the canvas of history the veteran gold-miner, old at the
business, leaving one camp when it ceased to pay, and roaming all over
the mountains, with, sharp, ferretlike eyes that saw no beauties in
nature--nothing but the dull rocks and the sand in the beds of the
streams where gold might be found. Rough, long-haired, bearded, dressed
in whatever they could get, these "prospectors" clambered over the
mountains, leaving many cities behind them that did not exist until they
started them.

And now, at the birth of Denver, we see the life of the immigrants on
the plains. We see the caravans of "prairie-schooners," crossing the
continent like flights of brown moths, and settling a city as winged
things light on a field or on a bed of flowers that offers food. They
were miners, or were led by miners, but they were not yet veterans of
the far Western type. They were closely followed by absolute strangers
to the business--Eastern folk who wanted to pick up gold between their
feet. Therefore the newest part of the picture is the life in the
caravans of "prairie-schooners."

These were strong four-wheeled wagons, drawn by horses, and covered with
canvas tops drawn over a series of half-hoops. In these wagons were
beds, clothing, stoves, cooking and eating and drinking utensils, and
women, children, and whatever invalid men there were in the train. I
could not tell you fairly, in such a short article as this, a tenth part
of the general experiences of the people who built up the West by
travelling in these trains before the railroads came. Peril surrounded
them--peril in many shapes. They were attacked by Indians. They dodged
the savages, they fought them, they whipped them or were massacred. They
crossed rivers and swollen streams without bridges. They crossed the
plains through fearful heat or still more fearful cold. They found no
water, or water unfit to drink. They fell sick, they died; cholera
overtook some of them, chasing after them all the way from Asia. Their
horses were stolen or died or broke down. Their food ran out. There was
enough adventure in the journey to fill a lifetime--even to fill an
extraordinary lifetime.

[Illustration: DENVER IN ITS EARLY YOUTH.]

Those who reached Denver were a ragged, dust-grimed, tired-out lot, with
worn horses, battered wagons, and no immediate desire except to fling
themselves on the ground beside the Platte River, in the shade of the
cottonwoods, and rest. Stop a moment to think of the courage and
condition of those others who went all the way to Oregon! Their courage
passes belief. Well, Green Russell and his Georgia men built a hut of
logs, and roofed it with mud. When the rain fell it dropped on the roof
as water, but it came through the roof as mud. The hut stood by that of
the trader, where West Denver stands now. A third hut was built by one
Ross Hutchins, and the row or street or village was called Indian Row.
Gold was found in the nearby creek, and Russell took some back to
Georgia to coax more of his people out to the new camp.

Then there came a party of twenty persons from Lawrence, Kansas. All
of Colorado was then Kansas. These new-comers went three miles farther
up the river, and washed the sand for gold at a village of their own,
which they called Montana. That was in midsummer. In September of
the same year, 1858, some of the Georgia men--or perhaps some
outsiders--organized a town where East Denver is now, and called it St.
Charles. They drew up formal organization papers, and then, not knowing
what to do with them, _filed them with themselves_. A month later the
Georgians established at Indian Row, now West Denver, formally turned
that queer little pin-point on the map into a town, which they called
Auraria. A store was added to the village very quickly, and one of the
merchants who opened it is alive in Denver to-day. Remember that all
this was only a little more than thirty years ago, when some of my
readers would have called Mr. Gladstone an old man. Prince Bismarck was
fifty years old when this happened.

St. Charles village was a failure, and the founders of Montana soon
moved away and joined Auraria. Then came some men, such as are called
"hustlers" in the West, and they went to work in mighty earnest to make
a city of St. Charles. They agreed that each should build a house, and
in less than fifty days (by January, 1859) there were twenty houses
standing. They named the place Denver, using the name of an ex-Governor
of Kansas Territory, and they gave the town a full set of officials.
Then began a great rivalry between Denver and Auraria. Auraria seemed to
get the business places. The merchants went there, and there Mr. William
N. Byers established the first newspaper--the _Rocky Mountain News_. He
and the paper are both active to-day. But little Denver captured the
express company when it came, and that ended the rivalry, for all
communication with civilization was had through the express company. In
1860 the two towns became one, and were called Denver.

It was in 1859 that the prairie-schooners going to Denver most nearly
resembled great swarms of moths. There had been a money panic in the
United States, and hard times followed. This led to a rush for the new
gold-fields. The truth was that there was not gold enough to pay the
crowds for coming, but two remarkable events happened. In the first
place, a miner named Gregory, who had been drifting about in the West,
happened just then to come upon rich "diggings" not far away. The people
came from the East as in a stampede. Some heard that the finding of gold
was a hoax, and turned back to go home, meeting other thousands on their
way to the diggings. In the East no one knew what to believe; but just
then three newspaper men--Horace Greeley, the great editor, Henry
Villard, and A. D. Richardson--arrived in this region, investigated the
new diggings, and wrote an account of them for all the world to read.
They told how a great many miners were making a great deal of money, and
how a much greater number were not finding any gold at all. Then they
warned the public not to come in such great numbers. I will repeat in
substance what they wrote, as it makes a picture of the surroundings of
Denver when it was a tiny baby city.

They said they found 5000 persons in the ravine called Gregory's
Diggings. Hundreds poured in daily, and they passed tens of thousands
hurrying to the place. For all of these provisions must be carted from
the Missouri River, 700 miles, over mere trails, across unbridged
streams that were steep banked, miry, or swollen by rains. Part of the
way to the Diggings (and to Denver) was across a desert, with wood and
grass very scanty and miles apart. To try to cross this desert on foot
was madness, suicide, murder. To cross it with teams was only possible
to those who knew the way to find grass and water. In early autumn the
Diggings would be snowed under and frozen up. Then for six months there
would not be work, food, or shelter within 500 miles for the army of men
who were fooled into thinking that gold could be picked up like pebbles
at the sea-shore. This sensible report did vast good in moderating the
rush. There was great misery and hardship, nevertheless, but gold
continued to be found, and many towns sprang up around Denver, which
became the main city or metropolis of the region. For a time the people
called the region Jefferson Territory, though the Kansas people claimed
the district around Denver. The people established a territorial
government in this way as early as 1859, and in February, 1861, Congress
legally established the Territory, and called it Colorado. After that,
with many reverses and hardships, the place grew steadily as a city, and
as a capital not only of Colorado, but of the whole country between the
mountains and the Eastern frontier. It is a beautiful city. It is
actually on the plains, and yet at that point the plains are nearly a
mile in the air--above the sea-level. This makes the city a great health
resort, and brings to it so many Eastern people of wealth and refinement
that they have been able to give Denver a great deal of the character of
an Eastern city. It is modern, enterprising, and very beautiful. It is
full of lovely homes and magnificent hotels, public buildings, theatres,
stores, and office structures. It has almost 150,000 population.

[Illustration: DENVER TO-DAY.]

I could have gone far back of the birth of Denver to show how the
Spaniards explored Colorado before the Puritans landed on Plymouth Rock.
It was in 1541 that Vasquez Coronado entered Colorado with his little
army, coming from Mexico. In the year of our Revolutionary war a Spanish
priest journeyed toward California, sprinkling southern Colorado with
the pretty Spanish names now borne by the rivers and mountains and
valleys. The immediate neighborhood of Denver came to us in 1804 by the
Louisiana Purchase, and two years later Lieutenant Zebulon Pike explored
the region. In 1819 Major Stephen S. Long started upon a second
exploring expedition that led him literally to the site of Denver, where
he camped in July, 1820. Twenty-three years later John C. Fremont, "the
Pathfinder," came that way, and found several Indian traders established
along the Platte. In 1847 the hardy, enthusiastic Mormons passed over
this ground on their way to establish themselves in Utah. It is said,
too, that Francis Parkman, the historian, built a camp close to or on
the site of Denver when he made his famous journey in 1846. And yet it
seems to me that none of these events connects itself so closely with
the birth of Denver as the expedition of the gold-hunters from Georgia.




IN THE BARN.


  Whenever there's a rainy day
  They send us to the barn to play
  From after lunch till supper-time.
  And there they let us run and climb
  And tumble in the hay and straw--
  Such funny tricks you never saw!
  We overhaul the piles of junk,
  We open every battered trunk,
  And every corner we explore
  As if we'd never searched before;
  We play at burglars or at thieves,
  And crawl along beneath the eaves,
  Or else we are a garrison
  Besieged, outnumbered ten to one,
  And from the windows we repel
  The foe that hides beyond the well.
  And sometimes, if there's no one by
  (If John has gone down to the sty
  Or to the pasture for the cow,
  Or--if John's absent, anyhow),
  We take old Dobbin from the stall--
  Which we ought never do at all--
  And play at circus, while the horse
  Plods around a ring, of course,
  With one of us upon his back;
  Another makes the long whip crack;
  A third--the lucky one--is clown;
  And all the girls have to sit down
  On seats that have been put about,
  And they must clap their hands and shout.
  Oh, circus is the greatest fun!
  When John goes out, it's always done.

  ALBERT LEE.




THE RAVELLED MITTEN.

BY SOPHIE SWETT.

(_In Two Parts_.)

II.


Tilly Coombs watched the sled as it went crunching and jingling up the
hill, and then entered her house, with a long sigh that the party was
over.

"I'm getting to have good times; they treat me 'most as if I was other
folks," she said to herself, happily. She would have liked to tell her
mother about the good time, but her father had come home. She heard his
querulous voice, and knew that he had been drinking just enough to make
it unsafe to disturb him; so she crept softly up to her room--a cold and
bare nook under the eaves. She pulled off her ravelled mitten and gazed
at it ruefully. "That was an awful queer thing to do!" she said to
herself aloud. "And, my! wa'n't it cold in that barn? But nobody saw
me--not a soul! Nobody will ever know! The worst of it is, if I had been
ketched, then nobody would ever believe that Alf wasn't a thief! An
awful queer thing!" For a minute or two Tilly was lost in painful and
perplexing reflection. Then she suddenly shook her fist fiercely at her
small, crooked reflection in the cracked piece of looking-glass upon the
wall. "Tilly Coombs, don't you never darst to think, as long as you
live, that anything _she_ did was queer!" she said, in an impressive
whisper that echoed from all the empty corners of the dreary little
room. And then Tilly tucked a ravelled mitten under the ragged ticking
of her bed, and slept in peace.

While she slept, in the great farm-house at the top of Butternut Hill
they were still debating whether she should be arrested at once for the
theft of the spoons, or whether Patty should try to influence her to
confession and the restoration of the property.

It was Aunt Eunice who suggested the latter course. Uncle Reuben
believed in stern justice. He said that the Coombs family was a disgrace
to the town; the father was drunken and good for nothing, and the son--
His voice broke there; he had always felt that Alf Coombs was to blame
for Dave's running away.

"We never heard anything really bad about Alf Coombs until--until he ran
away," Anson insisted. Aunt Eunice said she thought Mrs. Coombs seemed
like a good woman; and Patty tried to defend Tilly, although it _was_
difficult to explain her knitting up that ravelled mitten! She said Ruby
Nutting wouldn't believe anything against Tilly, and you couldn't make
her. But Uncle Reuben shook his head over that, and said he was afraid
Ruby Nutting wasn't very sensible, and Ruby's father seemed to pity bad
folks just as much as good ones, and to take just as much comfort
doctoring them--without any pay.

But it was finally decided that Patty should tell Tilly of the proof of
her guilt that had been discovered. If Patty failed to influence her,
then Aunt Eunice would no longer object to her arrest.

Patty lay awake a long time that night, dreading her mission; she wished
she might ask Ruby Nutting to help her, but Uncle Reuben thought it best
that no one should be told. When she did sleep she dreamed a dreadful
dream, in which Tilly Coombs was being pursued down the long hill,
through the great snow-drifts, by an army of spoons with grotesque
faces, their mouths made of the initial letter that marked the stolen
spoons--O for Oliver, Grandma Barclay's maiden name; they were driving
Tilly into the mill-pond, which was open as if it were summer, in spite
of the January drifts, and Patty awoke with a start and a cry. But bad
as was the fantastic dream, Patty said to herself that the reality was
worse.

When Pelatiah opened the back door the next morning, a fine pair of
chickens plucked and dressed hung upon the knob. That circumstance
seemed mysterious. Why should a thief who would steal a dozen spoons
have a weak conscience in the matter of a pair of chickens? Where could
Tilly Coombs get a pair of chickens? Patty added these mysteries to the
one about the ravelled mitten upon which Tilly had knit and knit and yet
worn it unmended, and felt as bewildered as she did when Anson made her
listen to something out of the rebus corner of the _Butternut Weekly
Voice_. But Uncle Reuben still insisted that it was a clear case; the
thief had restored the chickens in order to stifle suspicion about the
spoons. As to how the thief became possessed of the chickens, he "didn't
think it would trouble Coombses to rob hen-roosts."

So as Patty set out to accuse Tilly of the theft the little spark of
hope which the deepened mystery had aroused in her was almost quenched.

Tilly came to the door, and Patty tried to look at her with judicial
severity, as she had seen Uncle Reuben look at offenders, but she broke
down suddenly at sight of Tilly's beaming, friendly face.

"Oh, Tilly," she cried, "you will give them back, won't you? It was such
a dreadful thing to do! But no one shall ever know; Uncle Reuben says
so, if you will only give them back."

The warmth and color faded out of Tilly's face until it looked wan and
pinched in the morning light.

"It's no matter about the chickens. You needn't even have given those
back. Of course it's always terrible to--to take things, but if you'll
only give back the spoons."

"_The spoons?_" echoed Tilly, and there seemed to be such genuine
bewilderment in her tone that Patty felt inclined to believe Uncle
Reuben's accusation that she was sly. "I don't know anything about any
spoons."

"Tilly, your mitten caught on the basket and was ravelled, and--and I
saw you knitting it up in the barn." Patty's tone was rather pitiful
than accusing, but Tilly's face flamed angrily.

"I didn't s'pose you was one to go peeking round and spying on folks,"
she cried. "I guess I've got a right to do a little knitting anywheres
that I'm a mind to, and--and you can't say 'twas a mitten."

"I saw it, Tilly, a red mitten. This is the yarn that was caught on the
basket." Polly drew from her pocket the red ravelling, wound upon a bit
of paper.

"_Yarn!_" echoed Tilly, contemptuously taking a bit between her thumb
and finger. "I call that worsted!"

"And are your mittens yarn?" cried Tilly, eagerly. "Because that would
prove--"

"I never said they were," said Tilly, quickly, the color deepening in
her cheeks, "I never said anything about them, and I sha'n't show them
to anybody. And I never saw your old spoons in all my born days--so
there!" Tilly would have shut the door, but Patty prevented her.

"Oh, Tilly, I'm afraid you don't realize. Uncle Reuben will send a
sheriff to arrest you. And the girls have thought so much of
you--especially Ruby Nutting."

"You needn't say a word about _her_." Tilly swallowed a lump chokingly.
"You needn't tell her, nor anything. She hasn't got anything to do with
it. She's give me all the chance I've had to get good times, and her
father has been awful good to us; and now I suppose they won't be any
more. But--but poor folks must expect to be called thieves, and took up.
The worst is, now they'll be sure Alf broke into that store, and he
didn't! no more'n your cousin did! No, that isn't the worst. The worst
is that Miss Farnham, the milliner, won't have me now! She was going to
take me half a day to do chores and help her; 'twas an awful good
chance! It chirked mother right up to think we were going to be so much
like folks, and now--" Tilly kept her voice steady, but it was by a
strong effort.

"Tilly, it might come right now if you would only tell all about it,"
said Patty, earnestly. "It seems as if there were some mystery."

"You go 'long home!" cried Tilly, fiercely, and slammed the door upon
Patty. Her sharp, hard, little features were working convulsively, and
Patty heard a long sob inside the door.

She went home feeling more strongly than ever that there was a mystery,
and pleaded earnestly for Tilly. Aunt Eunice joined her, and promised to
go and see Tilly's mother, and talk with her about the matter if Uncle
Reuben would delay his sterner measures.

They might not have been able to persuade him to do so--his bitter grief
for his son had served to harden him against Alf Coombs's relatives--if
nature had not seemed to take Tilly's part and enforced a delay; the
heavy snow-fall was followed by a pouring rain and what they called at
Butternut Corner an old-fashioned January thaw. Uncle Reuben was a
mill-owner, and his property was threatened by the freshet, so he had no
time to think of Tilly Coombs.

Aunt Eunice had a touch of her old enemy rheumatism, and could not go
down to confer with Mrs. Coombs, and so the matter remained unsettled.

On the very first day when the sun shone out Ruby Nutting came up the
hill to ask Patty to take a walk. It made no difference that they would
go over shoe in mud with every step. Ruby wouldn't take no for an
answer; that was the way with Ruby; besides, she said that this was
something very particular. When they reached the foot of the hill Patty
found herself being led into the road which bordered the old mill-pond,
and she shrank back.

"Yes, we're going to miser Jensen's house, but you needn't be afraid; he
has gone away for the winter. There won't be any more clothes-lines or
hen-roosts robbed now. And that makes me think. Oh, Patty, what _did_
your aunt think of those chickens that were tied to her door-knob? And
what did you think of losing your nice roasted ones? But I didn't mean
to tell you that I took them until you had seen poor Tramp. Your aunt
liked Tramp; she will forgive me when she knows I took them for him."

"_You_ took them--for Tramp?" repeated Patty, in bewilderment. "I heard
that Tramp was mad!"

Tramp was an old dog which had roamed the streets of Butternut Corner
and Bymport for years, making his home for a week or two at one place or
another, as the fancy seized him, generally welcome, for he was a
favorite.

"He had one of his fits, convulsions, in the street at Bymport; he has
often had them at our house, poor fellow! It seemed as if he came there
when one was coming on, knowing that we would take care of him. Some
foolish person raised a cry of mad dog, and people chased him with
pistols and clubs; he ran up here, and they lost track of him. That
night on your sled Alvan Sage told me that he had heard a dog whining,
as if in pain, in the miser's house; he said no one dared to go near,
because they thought it must be the mad dog. That was a week after they
had driven poor Tramp out of Bymport, and I thought of him suffering and
without food, and I seized the first basket I could lay hands on, and
pulled out a pair of roast chickens. I thought I never should get there
through the drifts! I borrowed a lantern at Jake Nesmith's, and it
really wasn't far, but the drifts were so deep! The poor dog's leg had
been hurt by a stone or a club so he could hardly move, and he was half
frozen and starved. Tilly, if you could have seen him eat your chickens,
I know you would have thought it better than to have them for the party!
I built a fire--luckily there was wood in the cellar--and I've been
there every day in all the rain to take care of him. Papa has been with
me, and to-morrow we're going to send Tramp to my Uncle Rufus at Bethel,
who is very fond of dogs, and will take great care of him. We couldn't
take him home, because Aunt Estelle is so nervous, and she wouldn't
believe he wasn't mad. I knew you would like to see old Tramp."

"But--but the ravelled mitten!" faltered Patty, who couldn't as yet "see
through things."

"How did you know about that?" asked Ruby, in astonishment. "I caught my
mitten on your basket in my haste to get the chickens, and the edge was
all ravelled off, and--the very queerest thing that ever happened!--some
one knit it on again--with yarn. The mittens are worsted; see the
difference." Ruby held up the mended mitten, with an edge of coarse
yarn, to Patty's gaze. "It was done at the party! I think it must have
been Grandma Pitkin who did it. Perhaps it had dropped from my pocket in
the dressing-room, and she saw it. Wasn't it kind of her? I must go and
thank her."

Patty tried to say "it wasn't Grandma Pitkin; it was Tilly Coombs," but
there was a lump in her throat that choked her. And it happened that
they just then reached a turn in the road and saw a girl's figure ahead
of them. She walked from side to side of the road, keeping her eyes on
the ground, and occasionally prodding into it with a stick which she
carried.

"It's Tilly Coombs, and she seems to be searching for something," said
Ruby.

Patty darted on ahead, and seized Tilly around the neck with both arms.
Even then Patty saw how pitifully worn and pale the girl had grown. What
had been only a little comedy to Ruby, pleasant because she had so
happily relieved the dog's sufferings, had been almost a tragedy to
Tilly Coombs.

[Illustration: "TILLY, CAN YOU EVER FORGIVE ME?" SAID PATTY.]

"Tilly, can you ever forgive me?" said Patty, struggling with a tendency
to cry. "I know all about it--how you knitted the mitten to keep Ruby
from being found out, and how you bore it all and didn't tell."

"You hain't been telling _her_?" said Tilly, anxiously. "I don't think
she knows she lost the spoons. I saw that she came down this road that
night, and I've been hunting for them. I ain't going to have a mite of
trouble come on her. She's been different to me from what anybody ever
was before, not looking down on me as if I was the dirt under her feet.
And her father, too, he's come and come to see mother when he knew there
wa'n't a cent to pay him with. I _have_ bore a sight"--Tilly's strained
voice threatened to break--"but I can bear more. I won't have trouble
come to her if I can help it. You _hain't_ been telling her all about
it?"

Ruby came up to them before there was time for an answer.

"Hunting for something, Tilly?" she asked, easily. "I'm afraid you won't
find it in all this mud."

"No--no, I hain't found them," stammered Tilly, uncertain whether Ruby
knew about the spoons. "But"--and her face lighted with sudden
eagerness--"I've found something queer; you see if it isn't queer."
Tilly turned back, running before them up to the door of the miser's
little house. "No, it isn't the tracks," she added, as Ruby hurriedly
explained about the dog. "It's the door-stone; it looks as if it had
been moved lately. If you are looking along on the ground, as I was, you
notice it."

"Well, what if it has?" asked Ruby, wondering, and a little impatient.

"Somebody might have hidden something there," said Tilly, whose longing
to find the spoons was evidently desperate.

"Some of the miser's treasures or his clothes-line booty," cried Ruby,
gayly, for miser Jensen was suspected of petty thieving, and Butternut
Corner breathed more freely when his summer sojourn was over. "Girls,
let's pry the stone up!"

"I tried to, alone, but I couldn't," said Tilly, eagerly bringing a long
stake from the tumble-down fence.

The three girls tried for a long time with their united strength. The
stone was flat and not very heavy, but was unwieldy, while Tramp, let
out of the house, barked and capered with excitement in spite of his
injured leg.

When at last the stone was overturned, there was indeed something snugly
tucked into a hole dug beneath it--a bundle tied up in a bandana
handkerchief. Miser Jensen always wore old-fashioned bandana
handkerchiefs. When the girls opened it they found it filled, not with
spoils of the Butternut Corner clothes-lines, but with watches and
jewelry, most of it marked with the name of Burton, the Bymport
jeweller, whom Dave Perley and Alf Coombs were suspected of having
robbed.

Patty burst into tears of joy.

"It was miser Jensen who robbed the store! Tilly, don't you see what it
means? No one can ever say it was the boys again!"

Tilly trembled in all her thin little frame, but her face was alight
with joy. "I know where they are! I can tell now," she said, proudly,
"Alf wrote to me. They are both in my cousin's store in L----; it's a
jewelry store. It was because Alf liked to see watches and things fixed
that he was always at Burton's, and so they suspected him. Dave didn't
want to be a minister or a farmer; that was why he ran away, but he
wants to come home; he says it doesn't pay to run away; and now he can!"

All the cloud lifted from Butternut Hill. Patty could go home and tell
Uncle Reuben and Aunt Eunice; it seemed to her too good to be true.

They forgot all about the spoons; even Tilly forgot them. And when Aunt
Eunice heard the good news, she said she didn't care anything about the
spoons, but she would do everything she could to make amends to Tilly
Coombs for the unjust suspicions.

The spoons were found the very next day. Jake Nesmith, the blacksmith,
saw the corner of the napkin in which they were wrapped sticking out of
a mud-puddle. Ruby had pulled them out of the basket with the chickens,
and dropped them in the snow.

Wheels had gone over them, and they had to be sent down to Burton's to
be bent into shape--that was all.

Alf Coombs is still in his cousin's store, where he does well, but Dave
has come home to Butternut Hill. He says he isn't sure that he shall
ever be a minister or a farmer, but he is sure he shall never be wild
again. The awful suspicion that fell upon him cured him of that. Miser
Jensen was found and arrested, and confessed the theft; he escaped from
prison, but there is no fear that he will ever return to Butternut
Corner. Dr. Nutting wished to send Tilly to the Academy with Ruby--the
whole story of the ravelled mitten was told after the spoons were found;
no one could expect a human girl like Patty to keep it--but Tilly
thought she had a knack for millinery, and she liked to be independent,
and Miss Farnham wanted her; she says she is a good business woman,
although she is only fifteen.

The doctor always takes off his hat to Tilly Coombs, while he gives only
a careless nod to the other fifteen-year-old girls. The minister, who is
his great friend, and hears a good deal about Butternut Corner people
through him, does so too, and just now the young people of the Corner
are making preparations for another birthday surprise party. They have
hired the new Town-hall, because the little house at the foot of the
hill wouldn't begin to hold Tilly's troops of friends, and everything is
to be in the very best style that is known to Butternut Corner, because
they want Tilly to feel that she is "just like other folks."




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


[Illustration: J. J. PURTELL, Tackle.]

[Illustration: LEE BEARDSELL, End.]

[Illustration: GEORGE CALAHAN, Centre.]

The All-Boston interscholastic football eleven for 1895 is as follows:

  JACK HALLOWELL, _Hopkinson_              end.
  J. J. PURTELL, _English High-School_     tackle.
  L. WARREN, _Cambridge High-School_       guard.
  G. CALAHAN, _English High-School_        centre.
  W. D. EATON, _English High-School_       guard.
  R. C. SEAVER, _Brookline High-School_    tackle.
  LEE BEARDSELL, _Cambridge High-School_   end.
  A. D. SAUL, _Cam. High-School_           quarter-back.
  T. H. MAGUIRE, _Boston Lat. School_      half-back.
  A. C. WHITTEMORE, _Eng. H.-S._           half-back.
  C. WATSON, _Cam. High-School_            full-back.

[Illustration: T. H. MAGUIRE, Half-back.]

[Illustration: L. WARREN, Guard.]

[Illustration: W. D. EATON, Guard.]

The substitutes for this team are S. W. Lewis, Brookline High-School,
end; A. P. Martin, Hopkinson, tackle; Oliver Talbot, Brookline
High-School, guard; Brayton, Boston Latin School, centre; E. H.
Sherlock, English High-School, quarter-back; and W. W. Aechtler,
Brookline High-School, back.

[Illustration: A. C. WHITTEMORE, Half-back.]

[Illustration: R. C. SEAVER, Tackle.]

[Illustration: JACK HALLOWELL, End.]

The first requirement that has been considered in selecting the players
for this representative All-Boston eleven has been sand. By sand is
meant not only physical fearlessness, but even more than that--the moral
courage to go into every game and play the hardest kind of football to
the end, whether the team is winning or is being overwhelmingly beaten.
That is the spirit that is worth more to a team than muscle or science,
for without it muscle and science are powerless. It is that which has
had more influence than anything else in determining the selection of
the All-Boston team. Not that the eleven _sandiest_ boys have been
chosen, but the eleven who combine sand and skill in the best ratio.
There are no quitters in this combination.

[Illustration: CARROLL WATSON, Full-back.]

[Illustration: A. D. SAUL, Quarter-back.]

For centre, there is no doubt that Calahan of English High is the most
capable man. His playing is as aggressive and lively as any boy's in the
League; for he makes himself felt in tackle and end plays, and opens up
holes in beautiful style for his backs. The best man for substitute
centre would be Brayton of Boston Latin. Warren of Cambridge High is
probably the best guard the League has ever developed. He has unlimited
sand and endurance, understands the theory of his position perfectly,
and is a most valuable rusher and interferer. Close behind him in
prowess comes Eaton of English High. Before this year he has played
centre, but now he has turned out to be a powerful guard. English High's
surest play was to rush Eaton through the other guard. When the referee
would call "third down, three yards to gain," Eaton almost invariably
would make it first down. Far behind these two guards, but next best, is
Talbot of Brookline.

For tackles, one is easily decided on; that is Seaver of Brookline High,
who has played a steady, sandy, reliable game throughout the year. The
other tackle is harder to choose. I give the place to Purtell of English
High, because, while not so valuable a man on the attack as Martin of
Hopkinson, his defence is much more reliable. At end one man has shown a
decided superiority in all the duties of the position; that, is
Hallowell of Hopkinson. He keeps his eye on the ball every moment that
it is in play, gets down on kicks beautifully, and I doubt if the
aggregate gains round his end in all the League games would amount to
ten yards. The other end I give to Beardsell of Cambridge High. He is
not so brilliant as Lewis of Brookline High, but is much steadier and
more aggressive. Lewis is apt to weaken when his team is losing ground,
while Beardsell can be depended upon at any stage of the game.

Everybody admits that Arthur Saul, of Cambridge High, is the best
quarter-back of the year, and everybody is full of praise for his plucky
work. Not since the days when Bob Wrenn played quarter for this same
team have such hard tackling and clever passing been seen. In only one
thing does Sherlock of English High, his nearest rival, outclass him;
that is in running his team. But giving signals, while very important,
is not essentially the duty of a quarter-back, as in many of the
'varsity teams some other player calls them. And Saul is far and away
ahead of all the other quarters in every other respect.

The trio of backs I would select are Whittemore of English High, Maguire
of Boston Latin, and Watson of Cambridge High. On offence, it would not
matter much just who took the middle position; but on defence Whittemore
and Maguire should play rush-line half-backs, and Watson full-back, for
he is the surest man to tackle and handle punts. All three of these men
can kick well; but the brunt of this work would fall to Maguire, as he
gets the ball away much more quickly than the others. Whittemore and
Watson could both buck the centre, and all three are exceptionally good
'round-the-end men. For substitute half we have Aechtler of Brookline,
who is just a trifle behind the others. It is his weak defence that
deprives him of a regular place.

Maguire should be Captain of this team. After his work with the Boston
Latin team there can be little doubt of his capability. To be sure,
Calahan was Captain of the winning team, and did all manner of fine work
in that capacity. But his team was much better supported by the school,
and had the services of a thoroughly competent coach, while Maguire did
all the work of getting his team together. Moreover, Maguire has the
advantage of position and of experience, having been Captain part of
last season. And Calahan has never been really put to the test, as his
men have always been victorious, and never even in danger of losing a
game. In Maguire the team would have a courteous, energetic, brainy
Captain, and, above all, a Captain for whom they would always
instinctively do their best work.

The standing of the teams in the Senior League is as follows:

               Games       Games       Games       Points       Points
                Won.       Lost.       Tied.        Won.         Lost.
  E. H. S.       5           0           0           56           14
  Hop.           4           1           0           40           36
  B. L. S.       3           2           0           14           14
  B. H. S.       2           3           0           22           16
  C. H. & L.     0           4           1            8           40
  C. M. T. S.    0           4           1           14           36

SCORES OF GAMES PLAYED.

  English High      4 -- Brookline                  0
  English High     18 -- Hopkinson                  6
  English High      4 -- Boston Latin               0
  English High     16 -- Cambridge High and Latin   0
  English High     14 -- Cambridge Manual           8
  Hopkinson         6 -- Boston Latin               2
  Hopkinson         6 -- Brookline High             4
  *Hopkinson        6 -- Cambridge High and Latin   8
  Hopkinson        16 -- Cambridge Manual           6
  Boston Latin      6 -- Brookline                  0
  *Boston Latin     0 -- Cambridge High and Latin   4
  Boston Latin      6 -- Cambridge Manual           0
  Brookline High   18 -- Cambridge High and Latin   0
  *Brookline High   4 -- Cambridge Manual           0
  Cambridge High    0 -- Cambridge Manual           0

* Protested; ordered to be played over; forfeited by Cambridge.

The standing in the Junior League is:

                 Games    Games    Games    Points    Points
                  Won.    Lost.    Tied.     Won.      Lost.
  Somerville High  5        0        1       106        10
  Newton High      4        1        1        69        32
  Chelsea High     4        2        0        76        74
  Roxbury Latin    3        3        0        82        41
  Dedham High      1        3        1        16        40
  Hyde Park High   1        4        1        20        84
  Roxbury High     0        5        0         6        70

The results of the New York, Pennsylvania, and Connecticut
Interscholastic League schedules are here given for the purpose of
record:

NEW YORK I.S.F.B.A.

FIRST SECTION.

  Cutler   24 -- Hamilton          0
  Trinity  16 -- Columbia Grammar  0
  Trinity  54 -- Hamilton          0
  Trinity  24 -- Cutler            4

Colombia Grammar forfeited to Cutler.

SECOND SECTION.

  Berkeley  30 -- Barnard      0
  Berkeley  34 -- De La Salle  0

Barnard forfeited to De La Salle.

FINAL GAME.

  Berkeley  38 -- Trinity  0

PHILADELPHIA I.S.F.B.A.

  October  18 -- De Lancey     22 -- Adelphi      6
     "      "    Penn Charter  68 -- Cheltenham   0
     "      "    Germantown    30 -- Haverford    0
     "     25 -- De Lancey     34 -- Haverford    0
     "      "    Germantown, by forfeit from Cheltenham.
     "      "    Penn Charter  28 -- Adelphi      0
  November  1 -- Penn Charter  54 -- De Lancey    0
     "      "    Cheltenham    40 -- Haverford    0
     "      "    Germantown    12 -- Adelphi      2
     "      8 -- Adelphi       12 -- Haverford    4
     "      "    De Lancey     34 -- Cheltenham   0
     "     15    Germantown    18 -- De Lancey    6
     "      "    Penn Charter  34 -- Haverford    0
     "      "    Cheltenham     4 -- Adelphi      0
     "     22 -- Germantown     6 -- Penn Charter 4

CONNECTICUT I.S.F.B.A.

NORTHERN DIVISION.

  October  26 -- Hartford          22 -- New Britain       12
     "      " -- Norwich F. A.      4 -- Conn. Lit. Inst.   4
     "     30 -- Conn. Lit. Inst.  14 -- Norwich F. A.      0
  November  2 -- Hartford          22 -- Conn. Lit. Inst.   0

SOUTHERN DIVISION.

  October  26 -- Bridgeport        14 -- Hillhouse H.-S.    4
     "      " -- Meriden           54 -- Waterbury          0
  November  2 -- Bridgeport        42 -- Meriden            0

FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP.

  November  9 -- Bridgeport        10 -- Hartford          10
     "     16 -- Bridgeport         4 -- Hartford           4
     "     28 -- Bridgeport        16 -- Hartford          12

If we may judge from the number of protests continually cropping up in
the New York League, there must be something radically wrong with school
sport in this town. The unhealthy desire to win seems to characterize
the young athletes of New York to a far greater extent than the healthy
spirit of indulging in sport for sport's sake. The greed for medals and
pennants seems to overshadow the true object of all these contests, and
this develops a spirit of professionalism, which, if not smothered at
once, will, in a very short while, put an end to every kind of
inter-school contests that are now known.

When I speak of the greed for medals I am not talking at random. I am
telling of what I know. Last spring, at some games on the Berkeley Oval,
two young men who were tied for second place in a certain event sat on
the turf near where I stood, talking over the commercial aspect of their
prowess. They were trying to arrange a deal. One proposed to the other
to surrender second place if his rival would allow him to keep the
medal. The second mercenary, however, would not agree to this. He, too,
wanted the medal, and was perfectly willing that the first "sport"
should take the "empty honor" of second place. Both athletes being
therefore so morally corrupt, no deal could be arranged as to who should
have the medal, and they were thus forced by their very spirit of
unsportsmanship to decide the tie by actual contest. This is a true
story, in spite of its apparent enormity, and I know the names of both
young men.

When such a spirit exists among individuals, it is easy to see how
entire teams may be led into a misconception of the ethics of sport. I
have no doubt, too, that a good many young men look upon it as clever
work to evade the rules and to compass an end in some unfair way,
provided they can do it without entailing punishment. A great deal of
this sort of thing doubtless started from ignorance, but nowadays it is
done because former breaches of honesty have been allowed to pass
unpunished. This sort of thing could not happen if the principals of the
schools were unanimous in their determination to keep sport clean and
absolutely honest. There are two or three head-masters, I know, who feel
this way, but the others wink at a great many small infractions, and by
so doing encourage greater ones which they know nothing of.

Now that athletics have become such an important feature in the life of
American boys and men, I believe that it is just as important for school
athletes to be instructed and advised in these matters as it is in any
other branch of endeavor where morals and honesty and similar qualities
are involved. The trouble is that young men hitherto have been left
entirely too much to shift for themselves in athletics. It is not to be
expected that they should always do the right thing, and so those who
are responsible for these young men are to blame if they have not
counselled them as they should.

In other words, the time has now come when every school that recognizes
athletics must recognize that there is a moral as well as a muscular
development to be looked to, and those pedagogues are unfaithful to
their trusts who do not give a greater amount of attention to the former
than they do to the latter.

To bring a general discussion to a point with specific examples, let me
cite St. Paul's School, Concord, and Lawrenceville. At both of these
institutions the professors give personal attention to sport, and there
are especial and particular men--men of position, education,
integrity--in charge of the moral side of the scholars' athletic
development. Because of the clamlike attitude of the authorities of St.
Paul's, I know less of the particular methods in vogue up there. But
with the conditions at Lawrenceville I am familiar.

Several years of experience there have shown the authorities that the
sports of the students can be kept in better condition if expert players
are detailed to manage the coaching and the games, but yet they do not
believe in hiring a man for the football season regardless of his
character and career in college. Since 1889 the policy of Lawrenceville
has been to have men as instructors who were not only the best
all-'round athletes of their college, but also the best scholars, and
held in high esteem for character. In 1889, for instance, George,
Princeton's centre-rush, went to Lawrenceville to teach mathematics.
After school hours he coached the football team, following up the
players day after day throughout the season. This is done in the just
conviction that boys should be taught how to play as well as how to
study. Two years ago Mr. George retired from active work in football,
and is now only an adviser, holding his position in the mathematical
department.

In 1893 Lawrenceville secured Street, who played with Garfield on the
Williams team for three seasons, and received the cup given to the man
who made the best record in athletics during his college course. Street
was engaged to teach Latin and English, and incidentally he has taken up
the control of athletics. To him has been intrusted the responsibility
of allowing certain men to engage in football and baseball; he gets up
all the plays the boys use; he also follows up the team every day in its
practice, being practically Captain at all times, except when a
match-game is in progress. Street is a man of most excellent character,
and will not allow boys on the various teams to use profane language for
a moment.

Evert unfair dodge and trick which a boy exhibits is instantly stopped,
and the men are urged to play perfectly straight, honest ball. Such a
thing as slugging, therefore, is unknown. The same thing is done in the
baseball season. This year Ward, the Princeton player, went to the
school to teach mathematics. He was the Latin salutatorian of his class
last year, and won the Fellowship in Mathematics, besides being
considered the brightest man Princeton has graduated in fifteen years.
He is to help the Lawrenceville students in football and baseball just
as Street is doing.

Now the point of this recital is to show that Lawrenceville has at
present on its pedagogic staff representatives of five large college
teams, each one of whom is known as well for the honesty as for the
quality of the game he played on the field. I believe that the future of
our college athletics rests with the schools that are this year, and
next year, and so on, sending out to the larger institutions men who
will control the athletic organizations. Boys who learn bad tricks in
schools will play them in a more outlandish and stronger way when they
reach college teams. I believe, therefore, that it is the duty of
schoolmasters to see to it that their wards are instructed in the ethics
of sport as well as in the rule of three; for boys who have been left to
themselves to learn, and have learned to win by unfair means, will turn
out badly, as far as their future in athletics is concerned, and they
may then justly look back to their school days, and blame those whose
duty it was to teach them the truth of sport. Beneath the surface of
these words are a wanting and a suggestion which I sincerely trust may
be heeded and accepted.

It is pleasant to learn that all the world is not hunting after medals,
and that the spirit of true sportsmanship is still alive in the
land--even if it is in the minority! As a consequence of my sermons of
the last few weeks I have received a number of letters. One
correspondent says: "I won a swimming match once, and got a ribbon for
it, and I prize that just as highly as though it were a gold medal. I
think the old Grecian and Roman method of awarding wreaths a striking
lesson for this age, and I hope they will play a prominent part in the
forth-coming Olympian games."

The poor showing made by the Cambridge Manual-Training School team this
fall was largely due to poor management. They had for manager and coach
a graduate who knew nothing of football nor of training a team. As a
consequence, they went into the games a pitifully overworked and
spiritless set, depending upon fantastic tricks to win victories. The
futility of it caused the appointment of a coach who had played football
and understood the game. It was too late, however, to do any better than
tie the demoralized Cambridge High team in the Thanksgiving-day game.

Owing to a delay in the receipt of the photographs, the announcement of
the All-New-York interscholastic football team has been necessarily
postponed until next week.

  THE GRADUATE.




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[Illustration: Royal Baking Powder]




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       *       *       *       *       *

Broadway & 19th st.

NEW YORK.




[Illustration]

A Doll Chart

Something new for the little folks. A chart by which dresses to fit any
doll can be quickly and easily cut by children--affording a never-ending
source of pleasure and amusement while it furnishes an early

Lesson in Dressmaking

Dresses cut to fit dolls of any size. Cut is but 1-16 actual size of
chart. Sent post-paid on receipt of 20c. in silver.

A. C. CHAMPLIN, 151 N. 15th Street, Philada., Pa.




[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 Marker; 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




[Illustration]




[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 so far as possible.


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

Having now given the better part of a dozen of the finest bicycle trips
in the vicinity of Boston, Massachusetts, we must turn our attention to
the completion of the trip from New York to Washington. The reader, by
referring to the note at the foot of this column, will there be able to
find in what numbers of HARPER'S ROUND TABLE the stages from New York to
Philadelphia were printed. We therefore take up the route from
Philadelphia, the first stage being from Market and Broad streets,
Philadelphia, to Compassville, a distance of forty-five miles. Leaving
City Hall by Broad and Twenty-second streets, proceed to Hamilton,
thence by Twenty-fifth Street to T. A. B. Fountain, thence to
Fifty-second Street, and there run into the Lancaster Pike, which is a
fine road for many miles from Philadelphia. Nine miles out you pass
through Ardmore. Then continuing on the Lancaster Pike a short two
miles, you run through Bryn-Mawr, and four miles further on pass through
Wayne. You should keep to the Lancaster Pike, crossing the railroad at
Eagle. After passing through Devon there is some hilly work until Paoli
is reached. All this time the rider has kept to the Lancaster Pike, but
it would be wiser for him to leave the Pike and bear to the left at a
fork less than a mile out of Paoli and just before reaching the West
Chester Intersection. The route then runs by a straight and fine road
out to Downington, where by a sharp turn to the right you cross the
tracks and again join the Lancaster Pike. The run from Downington to
Coatesville is direct and unmistakable. If the rider desires, he can put
up here for the night. If he is doing 60 to 100 miles in a day, he can
stop here for the noon meal. But it is wiser for both to go on to
Compassville. On leaving the hotel you should run along by the railroad
track almost due north, having crossed the main line at right angles.
The road winds about somewhat, and there are one or two hills out to
Wagontown, but with care and some inquiry there is no difficulty in
getting started on the road which runs quite direct to Compassville,
making a distance of forty-five miles from Philadelphia. Compassville is
a reasonably good place to spend the night, the hotel being clean and
the food good.

The direct route from Philadelphia to Washington leaves the Lancaster
Pike at Paoli, and taking the left fork just beyond that town, runs out
to West Chester, and thence through Sager's Mills, Chad's Ford, Double
Bridge, to Wilmington. This route to Washington is shorter, but for
several reasons the longer route, of which we have above given the first
stage, is far more interesting to the bicycle tourist. In the first
place, the road is better. Then the hills are much less frequent.
Furthermore, the rider passes through much historic territory connected
with the Rebellion, and the field of Gettysburg is easily included; and,
finally, the scenery and the towns through which you pass are far more
interesting.

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




[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.


Probably most of you have heard of Helen Keller, but I have seen and
talked with her, and to see Helen and hear her sweet voice, which she,
dear child, cannot hear, is to have an experience which you never can
forget. "Come and take a cup of tea with me, and meet Helen Keller,"
wrote my dear friend, and I went.

It was on a winter day, late in the afternoon, when I entered my
friend's drawing-room. I saw, sitting beside her teacher, a fair young
girl, perhaps fifteen years old. Helen is straight and robust. She
carries herself finely, her head held up, her shoulders thrown back. Her
little hands are very white and finely shaped, with tapering fingers,
which are to her what eyes and ears are to us. Helen sees and hears with
those wonderful delicate hands of hers, and everything they tell her is
reflected in an instant on her sweet sensitive face. She has a very
merry laugh, and responds in a moment to the moods of others, whether
they are happy or sorrowful moods. Helen has fair curling hair and a
lovely complexion, and you would select her in any group of girls for
her beauty and air of grace and distinction. Better than looks is, what
her teacher says she possesses, a very sweet, patient, and loving
disposition. You discover this as you watch her, for there is so much
sunshine in her face, and her manners are so gentle and natural. Then,
too, she is very quick to express her thanks for any kindness shown, or
gift presented to her, and at any bit of fun her laugh is like a peal of
silvery bells.

Helen Keller was a baby not two years old when she had the illness which
shut her into darkness and silence for the rest of her life. With sight
gone and hearing gone, it seemed as if a very mournful fate would be
hers. At eight years of age she was deaf, dumb, and blind, and knew no
more than some little docile animal, for nobody had found out how to
waken up her brain, or to enable her to communicate her ideas to her
fellow-creatures.

It was at this period that her father and mother brought their little
girl to Boston, to place her in an institution designed for such
helpless children as she was then. Here she came under the immediate
care of the lady who has ever since been her friend, sister, and
teacher. Miss Sullivan says she had not taught Helen a single week
before she was aware that she had an extraordinary pupil. The child
learned so fast that her progress was amazing. Something of what Helen
has gained you will understand, girls, when I tell you that she reads
beautifully in the raised type the blind spell out with their fingers,
that she writes a clear, fine, strong hand, operates perfectly three
different typewriters, and is now beginning French and German in
addition to her English studies. She writes a very creditable letter in
French, and translates fables and stories with ease.

Her contact with the world is, of course, through touch, and her senses
of smell and taste are acute. She lays her fingers on the lips of the
one speaking to her, and rapidly repeats whatever is said, answering at
once as any other child would, only Helen's answers are usually quicker
and brighter than those of girls of her age. Her teacher talks with her
by means of the mute alphabet, taking Helen's hand in her own, and in
this way Helen "sees" all sorts of things, Miss Sullivan being her
interpreter. When Miss Sullivan is talking to Helen, the latter has a
look of the most genuine attention; her whole face is full of interest.
You forget that she cannot see, so alert and alive are the features.

Every day this dear young girl writes in her journal, and she puts into
this book just the same confidences, and tells it the same happy
stories, which other girls write and tell in their diaries. Helen Keller
is a happy, contented, merry girl. I am glad I know her, and I wish you
all might know her too.

[Illustration: Signature]




AN OUNCE OF PREVENTION

is cheaper than any quantity of cure. Don't give children narcotics or
sedatives. They are unnecessary when the infant is properly nourished,
as it will be if brought up on the Gail Borden Eagle Brand Condensed
Milk--[_Adv._]




ADVERTISEMENTS.




Postage Stamps, &c.




[Illustration]

STAMPS! =300= 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.




[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=, 594l Cote Brilliante Ave., St. Louis, Mo




300

STAMPS FOR $l.00, all different, some quite rare.

KEUTGEN BROTHERS, 322 Broadway, N. Y.




A NEW SECRET SPOKEN LANGUAGE.

Can be learned in the evening. Book, 25 cents.

N. L. COLLIMER, Washington, D.C.




500

Mixed Stamps, 20 cts.; 100 varieties, 15 cts. Agents wanted at 50%.
Reference required. List free.

F. W. H. MOYER, Bethlehem. Pa.



FINE APPROVAL SHEETS. Agents wanted at 50% com. P. S. Chapman, Box 151,
Bridgeport, Ct.




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]

Timely Warning.

The great success of the chocolate preparations of the house of =Walter
Baker & Co.= (established in 1780) has led to the placing on the market
many misleading and unscrupulous imitations of their name, labels, and
wrappers. Walter Baker & Co. are the oldest and largest manufacturers of
pure and high-grade Cocoas and Chocolates on this continent. No
chemicals are used in their manufactures.

Consumers should ask for, and be sure that they get, the genuine Walter
Baker &. Co.'s goods.

WALTER BAKER & CO., Limited,

DORCHESTER, MASS.




OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT

OF THE AWARD ON

=GILLOTT'S PENS= at the CHICAGO EXPOSITION.

=AWARD=: "For excellence of steel used in their manufacture, it being fine
grained and elastic; superior workmanship, especially shown by the
careful grinding which leaves the pens free from defects. The tempering
is excellent and the action of the finished pens perfect."

Approved: JOHN BOYD THACHER, _Chairman Exec. Com. on Awards_.




BREAKFAST--SUPPER.

EPPS'S

GRATEFUL--COMFORTING.

COCOA

BOILING WATER OR MILK.




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.




FREE.

Comic return envelopes. Sleight of Hand exposed. List of 600 gifts.
Album of cards. Send 2c. stamp for postage.

Address Banner Card Co., Cadiz, Ohio.




[Illustration]




[Illustration]

Highest Award

WORLD'S FAIR.

SKATES

CATALOGUE FREE.

BARNEY & BERRY, Springfield, Mass.




HOOPING-COUGH

CROUP.

Roche's Herbal Embrocation.

The celebrated and effectual English Cure without internal medicine.
Proprietors, W. EDWARD & SON.

London, England.

E. Fougera & Co., 30 North William St., N.Y.




An Appeal for a School-house.


Come, dear readers of the Table--Ladies, Knights, Patrons, and their
friends--let us make possible the laying of the corner-stone of Good
Will School next spring. The task is not a difficult one. It can be
accomplished in this way:

Get one subscriber to HARPER'S ROUND TABLE. Remit the $2 for it for one
year. Attach the accompanying Coupon. Say in your letter that you wish
the 50 cents turned into the Fund. And the thing is done. The Fund is
complete. The corner-stone will be laid. The boys will have an
industrial school-house. The Order will have performed a grand, a
chivalrous deed.

At this holiday-time every person who reads these lines has it within
his or her power to build this school-house. Because, if _you_ get the
one subscriber, the house will be built. If you do not, it will not--not
now. All depends on you.

Go out and ask your friends about it. Ask them to help you get the
subscriber. Your parents and teachers will help you. Ask them to do so.
Set your heart on getting this one subscriber. Go to a Sunday-school or
church committee, a day school, some well-to-do man or woman who has
young persons in the household. Ask the well-to-do neighbor. Relate the
merits of the paper, and show a sample copy and Prospectus. We furnish
them free. Ask us to do so.

But do more than this. Relate the story of Good Will. Tell the person
whom you are asking to subscribe why you want the subscription, and why
you want it now. Tell him or her that Good Will Farm, while in Maine,
takes boys from any part of the country, and is therefore not a local
but a national enterprise. Say that it is a house for an industrial
school that the Order is to build. The Farm is in good hands, and the
school itself will be well conducted. Our task is only to put up the
building, not to conduct the school. Say that during the last few
years--two or three--more than 700 poor boys have applied for admission
to Good Will, and had to be refused it for lack of room. These boys were
deserving. Say further that if you get the subscription the school will
be built, and, by turning a house now used for the school into a
dwelling, more boys can be taken--boys of five, six, and seven years of
age, who are now homeless, may be given homes, school advantages, and a
chance to become useful Christian men.

During the next two weeks will _you_ get this subscription? Talk it
up--and get it. The appeal is not made to the Order. It is made to
_you_. If you do not wish to cut out the coupon, make a pen one nearly
like it, ask us for duplicates, or send on the subscription without a
coupon, simply saying that you got it to help the school, and that you
want 50 cents of the $2 given to the Fund. Be sure to give the
subscription address, and your own name for the Honor Roll.

Come on, dear friends, let us build this school-house.


THIS COUPON

     Will be received by the publishers of HARPER'S ROUND TABLE as

[Illustration: Fifty Cents]

     when accompanied by an order for a NEW subscription to HARPER'S
     ROUND TABLE and One Dollar and Fifty Cents. The intent of this
     Coupon is to pay you for inducing another person, _not now a
     subscriber_, to subscribe for HARPER'S ROUND TABLE for one year.
     This Coupon has nothing whatever to do with your own subscription;
     that is, with the copy you expect to read next year, it matters not
     in whose name it be ordered, and will not be accepted in payment
     for any part of it. It is good for its face in the hands of any
     person who performs the work indicated, whether said person is a
     subscriber or not. HARPER & BROTHERS.

       *       *       *       *       *

The St. Ives Puzzle Contest.

The St. Ives story excited much interest. To new readers we must explain
that it was a tale of the man who came from St. Ives, related to the
famous person bound for that place. There were four riddles in it, and
the rest of the questions were double meanings of names, chiefly
geographical. On the journey the man of wives said he saw "an island of
Greece that wouldn't hold water"--Poros; and speaking of the character
of his many children, the man said not one was "an island off the
Mexican coast"--Angel.

A great many solvers wrote to ask if a mistake had not been made in
Question No. 2, "because there were not one hundred words in the
paragraph." No mistake was made. The "99th" word is the one preceding
the c--100. Here are the answers:

1, Wake; 2, Be just before you are generous; 3, Fife; 4, Tietar; 5,
Vilaine; 6, Wigtown; 7, Bureau; 8, Poros; 9, Net and Racquet; 10, Fad;
11, There is no wisdom like frankness; 12, Oka; 13. Mercury
(quicksilver); 14, Gull: 15, Yule; 16, Sasa; 17, Angel; 18, Faro and
Fortune; 19, Lard; 20, Book; 21, Clinch; 22, Palm; 23, Box-car.

Of the twenty-three questions in the story, twenty-one were correctly
answered by William C. Thayer, aged 13, Michigan, and Pearl A. Coyle,
aged 13, Pennsylvania. The former missed Nos. 13 and 23, and the latter
Nos. 2 and 23. We divide the $10 prize between them, giving $5 to each.
The other $15 of the $25 offered is divided among other high solvers
thus: Frederic W. Darling and Joslyn Z. Smith, New York (Buffalo); Royal
J. Davis. Indiana; Edward L. Lyon, New York; J. M. Espey and Nora B.
Tucker, Pennsylvania, $2 each; and Ethel Ruth Sherman, New York; Mabel
Josephine Frye, District of Columbia; and Amy Erickson, Wisconsin, $1
each. The money has been forwarded, and reached most of the winners by
Christmas day.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Quarter is in the Fund.

     DEAR KNIGHTS AND LADIES,--I am a great black dog, and I have more
     to do with the Round Table Department than you imagine. I have
     helped one of your contributors prepare scores of articles for you,
     and you have me to thank for their briefness. Whenever a manuscript
     threatened to become too long, I would insist on having a door
     opened for me, or would beg for a drink of water. So that my wants
     might be supplied a long story had to be cut short.

     I am a lazy old fellow, but I am as good as I can be, and goodness
     means everything with people, and dogs as well. Some little
     children who once had a society called "Peacemakers" let me join
     their club because I never fight.

     I am glad to hear that you are to build an Industrial School for
     the Good Will Farm boys, for they have a Band of Mercy, and have
     promised to be kind to all dumb animals. This means that when
     everything does not go just right in the neat shops you are to fit
     up for them, they will not lose their tempers and throw their tools
     at any stray cat or dog which happens near. Kind boys will make
     kind men; and I think that all the pets that read the ROUND TABLE
     ought to raise a fund to help build that school for their mutual
     friends. I enclose twenty-five cents for this purpose. If I were a
     dog that could perform a great many tricks I would send a larger
     amount, but I will leave such an honor to my accomplished brothers.
     I suppose the little dogs would consider a dime as their proper
     offering; and, by-the-way, what if we adopt that as our standard?
     Will all the pets--dogs, kitties, rabbits, lambs, biddies, birds,
     ponies--which are interested in boys who are bound to ever protect
     them send ten cents for that Good Will School?

     I suppose my letter will be published as long as it is the first
     from a dumb animal; but the rest of you must not be disappointed if
     yours do not appear in print. This magazine is for children, and
     they like it too well to give it over to us. However, I should not
     be surprised if the most interesting letters should be printed; and
     perhaps the pet that writes the most pleasing one will receive a
     reward--a pretty collar, it may be. Hoping to see a long list of
     "pet names" in the contributors' list for the School Fund, I will
     now say

  Bow-wow,
  BILLY.
  BATH, ME.

     P. S.--Any pet that wishes boys to keep on abusing them should not
     send their dimes.

  B.




[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.


One of our Round Table patrons sends the following formula for a soda
developer, which he says he has used successfully for years:

  Hot Water                   10 oz.
  Sulphite of Soda Crystals    2  "
  Sal Soda Crystals            2  "
  Bromide Potassium           30 grs.

This will take about twelve hours to dissolve. Keep bottle tightly
corked, and it will keep for two or three years, and be as good as if
not better than when first made. To use, take 5 oz. of cold-water, 1 oz.
of this solution, and 12 grs. of pyrogallic acid. This quantity will
develop four 5 by 8 plates, or half a dozen 4 by 5 plates.

Several of our members have asked for formulas for developing solutions,
and will find the above to give excellent results. In our answers to
queries will be found a formula for hydroquinon and eikonogen developer,
and either of those formulas will give excellent negatives.

     SIR KNIGHT WILLIAM F. TOBEY asks when the prizes are to be
     announced, and the grade of bromide paper most used by amateurs.
     The prizes will be announced as soon after the close of the
     competition as the judges are able to examine the pictures. The
     grade of bromide paper most used by amateurs is that made by
     Eastman & Co., of Rochester, N.Y. They make a bromide paper, called
     platino-bromide, which gives beautiful results. The use of bromide
     paper is recommended for winter, as by its use one is practically
     independent of sunlight.

     SIR KNIGHT JOHN BYRNE, of California, asks what is the best camera
     for beginners. A hand camera is the best for a beginner, and one
     that is fitted for glass plates instead of film. With a hand camera
     one can use a tripod, and make time pictures without the complex
     swing-back, which is always more or less trouble to a beginner. A
     good size is a camera that takes a 4 by 5 picture.

     SIR KNIGHT ALISON MARTIN, who sent a collection of fine photographs
     to the contest, asks if those pictures which do not take a prize
     can be criticised. If Sir Knight Alison could see the quantity of
     pictures which have been sent in he would at once see that special
     criticism of each picture would involve more time and space than
     could be given to the Camera Club Department. After the contest
     closes there will be a general criticism or description of the
     pictures submitted.

     SIR KNIGHT MILTON E. PEASE, of Suffield, Connecticut, wants the
     address of some firm where he can get good supplies, and also
     wishes the formula for a good developing solution. Sir Knight
     Milton will find reliable firms in Boston and New York, any one of
     which will send price-list on application. The editor is not
     familiar with firms in Springfield, Connecticut, but would advise
     sending to some town near Suffield, as the charges are much less
     for transportation. A good developing solution is made as follows:
     Solution No. 1. Water, 10 oz.; sulphite of soda, 2 oz.; eikonogen,
     165 grs.; hydroquinon, 80 grs.; and add enough water to make the
     solution up to 8 oz. Solution No. 2. Water, 10 oz.; carbonate of
     potassium, 1 oz.; sodium carbonate, 1 oz.; and enough more water to
     make the solution up to 16 oz. For developing take 1 oz. of No. 1,
     1 oz. of No. 2, and 4 oz. of water.

     SIR KNIGHT EDWIN V. GRISWOLD asks what kinds of trays to use for
     developing, fixing, and toning. The best developing trays are made
     of rubber, but celuloid makes a very good tray. An amber glass tray
     is the best for a fixing-tray, as, being so unlike the other trays,
     one never mistakes the hypo-tray for any other. A white porcelain
     tray is usually chosen for a toning-tray.

     A CORRESPONDENT OF ENGLEWOOD, N.J., who does not sign name, asks a
     good and cheap way to make a developer. Our correspondent will find
     his question answered in the answer to Sir Knight Milton Pease in
     this number, and also at the beginning of this column.




[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 new U. S. Postage-due stamps are printed in aniline colors, and if
wet the colors run badly. Do not soak any of them, as that would ruin
them. The higher values of these stamps (30 and 50 cents) are still
scarce, as many post-offices had large stocks of the old issue, or of
the lower values (1, 2, 3, 5, and 10) of the current issue.

Proofs and essays of U. S. stamps are advancing in value rapidly. A few
years ago they brought nominal prices only.

Unused U. S. stamps, with the original gum well centred, are worth from
30 per cent. to 50 per cent. more than when gum has been soaked off, or
when not evenly centred.

     F. BOGGS.--Write to any of the firms mentioned in our advertising
     columns.

     E. S. D.--Dealers ask 20c. for the 1835 dime.

     J. S. POWELSON.--The 2c. 1869 can be bought for 8c.

     RUTH E. CHAMBERLIN.--The 1804 half-cent is quoted at 15c.

     GLEN CARTER.--"Helvetia" stamps are those of Switzerland from 1862
     to date. They are worth from 1c. to $1 each, according to scarcity.

     JOHN H. CAMPBELL.--The last issue of Mexico are the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,
     10, 12, 15, 20, and 50 centavos; 1, 5, and 10 pesos.

     F. WALDRON.--The prices quoted are those _asked_ by dealers, not
     the prices paid by dealers for them. Address firms mentioned in our
     advertising columns.

     R. S. C.--In die A, 1887, 2c. green U. S. envelope the bust points
     to the space between the third and fourth "tooth" of the edge. In
     die B, the common die, the bust points to space between second and
     third "tooth."

     BEN B. WOOSTER.--It is frequently difficult to distinguish the two
     dies of the 1851 U.S. 1c. stamp, as they were printed with very
     small margins. The 1851 extra line U. S. 3c. is identical with the
     1851 die, but perforated. The extra line is at top and bottom only.

     A. C. G. WILLIAMS.--Die B, fawn, star watermark, is very common,
     and worth very little. The rare envelope has the die C stamp. In
     this the head of Washington is egg shaped.

     JOSIE S. GREY.--There is no 1775 Washington U. S. cent. For the
     prices of the cents and half-cents see ROUND TABLE No. 842. The
     other coins and tokens mentioned have no premium value. I do not
     know the "Veto" token.

     E. M. FAREWELL.--Old English telegraph and revenue stamps are not
     collected in this country.

     A. J. SELOVER.--The flying eagle cent, 1856, is worth $5. The other
     dates do not bring any premium.

     A. WALTER.--No premium on the coins mentioned.

     S. M.--The legend "One Hundred Years" appears on the stamps of New
     South Wales.

     H. B. BARBER.--The only way is to buy an illustrated catalogue,
     which will give you prices also.




[Illustration: Ivory Soap]

Have you noticed when discussing household affairs with other ladies
that each one has found some special use for Ivory Soap, usually the
cleansing of some article that it was supposed could not be safely
cleaned at home.

THE PROCTER & GAMBLE CO., CIN'TI.




GEO. F. CRANE,

90 Nassau St.,

NEW YORK,

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[Illustration]




[Illustration]

THE

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FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

       *       *       *       *       *

"HARPER'S ROUND TABLE" FOR 1895

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

       *       *       *       *       *

A LIFE OF CHRIST FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

In Questions and Answers. By MARY HASTINGS FOOTE. With Map. Post 8vo,
Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

     The Rev. DR. DAVID H. GREER writes:

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       *       *       *       *       *

OAKLEIGH

A Story for Girls. By ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND. Illustrated, Post 8vo,
Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

     The story is told in a simple and direct manner that enlists the
     sympathy and attention of the reader.--_Saturday Evening Gazette_,
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     A story for girls, charmingly written, and illustrated throughout
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       *       *       *       *       *

By KIRK MUNROE.

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

     Will hold the interest of its readers from beginning to end.--_N. Y.
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       *       *       *       *       *

By MRS. SANGSTER

=Little Knights and Ladies.= Verses for Young People. By MARGARET E.
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       *       *       *       *       *

By W. J. HENDERSON

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     Mr. W. J. Henderson's latest sea-story for boys is one of the best
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       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York




[Illustration: A STEEPLE-CHASE.]




REGGIE'S CONVALESCENCE.

MAMMA. "Don't imagine you're sick, Reggie, or you'll never get well."

REGGIE. "All right, mamma; then I'll play off well, and go skating just
to stop my sickness."

       *       *       *       *       *

"How is your little sister, Robbie?"

"She's getting well, she's taking celuloid milk." And he marched off
proud of having accomplished such a big word, for sterilized or celuloid
was all one to this little man of five.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Mamma," said Clara, "the minister always says amen; when a lady prays
does she say awoman?"

       *       *       *       *       *

BOBBY'S COMPOSITION.

PARENTS.


Parents are things which boys have to look after them. Most girls also
have parents. Parents consist of Pas and Mas. Pas talk a good deal about
what they are going to do, but mostly it's Mas that make you mind.

Sometimes it is different, though. Once there was a boy came home from
college on vacation. His parents lived on a farm. There was work to be
done on the farm. Work on a farm always has to be done early in the
morning. This boy didn't get up. His sister goes to the stairway and
calls: "Willie, 'tis a beautiful morning. Rise and list to the lark."
The boy didn't say anything. Then his Ma calls: "William, it is time to
get up. Your breakfast is growing cold." The boy kept right on not
saying anything. Then his Pa puts his head in the stairway, and says he,
"Bill!" "Coming, sir!" says the boy.

I know a boy that hasn't got any parents. He goes in swimming whenever
he pleases. _But I am going to stick to my parents._

However, I don't tell them so, 'cause they might get it into their heads
that I couldn't get along without them.

Says this boy to me, "Parents are a nuisance; they aren't what _they're_
cracked up to be." Says I to him, "Just the same, I find 'em handy to
have. Parents have their failings, of course, like all of us, but on the
whole I approve of 'em."

Once a man says to me, "Bobby, do you love your parents?" "Well," says
I, "I'm not a-quarrelling with 'em."

Once a boy at boarding-school went to calling his Pa the Governor, and
got his allowance cut down one-half. His Pa said he ought to have waited
till he was going to college.

Much more might be written about parents, showing their habits and so
forth, but I will leave the task to abler pens.

       *       *       *       *       *

A BIRD'S PECULIAR NEST.

There is preserved in the Museum of Natural History at Soleure, in
Switzerland, a bird's nest made of steel.

A pair of wagtails had built a nest near the town of Soleure, and a
clock-maker who had to pass along a road near the nest noticed something
peculiar in its construction. He stopped one day and examined it, and,
much to his astonishment, found it made entirely of steel. It was more
than four inches across. As Soleure contains several clock-making shops,
and the windows of these shops are frequently left open, the natural
supposition is that the birds gathered up the thin spiral shavings of
steel, and built their nest. The ingenious way in which these strands of
steel are made to fit into one another and woven so compactly, is
marvellous when the bird's trifling bit of strength is considered. A
bird's nest is often an indication of its surroundings, as in the case
of a city sparrow's nest, which is usually made of strings, bits of
cotton, wisps of straw and hay, tooth-picks, cloth, the hair of horses,
and such miscellany.




THE CHINAMAN'S SLED.

[Illustration: CHARLEY LEU'S BOB-SLED WENT ALMOST AS FAST AS MELICAN
MAN'S--]

[Illustration: BUT IN THE MANAGEMENT OF IT HE BADLY LACKED THE SKILL
ACQUIRED BY EXPERIENCE AND INHERITANCE.]





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, December 31, 1895, by Various

*** 