



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

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

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MAY 26, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 865. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

THE CRUISE OF A COMMERCE-DESTROYER.

BY YATES STIRLING, JUN.


The officer of the deck is pacing his last hour of a very dull forenoon
watch upon the bridge of the U. S. S. _Minneapolis_. The tropical sun
beats down with unflinching savageness upon his head; his eyes are
restlessly scanning the horizon at every turn, but nothing has disturbed
the monotony of its outline, as his sullen pacing bears witness. The
sentries and men on lookout are at their stations, and are listlessly
walking to and fro on the small patch of deck called their posts. Small
knots of men are gathered together here and there on the spar-deck,
under the shade of a boat or a gun-shield, spinning yarns or playing at
sailor games. Some of the younger officers can be seen aft on the
quarter-deck gazing fixedly over the wide expanse of ocean, as if they
expected an enemy to rise up before them from the sea. Some of the more
impulsive ones occasionally lift their voices in expostulation at the
dull life they are leading, while others are seeing active service on
fighting-ships. The great hull of the cruiser is slowly forging ahead in
the quiet sea; her huge and powerful engines are barely turning over.

Like a picture in a kinetoscope, all this has changed. Every man on
board has awakened from his lethargy. All hands are alert and gazing at
the horizon to the eastward. What is the cause of this sudden awakening?
Two words from the lookout in the foretop: "Sail ho!" Yes, broad on the
port-bow can be seen a low line of black smoke that to any but a
sailor's eye would appear to be a cloud on the distant horizon. Scarcely
a quarter of an hour, and with all speed the cruiser is cutting the sea
in the direction of the fast-approaching smoke.

Eager young officers have ascended into the tops to be the first to make
out the character of the stranger. In the foretop are two midshipmen,
still in their teens, class-mates at the Naval Academy, and stanch
friends. Scarcely a thought has one the other does not share. With that
reckless ambition that is one of the attributes of youth they are both
longing for excitement. Their dreams of battle and glory have toppled
like a castle of cards.

As yet the _Minneapolis_ has seen no fighting; she has been doing the
work cut out for her without bloodshed. Merchantman after merchantman
has been overhauled and captured or ransomed in the last six months, and
the cruiser's name has become the terror of the enemy's merchant marine.

Once only, while coming out of a neutral port, she had to run the
gauntlet of two of the enemy's cruisers, but with her superior speed two
hours sufficed to put the enemy hull-down astern, with but slight damage
to the commerce-destroyer. Her orders were, on the outbreak of the war
"to capture or destroy the enemy's commerce wherever met; refuse
battle," and this order had been faithfully carried out. All hands had
grown rich in prize-money; fresh provisions were obtained in abundance.

Coal was the problem. It had been attempted to coal at sea from captured
vessels, but this mode could not be relied upon to replenish the bunkers
of a ship with such a tremendous expenditure. So a certain amount of
risk had to be run in coaling in neutral ports.

The _Minneapolis_ and her two sister ships were the prizes coveted of
all the enemy's cruisers. When the United States was building them other
nations laughed at the idea, and put their dock-yards at work building
ships of greater armament but less speed. But now they saw too late the
awful advantage of these beautiful toys, as the foreign press were wont
to call them, that could give or refuse battle at pleasure.

Ship after ship of the enemy's navy was in search of these
"freebooters," but very few had even had the honor of coming within
signal distance. One of these was the _Whistle_, a cruiser of a little
heavier armament, but several knots less speed. The _Minneapolis_ was in
the port of St. Thomas, coaling, when this warlike hull hove in sight.
Very little time was lost in putting to sea, but not before two or three
shots had been exchanged, and some very taunting signals had been
displayed by the disappointed ship.

All the officers and men would gladly have accepted battle, with but
small fear of the result, but each and every one knew what awful odds
would be on the _Whistle_'s side. America had but a few handfuls of
ships; if these were pitted against the navy of the enemy, they would be
overwhelmed, annihilated. No; the quickest way to humble the foe is
through her commerce. So the bitter pill had to be swallowed in silence.
But the mere thought of the occurrence brought a hot flush to the cheek
of every man aboard.

The stranger has drawn near, and is soon made out to be a merchantman,
an ocean liner, one of the greyhounds that had plied between New York
and Harborport before the outbreak of hostilities. Large volumes of
black smoke from her immense smoke-pipes show she has scented danger,
and is making all speed to escape.

The young officers in the foretop are thrilled with excitement as their
glass shows them the character of the stranger. The younger is a boy of
eighteen, his light hair and blue eyes betokening his Saxon ancestry. He
is clad in a neat-fitting blue uniform, and his cap set jauntily on the
back of his head revealed a mass of light curly locks. With his eyes
fairly sparkling, he bears a striking contrast to his companion. Dark
and sullen, with lowering eyes and heavy forehead, the other showed not
by a single sign that he realizes that in a short time the first and
long-cherished battle of his life will be enacted.

The younger lad has dreamed of battles both in his sleep and his waking
moments, in which he has cut his way with his sword to honor and
distinction. He has oftentimes pictured his friends, his mother, and his
sweetheart reading of his heroic deeds in the daily papers of his home,
and now it seems to his youthful mind his dreams are to be fulfilled.

As his glass scans the stranger he realizes that in the eyes of naval
experts the stranger is nearly equal to the _Minneapolis_ in fighting
qualities. He knows that these fast ships have been subsidized by the
hostile government, and are heavily armed and protected. His dreams
fairly dance before his eyes. But another picture flashes across his
mental vision. He is on the battery-deck; the decks are wet and slippery
with blood; the terribly mangled dead and wounded are lying all about
him; he sees brave men struck down around. A cold shiver runs through
his well-knit frame as he shakes from him the ghastly nightmare.

The other lad is not a dreamer. Morose, almost cynical, he never gives
himself up to such reveries. To him everything appears in a less gilded
light. He knows that if the stranger has not superior speed, his
services and his companion's will soon be needed on the deck below.

The two lads scramble down through the hollow mast as the drummers are
beating the long-roll to quarters. All during the hot sultry day the
chase continues, and when night settles down on the watery waste the
_Minneapolis_ is still out of gun-shot astern. The night is bright, and
when morning dawns the blood-hound is still upon the trail. The crew of
the 8-inch breech-loading rifle on the forecastle is called to quarters,
and a shell is sent speeding over the water in the direction of the
fleeing ship. Slowly the distance diminishes. Suddenly a white cloud of
smoke bursts from the liner, and a heavy shell strikes close aboard the
American ship.

All hands are soon at their stations, and in a short time all is in
readiness for battle. The stars and stripes at her trucks flaunt a
challenge to the enemy's ensign at the _Calabria_'s gaff.

The two ships are now within battle range, and the thunder of their
heavy ordnance breaks the stillness of the ocean.

Shells go speeding through the unarmored sides of the ships, their
explosions making terrific havoc among their unprotected crews. The
picture before the midshipman's eyes is now a reality. Tirelessly the
two lads work; their guns are next to each other. As they give their
commands in sharp decisive voices, the contrast seems less striking. A
shell comes in the gun-port and strikes down the captain of the younger
lad's gun; the lock-string falls from his lifeless hand. Gently laying
the dead man aside, he takes the lanyard.

As he stood at his gun before the heat of action, he was seized with an
awful trembling, and he feared lest he might show by his actions the
white feather to his men. Then came the bursting of shells and the
explosion of discharges, and then the shell striking down his
gun-captain, spluttering his life-blood all about him. At once his fears
left him, his eyes brightened, and a terrible anger awoke in him, the
like of which he had never known. He fired his gun at the enemy with a
fierce exultancy, wondering in a cruel way how many lives the shell had
cut down. It seems ages since the battle started. With his eyes always
on the enemy, he is spared from seeing his friend, struck by a flying
splinter, being carried below to the surgeons. He sees the _Calabria_,
her sides ablaze with fire, sweep majestically across his small horizon,
and then disappear. He is always aware of her awful presence from the
never-ceasing bursting of her shells around him. Then again she appears,
and is once more in his angle of fire. During this small space of time
his gun has done all that could be expected; he has watched shell after
shell from it explode aboard the enemy; he can see large rents in her
black hull, and he notices her fire is becoming more desultory; the
fight will soon be over. As she disappears again, he musters up courage
to look about him. There is but little life on the battery-deck, that
only a half-hour before was the scene of so much activity. The gun next
his is not in action; a shell has completely shattered the breech-plug;
nearly its entire crew are lying about on the deck, their dark
life-blood staining the white planking. His companion's cap is lying
near a dark mass on the deck. Is it his blood? His senses are so
paralyzed that he feels his mind must give way. The enemy emerges into
view; his hand is upon the lock-string; the elevator and trainer are
attentively watching for their orders. They do not come. His thoughts
are far away in the midst of a modest New England home. He sees a
beautiful motherly woman, her face pale and anxious, and by her side is
a young girl in the first blush of womanhood.

He is suddenly conscious of a young seaman standing before him, giving
him a message. In a dazed way he relinquishes his lock-string to one of
his gunners, and is making his way over the reeking deck toward the
bridge. He hears a voice, as if in a dream, giving him orders to be
ready to board the prize. Then the enemy has surrendered? His gaze seeks
the other ship. But a short distance away he sees her shattered hull
rolling in the smooth sea. A huge white flag flutters from her
signal-halyards. The boats are ready and alongside. The men are
embarking. He takes his place, and they shove off, and are soon scaling
the side of the captured vessel. Her decks are almost deserted, scarcely
a living man is about, but everywhere death and destruction reign. He
hears a well-known voice close to him. Has the last hour been an awful
nightmare, or has his mind been shaken at last? He cannot grasp the
situation. There is his friend, looking paler than ever, his right arm
in splints, and his head tied up in a huge bandage. His joy knows no
bounds. With a fervent "Thank Heaven!" they embrace. There is no time
now for explanations; it is enough to know that his companion is still
alive. With orders from his Lieutenant, he is leading, pistol in hand, a
gang of tars down into the _Calabria_'s bowels. The surprised firemen
and stokers are quickly manacled, and ready Americans have taken their
places. An engineer officer is giving rapid orders to his men; the huge
engines start ahead, slowly at first, then the revolutions increase,
till the shafts are revolving at a terrific speed. When he again reaches
the deck everything is again calm and peaceful. On the port quarter, but
a short distance away, he sees the _Minneapolis_. Both ships are going
at full speed; and astern, just out of gun-shot, he sees the hulls of
three more ships. He understands it all now. The _Calabria_ had nearly
led them into a trap.

A red wigwag flag is waving on board the white cruiser: "Must reduce
speed in order to reach port." Coal is running short. The horribly
significant signal can hardly be realized. Will she fall a prey to the
enemy's cruisers after such a glorious victory? Foot by foot the hostile
ships draw nearer to the commerce-destroyer and her prize. In case they
are overtaken, the _Calabria_ is to go on and reach Hampton Roads in
safety. It is the only thing to do. Why sacrifice another ship
unnecessarily? For two days and nights the pursuit continues. Cape Henry
Light-house is sighted on the port bow. Just within gun-shot astern are
the three heavily armed cruisers, using their bow chasers with great
rapidity and precision on the fleeing ships. Large volumes of brown
smoke pour from the American cruiser's smoke-pipes. She is making her
last spurt for life. Bulkheads, furniture, and all combustible material
have been fed to the mighty furnaces.

Slowly they draw away from their pursuers. The light-house is close on
the port beam. The heavy guns there are directed against three dark
hulls to the eastward. They are the baffled enemy.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a story told of an Irishman who went out in the woods to shoot
a bear. It was winter-time, and the Irishman wanted a fur coat very
badly. When he finally sighted his bear he cried out, "Ah, there is my
fur overcoat!" The bear was very hungry, and when he saw the hunter, he
cried out, "Ah, there is my meal!" Well, the hunter fired his rifle and
the bear jumped behind the tree. Now, the amusing part of the story is,
that the hunter fired his rifle and didn't hit the bear; still he got
the fur of the bear for an overcoat because the bear ate the hunter.
Which of the two was the better satisfied is still in doubt.




PRACTICAL GOLF.

BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN.

(_In Five Papers._)

V.--STYLE AND FAULTS.


The question of style is a ghost that will not down. There are those who
say that form is the all-important point, and that if you get the swing
right all the rest will follow. And there are others who as stoutly
affirm that the only thing to do is to thump away at the ball, and trust
to nature and the laws of mechanics. Now it is certainly true that style
by itself will never drive a ball, and it may be laid down as an axiom
that whenever the mind is intent upon some point of how to strike rather
than upon the actual business of hitting, a miss more or less palpable
is sure to follow. But it is just as true that hands or feet or body may
be in such a position that a fair stroke is utterly impossible, and this
is surely not golf. Evidently truth lies between the two extremes.

There can be no question but that in all games the right way is easier
and productive of better results than the wrong way, and golf cannot
claim to be entirely independent of this general principle. Therefore it
is wise to begin our practice on the general lines laid down by the
wisdom of the ages, subject of course to the necessary modifications due
to age, sex, or previous conditions of servitude to tennis, baseball,
and other obsolete forms of amusement. Undoubtedly the most satisfactory
method is instruction from a competent coach. The beginner may think
that he is following faithfully the instructions given him in these
papers, and yet be unconsciously going wrong in a dozen ways,
imperceptible perhaps except to an expert eye. By all means seek the
counsel and instruction of a professional golfer or expert amateur, if
there be one within reach, for he can certainly save you many false
steps.

But supposing that there is no way of obtaining this practical
assistance, must we give up golf as unattainable and book knowledge as
untrustworthy? Not at all. Study and digest the instructions and hints
given in these papers as thoroughly as you can, and do your best to put
them into practice. There is only one thing to guard against, and that
is the tendency of exaggeration in any or all points. For instance, I
tell you that the left wrist must be kept taut, and this is indeed
necessary. But if you go to work with the idea that in a stiff wrist
lies the secret of all golf, you are turning a caution into a fetich,
and the result must be unsatisfactory. Even the italicized injunction at
the end of each article, about the necessity of keeping the eye upon the
ball, is not the whole of golf, and, important as it is, it must not
absorb the whole of your attention. All these things work together for
golf, and the moment that you exalt any one of them above the others you
destroy both your mental and your physical balance, and the result is no
game. Finally, let the forming of style be reserved for practice play.
Once engaged in a tournament (and, by-the-way, you should enter as many
regular competitions as possible), you must let your style take care of
itself, and devote the whole of your attention and energy to hitting the
ball clean. If you begin to think _how_ you are going to hit it, or how
_far_ you will drive it, or anything about it except the simple duty of
_hitting_ it, you will fail altogether. In practice let your aim be
style; in a match let it be the hitting of the ball.

The detection and cure of specific faults are difficult tasks on paper,
for very often different causes may produce what is apparently the same
effect, and it is obvious that the particular remedy depends upon the
specific disease.

[Illustration: BEGINNING OF FULL SWING--INCORRECT.]

For example, the ball has a great tendency to go off to the right of the
line instead of straight. Now the reason may be that the player is
putting a cut on the ball by drawing in his arms ("slicing" proper), or
he may have the face of the club turned back (wrong grip), or he may be
hitting off the heel of the club ("heeling") and at the same time
putting a "slice" on the ball. Evidently the same corrective will not
answer in every case. For "slicing" proper it will be well to attend to
the precept of "slow back," so that the body muscles may be used, and
the arms allowed to go freely out both in the up swing and in the
"follow on." Perhaps the right foot is too far advanced, and a change in
position (not distance) may encourage the loins and shoulders to get in
the work. Try drawing the right foot back in proportion to the amount of
"skid." Laying the face back is the result of a wrong grip. The left
hand may be too far under, and the right hand may be holding too
loosely. Look up the instructions for the proper grip. "Heeling," or
hitting off the heel, is due to poor aim. Stand up and hit more
carefully.

"Pulling" or "hooking," which sends the ball off to the left of the
proper line, is not so common a fault. Generally it is the result of
having the club face turned in, and this in turn comes of "pressing," or
trying to strike too hard and without the proper swing. Give up the idea
that you are hitting at a baseball, and guard against stooping forward.

[Illustration: END OF FULL SWING--INCORRECT.]

When a ball is "topped" or hit above the centre it is nearly always due
to carelessness, or overdue concentration on some point of style. If
your swing is too straight up and down, and you are drawing in your arms
across the line of fire, a "top" is pretty sure to follow. Let your arms
go out so that the curve of your swing may be longer, or rather flatter,
and try to look at the side of your ball, and not straight down upon it.
If you are looking persistently at the top of your ball, and your "eye
is in," the club head must perforce obey its instructions. It is not
only the ball but the side of the ball that you want to hit. Another
reason why players "top" is because they are afraid of the ground and of
breaking their clubs. Now, as a matter of fact, an honest "sclaff" or
scrape does no harm either to the club or to the flight of the ball,
except perhaps when the ground is frozen, and the game cannot properly
be played at all. Therefore get down to the ball always.

In the approach stroke "slicing" is the most troublesome fault to mend.
It is a great help in the shorter shots to keep the right arm rubbing
lightly against the body, for the sake of its support, and, indeed,
without some such aid steadiness is impossible. And keep the left wrist
taut.

[Illustration: INCORRECT "STANCE."]

When a player goes off in his putting, the case is pretty sure to be
mental, _i.e._, lack of patience and concentration. And this is
particularly true of the short holing-out puts of thirty inches or so.
Still, the sin may be one of commission: the player is playing with a
jerk, or he is looking at the hole instead of at the ball, or both of
his arms are hanging clear of his body, and consequently deprived of its
support, or, finally, his putter may be badly balanced. Once the cause
is discovered, the remedy is easy of application.

The beginner will do well to study carefully the illustrations that have
appeared in the preceding articles. The professional Willie Dunn, who
appears in most of them, is not only a fine player himself, but his form
is especially good, and a safe model upon which to pattern. The
incorrect positions illustrate faults in stand and swing into which the
beginner is particularly liable to fall, and a study of them may save
him from many misconceptions.

It is to be noted that no distinction has been made in these articles
between the girl's game and that of her brother's, and, indeed, none is
necessary. The same instructions apply, and virtually the same results
should follow. The girl may not be able to drive so far, but there is no
reason why she should not hold her own in approaching and putting, and a
sensible costume will obviously be of advantage.

Left-handed players must of course make the necessary correction in the
instructions, but if possible they should try to play in the ordinary
style. It is a curious fact that, unlike tennis, billiards, or baseball,
first-class golf is seldom acquired by left-handers.

Finally, don't think the game too easy, and so play carelessly, and, on
the other hand, don't get discouraged and give it up as too difficult.
In the words of an old-time hero of the green, "It's dogged as does it."




CATCHING SHAD FOR MARKET.

BY J. PARMLY PARET.


Hooks and lines are about as useless in shad-fishing as nets would be if
eels were wanted. Not one of those long rows of shad you see in the
markets was caught with a hook. They were all foolish enough to swim
straight into nets spread out to trap them, and they hadn't sense enough
to swim out again. So when you see Mr. Shaddie served up before you for
your breakfast, you may remember that it is because he has more bones
than brains that you have a chance to eat him. Mr. Shaddie inherits two
fatal features--his lack of brains and the breadth of his shoulders. One
gets him tangled up in fish-nets, and the other prevents his getting out
again. Were it not for this, shad would be as scarce in the market as
terrapin.

Just as soon as the last ice has left the rivers the shad-fishermen
begin to prepare for the fishing season. They must make the most of the
few weeks while it lasts, so they never fail to have all their nets
ready as soon as the shad begin to "run"--as they call it when the fish
commence to swim up the rivers.

There are two ways of catching shad--by small nets set on poles, and
with "seine" nets. Most of the fish we see in the markets are taken in
the small nets, as the poles are always used in the rivers where the
current runs too fast for the "seines." These poles are simply long
saplings, like telegraph poles, with their lower ends sharpened so as
to stick up in the muddy bottom. The fishermen pick out some part of the
river where their nets are not likely to be torn and broken up by
passing boats, and then drive down their poles in long rows.

[Illustration: DRIVING A STAKE.]

These poles are generally "planted" in water forty or fifty feet deep,
so it is not easy to drive them into the bottom so far under the water.
Pontoon boats, built by joining two scows or row-boats together, are
anchored at the place selected for the row, and the sharpened ends of
the long saplings are pushed into the ground. A crossbar is fastened to
one of the poles, high out of water, and the fishermen jump up and down
on this until the sapling is driven down firmly into the mud. There are
anywhere from twenty to forty of these poles in a row, and they are
placed about thirty feet from each other.

At the first sign of the fish the nets are set out on these poles. These
shad-nets are like enormous fly-traps, open at one end. The meshes are
large enough to let the shad put their foolish heads in the nooses, but
not big enough to let their shoulders through. The top and bottom of
each net are fastened to two long ropes, and the ends of these ropes are
tied to wooden rings like barrel hoops, slid over the poles, and sunk
down under the surface of the water by weights. So the open end of each
net is stretched between two poles, and the meshes belly out with the
swift current like a big bag. All along the row these nets are fixed by
the fishermen soon after the tide has turned, and then they go ashore to
wait for the next tide.

[Illustration: DRAGGING THE NETS.]

Along comes Mr. Stupid Shaddie, swimming rapidly with the current.
Suddenly he runs against the net, and before he knows what has happened
his head is thrust through one of the openings in its meshes. Mr.
Shaddie foolishly tries to push through the barrier, and soon finds his
gills tangled up with the thin cords that hold him. He has not sense
enough to turn around when he first finds himself in the net and swim
out again the way he came in. The door is still open, but he hates to
swim against the tide, so he goes on trying to push ahead until he is
hopelessly caught in the net, and the more he struggles the tighter he
is held. Mr. Shaddie's brothers, too, are equally stupid. They follow
his silly example, and soon there are a number of them struggling in
each net.

The fishermen in the mean time have waited patiently on shore. Just
before the tide turns again they row out to their nets and haul them up.
If they waited too long, Mr. Shaddie and his foolish friends would get
out, for the turn of the tide would swing the net in the opposite
direction and soon release the struggling fish. The long fishing-boat is
manned by four men, and they row out to the nets. The boat is tied at
each end to one of the poles, and the "haul" begins. Long notched sticks
or boat-hooks are thrust down under the water beside the poles, and the
net-ropes pulled up to the surface.

[Illustration: THE FIRST CATCH OF THE SEASON.]

Slowly and cautiously the fishermen, two at each end, pull in the ropes
that hold the net. They soon reach the mouth of the bag, and pulling
this over the edge of the boat, they quickly haul up the rest of the
meshes; for it is then too late for any of the fish to get away. As the
net comes up to the surface, Mr. Shaddie and his companions seem too
stupid or too much dazed to struggle. When they are jerked out of the
water, however, and into the boat, they hop around excitedly for a few
minutes, but it is then too late to escape. The fishermen throw their
catch into the bottom of the boat, and cast the net back into the water.
Then they push along to the next poles, and repeat the same work with
the next net.

Down the long row they go, the boat's bottom gradually filling up with
the big shad. Sometimes a net will have only one or two in it, while
fifteen or twenty are occasionally caught in a single net when the
season is at its height. A good haul will often yield three hundred
shad, and the fishermen hurry ashore to pack them off to the markets.
But shad are not the only fish they get in the nets. Catfish are often
pulled up with shad, as well as many other varieties. Some of them are
taken ashore and cooked, and others are thrown back into the water.

Then, too, there are the "blackfish," as the fishermen jokingly call the
pieces of drift-wood that get tangled up in the meshes. Sometimes these
are so heavy as to tear open the nets, and then the shad escape with the
"blackfish." Careless captains of passing boats often tear them, too,
and occasionally pull down the poles in steering through the fishermen's
rows. Extra nets are always carried in the fishing-boats, and when a
torn one is found it is taken ashore to be mended, and a whole net is
put in its place.

The shad-fisherman's life is not an easy one. During the short season
when his trade is profitable he works both night and day. He must live
close by the water, and sleep only between the tides. When the boat
first comes in after hauling the nets, the men must take out their fish
and pack them for the market. Then there are the torn nets to be mended;
and when all this is finished, and the meals are cooked and eaten, the
fishermen may get a few hours' sleep, perhaps; but they never lie down
without first setting an alarm-clock for an hour before the tide turns
again. For, rain or shine, by night and by day, those nets must be
hauled up at every turn of the tide, and the tide turns every six hours.
"Time and tide wait for no man."




PARTS OF A FLOWER.


Whenever we study science we have some hard names to learn. One
advantage that scientific people have over others is that they know how
to apply precise names to things. A botanist, for example, does not
speak of flower leaves. He says _sepals_ if he means the outside green
leaves; _petals_, if the inside, . A complete flower has four
distinct parts or organs.

In early spring the big trees and little plants awake out of a long nap
and bestir themselves to grow. They have a good deal to do, and they set
to work very industriously. Ants and bees are not busier than plants in
spring. At first the awakened plant thinks only of forming fresh
branches and lovely expanding green leaves. But after a time it seems to
say to itself, "I must not forget to make seed, so that if I should die
in the autumn my race may not die with me, but live on and on."

The plant may not be going to die in autumn. It may be a _perennial_,
living year after year. But it always acts as if it might perish, and
provides against contingencies. Plants which live one year only are
called _annuals_.

In order to produce a flower, the branch stops growing in length. The
end becomes a _receptacle_. First, upon the receptacle comes a circle of
small green leaves, called a _calyx_; separately, _sepals_. Sometimes
the calyx is not cut up into sepals, but makes a little round vase,
notched or pointed, in which the rest of the flower is held. Inside the
calyx, and just a bit higher up, appear the  _petals_, the
beautiful and fragrant parts of a flower. It is the _corolla_. Like the
calyx, sometimes the corolla is a vase or cup, and it is a
_monopetalous_ corolla.

If you want to speak of both calyx and corolla in one word, you may say
_perianth_. _Floral envelopes_ mean the same thing. The purpose of these
parts of a flower is, mainly, to cover and protect the seed while
ripening. A second purpose, and probably the reason why they are so
prettily  and sweetly fragrant, is to attract insects. This we
will talk about later. But we shall smell of a rose and admire it just
as much, as if it were made for our special enjoyment. All the same, if
the plant did not protect its seed, and invite insects to crawl into its
tubes, I fear all flowers would be like the lizardtail to secure which I
once nearly fell into the water. I had to cross an old rotten mill-dam,
over and through which water was trickling, step on slippery stones,
catch hold of a tree with one hand, and reach away down with the other.
One foot got wet, but that was a trifle. I plucked my lizardtail, and
have it now in my herbarium. It has no calyx and corolla, only the two
organs essential to making seed, called _stamens_ and _pistils_.

Next to the petals, and slightly higher, the stamens stand like little
soldiers with caps on, in a circle, or two or more circles. The stem is
called _filament_, a word meaning thread-like. The cap is an _anther_,
containing in one or two pockets a fine yellow or brown dust--the
_pollen_. You may get pollen on your nose if you smell of a lily; for
when the anther-pockets split open, the pollen lies around loose, and
gets on anything that touches it. Bees collect it in pouches on their
legs, and make bread of it for their winter use.




AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.

BY MARION HARLAND.

CHAPTER X.


Felicia Grigsby sat alone by the fire in her room on the afternoon of
December 24. A book was open upon her lap, but she was not reading. Her
hands were thin and white; her gray eyes were unnaturally large and dark
in a face that had wasted until it looked like an elf's. She had lain in
bed for six weeks, and was still so weak that her father had carried her
up and down stairs to her meals.

He had been very kind to her throughout her illness, but never tender,
and he was always grave nowadays. Flea was thinking of these and other
puzzling things this afternoon. While she thought, two tears arose and
enlarged in her eyes, until their weight carried them over the lower
lids, and they plashed down upon the book. The first snow-storm of the
season was driving at a sharp slant past the windows; the wind cried in
the chimney in a low-spirited, feeble-minded way; the fire kept up
heart, and spat snappishly as stray hailstones and snowflakes flew down
the throat of the chimney.

Flea kicked one foot out of the blanket shawl laid over her lap, and
moaned fretfully: "I don't care for anything or anybody, and nobody
cares whether I live or die!"

The door opened and her father came in. He looked unusually grave even
for him. He laid more logs on the fire, and stirred the coals below the
blazing fore-stick. "Is it too hot for you?" he asked, as the fire
leaped up with a greedy roar.

"A little," Flea said, shielding her eyes with her hand.

Her father took hold of her rocking-chair with one hand, the cricket on
which her feet rested with the other, and lifted her away from the
flaring flames. Then he rearranged the covering over her knees and feet.
It was a checked blanket shawl, red and green, that belonged to Mrs.
Grigsby. It was always brought out when an invalid was able to sit up,
or not quite ill enough to be put to bed. In Flea's mind it was joined
with the remembered taste of jalap, Epsom-salts, castor oil, and tansy
tea. The checks were just two inches square. She had measured them a
hundred times. Her mother used to give her medicine; her father read
aloud to her when she had the measles, and chills and fever after the
measles.

She got hold of his hand and laid her face against it with a sob that
seemed to bring her heart up with it.

"Father! you haven't called me 'lassie' all the time I've been sick.
Don't you love me any more?"

He let her keep his hand, but he did not press hers. He stood
bolt-upright, his eyes upon the driving snow; his tone was constrained:
"A father never stops loving his children, my daughter, let them do what
they may."

Flea twisted around to get a good view of his face.

"Have I done anything to displease you, father? Maybe 'twas some silly
thing I said when I was out of my head. Mother says I talked dreadfully
sometimes. You know I didn't mean it. Won't you forgive it, and let me
be your own lassie again?"

She was crying fast, clinging to his hand and covering it with kisses.
He drew it away gently, and put his thumb and finger into the pocket of
his waistcoat, bringing out with them a paper, creased and worn by much
handling.

"Look at that!" he said, in a tone that arrested her tears.

[Illustration: FLEA UNFOLDED IT AND GAVE A CRY OF SURPRISE.]

Flea unfolded it, and gave a cry of surprise.

"My report! Where did it come from?"

"You ought to know."

"But I don't! We looked for it all the way to school that last day. I
thought likely that I had dropped it on the step of the old cabin--the
haunted house, you know. I sat down there the day before to look at the
report, and staid there ever so long. When I saw what was in it I just
_hated_ to bring it home. I didn't think how late it was, until Mrs.
Fogg--the old Mrs. Fogg--came round the corner of the house and scared
me. I scared her too"--laughing nervously at the recollection; "and
although I was sure that I had put the paper back into my geography, it
wasn't there when I got home. We hunted all about the door-step--Dee and
I--next morning, but couldn't find it. We supposed the wind must have
blown it away, if I dropped it there."

Her father drew up a chair and sat down beside her, a little back of
her, so she could not study his face. He tried to speak carelessly.

"What was Mrs. Fogg doing there at that time of day?"

"I don't know, I am sure. She is a funny old woman, always turning up
just where you wouldn't expect to see her."

"Did she go into the house?"

"Why, no, sir. It's nailed up, I think--windows and doors too. She said
that she mistook me for a ghost--h'ant,' she called it. Father!"

She had his hand again, and again raised it to her cheek. Her voice was
tremulous.

"Well?" watching her out of the corners of his eyes.

"I did something wrong and foolish that day. I told her once that I'd
ask Major Duncombe to let her grandchildren go to school. I was sorry
for the little fellows. I told her that day that she'd better send them
to the Old Harry than to Mr. Tayloe. You see, I was as mad as fire about
my report."

"And then?"

"I ran home, and left her there sitting on the step."

"Did you ever see her again?"

She hesitated visibly; the color came and went in the thin sensitive
face. She dropped her voice:

"She came to the spring next day. Mr. Tayloe sent me for a bucket of
water--after school, you know. He said you did help me with that awful
sum, and made me stay in and do it all over again. I never felt so angry
before. I wished that I could kill him. And Mrs. Fogg began palavering,
and I tried to get away from her. She would help me up the hill with the
bucket, and I wasn't decently polite to her. When I got into the
school-house, there was my slate on the bench where Mr. Tayloe had put
it while I was gone, and he had rubbed out the sum I had done. Then--I
think it was like being possessed of a devil, for my head went round and
round, and I got hot all over. For there he sat, with that horrid smile
on his face, as if he were making fun of me, when I had done my very
best, and been disgraced for nothing at all. I jumped up and threw the
bucket on him, and ran away as fast as I could. That's all. Oh, father,
please don't let us talk any more about that horrible day!" Her voice
arose into a piteous cry.

"No, lassie, never again!"

He gathered her into his arms, and held her there as he had in that
wonderful ride through the woods the night he found her asleep in the
school-house, and she sobbed herself calm upon the heart where there was
always love for his children, and where she knew at last the warmest
place was for her.

When he appeared belowstairs he found his sister in the chamber alone,
but for the sleeping baby whom she had offered to look after, while the
other children in a gale of spirits superintended and hindered the
frying of the doughnuts.

"Does that amuse you, David?" asked Mis. McLaren, smiling at the pains
he took to tear a scrap of white paper into bits, all exactly the same
size, and to throw them one by one into the fire. Each was seized by the
hot draught and whirled up the chimney.

"It pleases me--mightily!" he rejoined, his face as sunny as hers. "I am
disposing of the last objection I had to putting my bit lassie into your
hands. I can trust her the world over now."

He sat down by his sister, stretching his long legs in front of him, and
locking his hands at the back of his head, with the air of one who has
shaken off a burden.

"I've had a long talk with the bairnie, Jean. I'm willing to trust her
away from me. You'll do better for her than I can."

"It will be a trial to your mother and myself to let you go," he said to
Flea on Christmas day, in telling her of Aunt Jean's wish to take her
and Dee home with her. "We will bear it for the sake of the good you'll
get."

What the trial was to himself nobody comprehended. All through the quiet
winter that shut down upon the river-lands early in January the most
momentous events to the father's heart were the weekly arrival of the
letters from his daughter. They were long and, to him, wonderful. He was
kept in touch with her home life, her school, her reading, her
sight-seeing, her growth in knowledge and her burning thirst for more
knowledge. She sent him books now and then; his sister provided him with
two weekly papers and a monthly magazine, but the short days and long
evenings wore away tediously.

The months seemed like as many years in looking back upon them on a
certain June morning, when he and Flea set out for a ride on horseback.
She had been at home but eighteen hours, and he had still to persuade
himself from time to time that he was not dreaming.

He looked her over pridefully as they rode off from the house.

"You are more like yourself this morning, lassie. Last night you were
paler and quieter than seemed just natural. I suppose you were tired
after the journey."

Flea blushed and averted her face. "I feel beautifully rested out
to-day," she said. Honest as ever, she could not say more without
revealing what would have pained his loyal heart.

I have made no secret of her faults, and I do not excuse what her father
was never allowed to guess. Her homecoming had been a dismay as well as
a disappointment to her. Nothing had come to pass as she had expected
and planned, except the look on her father's face when he had espied her
on the deck of the boat, waving her hand to him on the wharf, and the
long, silent hug she received as she sprang into his arms. She had never
heard the word "disillusion," or she would have known better what the
next few hours meant. Mr. Grigsby had come to the landing in a
blue-bodied "carryall." A plank laid across the front served him for a
seat. Two splint-bottomed chairs were set for the children, leaving room
behind them for their trunks. It was not heroineic, but it was natural
that, seeing her late fellow-passengers eying the equipage from the
boat, Flea grew hot with embarrassment, and wished that her father had
thought of borrowing a better-looking vehicle from Greenfield.

The road over which they jolted was rutty and straggling, the fences
ungainly. Nothing was trimmed and well-kept to eyes used, for five
months, to spick-and-span Philadelphia. Her own home was sadly unlike
her recollection of it. It had been newly whitewashed in honor of her
coming, but she had forgotten that there never were shutters at the
windows. They stared at her like eyes without lids and lashes. The
calico half-curtains were "poor-white-folksy," the furniture was scanty
and common. Her mother wore a purple calico. She was "partial to purple
calico"; it kept its color, did not show dirt, and looked so clean when
it was clean. She did not bethink herself, or she had never known, that
purple is, of all colors, most trying to women of no particular
complexion. Her hair was pulled back tightly from her temples, and done
at the back of her head in a knot that would not come undone of itself
in a week. On her head was a cap of rusty black cotton lace. Bea had
bedecked her fair self in a light blue lawn, short-sleeved, and low upon
the shoulders. A double string of wax beads was about her neck, and a
single string upon each wrist. Her yellow hair was braided and tucked
up. Bea was fifteen, and quite the young lady now. About her head was a
narrow band of black velvet, fastened above her forehead with a
breast-pin containing a green glass stone. Bea thought it was an
emerald. Flea knew that it was not, yet felt horribly ashamed that she
could notice all these things and that they dampened her spirits.

They had a "big supper," to which Dee's boyish appetite did abundant
justice. Flea berated and despised herself for seeing that the
coffee-pot was tin and was the boiler in which the coffee had been made,
and that the handles of the two-tined forks were of bone; that her
mother poured her coffee into her saucer to cool before drinking it,
and that everything--fried chicken, ham, fish, preserves, cake,
pudding, pie, frozen custard, and waffles--was put on the table at once.

It was unkind, ungrateful, undaughterly, and every other "un" she could
think of, to let such trifles destroy the comfort of the first evening
at home.

Her pillow was moistened with remorseful tears, and the more she hated
herself for such meanness, fickleness, and ingratitude, the more
plentiful was the flow of briny drops.

Things were more tolerable in the morning. With the elasticity of youth
she adjusted ideas and feelings to suit her circumstances, or, as she
put it to herself, she "came to her senses." She donned the neat habit
her Aunt Jean had ordered for her, and tripped down stairs when the
horses were ready, radiant with pleasurable anticipation. The habit
found little favor in the sight of her mother and sister. They called
the gray linen braided with black "Quakerish." To her father's eyes she
looked the little lady from crown to toe.

The clover-fields were aflush with bobbing blooms, and a thousand bees
were swinging and humming above these; the hay was ripe for cutting; the
corn-fields shook glossy lances in the face of the sun; in the woods
every bird that could sing was swelling his throat and heart with music;
hares scampered fearlessly in the open road under the horses' feet; and
striped ground-squirrels raced on the top rails of the fences for a mile
at a time, just ahead of the riders.

"I must have been tired last night," repeated Flea, filling her lungs
with the scented air. "I didn't feel a bit like myself. I am all right
again. How dear and beautiful everything is to-day! There's nothing like
the country, after all, especially the country in Old Virginia."

With that her tongue was loosened, and she opened to her indulgent
confidante her hopes, aspirations, and plans. Aunt Jean was as gentle
and tender as a mother to her; her teachers were wisdom and goodness
personified; she was doing well in all her classes, and had taken two
prizes on Examination day, the first for composition, the second for
history.

"It's like a fairy-tale," she prattled on, happily. "When I was young
and foolish I used to dream of such things as are coming to pass every
day, and I take them as a matter of course, until I stop to think how
wonderful and nice it all is. I often call Aunt Jean my fairy
godmother.'"

In return, her father talked of his hope of being his own master and a
land-owner by the time her school days should be over, hopes he had
shared with no one else, he said, not even her mother, who might be
disappointed if they came to nothing. "My canny little lassie can always
be trusted," he said, with fondness.

Happy, honored little Flea! Riding close beside him, his hand on the
neck of her horse, her eyes, moist and beaming, upturned to his, she
would not have exchanged places with a princess of the blood. The
weakness and false pride of yesterday were recalled only to brighten by
contrast the joys of to-day.

As the day neared noon the bird-music ceased, and the stir of green
leaves in the weak wind did not rise above the thud of hoofs upon the
dead leaves that had fallen and lain on the bridle-road for fifty
winters. The crash of a falling tree, that might have been a mile away,
boomed and echoed like the report of a cannon, and was a long time in
dying upon the distant hills. From the virgin forest, where oaks and
hickories locked arms above their heads, they emerged upon a swampy spot
through which a fire had swept in April, leaving a deserted track behind
it. Ferns and wild flowers were springing up as though eager to hide the
blackened ruins.

"The Major is having this swamp cleared," remarked Mr. Grigsby. "The men
are about other work to-day, but they have been cutting in here all the
week."

Rounding an evergreen thicket, they saw a horse harnessed to a low gig,
which the riders recognized at once. The carriage was empty, and the
gray mare was tethered to the stump of a sapling. She neighed long and
wistfully at sight of Mr. Grigsby. He patted her in passing.

"The Major cannot be far off," he said. "He is looking to see what we
have been doing, I suppose. I am glad to see him show interest in
plantation work once more. He never opens his lips to me on the subject,
of course, but there is something heavy on his mind. The gossips say
that he is bitterly opposed to Miss Emily's marrying Mr. Tayloe."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




RICK DALE.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XXVII.

BONNY COMMANDS THE SITUATION.


Our lads had barely time to do up the tents and blankets they had used
for bedding into compact bundles before M. Filbert arrived, with his
servant François, and a carriage full of packages, including a bundle of
iron-shod alpenstocks. He was clad in what appeared to Bonny and the
idlers gathered about the station a very curious costume, though to
Alaric, who had often seen its like in Switzerland, it did not seem at
all out of the way. It consisted of a coat and knee-breeches of dark
green velveteen, a waistcoat of scarlet cloth, stout yarn stockings
patterned in green and scarlet and folded over at the knees, the
heaviest of laced walking-boots with hobnailed soles, and a soft
Tyrolese hat, in which was stuck a jaunty cock's feather.

He was full of excited bustle, and the moment he caught sight of Alaric,
began to shower questions and directions upon him with bewildering
rapidity. At length, thanks to Alaric's clear head and Bonny's practical
common-sense, confusion was reduced to order, and everything was got on
board the train that was to carry the expedition to Yelm Prairie--a
station about twenty miles south of Tacoma, from which the real start
was to be made.

The arrival at Yelm Prairie produced an excitement equal to that of a
circus, and our friends had hardly alighted from the train before they
were surrounded by a clamorous throng of would-be guides, packers,
teamsters, owners of saddle-animals or pack-ponies, and a score of
others, who were loud in declaring that without their services the
expedition would surely come to grief.

In vain did the bewildered Frenchman storm and rave, and stamp his feet
and gesticulate. Not one word that he said could be understood by the
crowd, who, in their efforts to attract his attention, only shouted the
louder and pressed about him more closely. Finally the poor man, turning
to Alaric and saying, "Do what you will. Everything I leave to you,"
clapped his hands to his ears, broke through the uproarious throng, and
started on a run for the open prairie.

"He leaves everything to us," said Alaric, who was almost as bewildered
by the clamor and novelty of the situation as was M. Filbert himself.

"Good enough!" cried Bonny. "Now we will be able to do something. I take
it that on this cruise you are first mate and I am second. So if you'll
just give the word to go ahead, I'll settle the business in a hurry."

"I only wish you would," returned Alaric, "for it looks as though we
were going to be mobbed."

Armed with this authority, Bonny sprang on a packing-case that lifted
him well above his surroundings, and shouted, "Fellow-citizens!"

Instantly there came a hush of curious expectancy.

"I reckon all you men are looking for a job?"

"That's about the size of it," answered several voices.

"Very well; I'll give you one that'll prove just about the biggest
contract ever let out in Yelm Prairie. It is to shut your mouths and
keep quiet."

Here the speaker was greeted by angry murmurs and cries of "None of yer
chaff, yung feller!" "What are you giving us?" and the like.

Nothing daunted, Bonny continued: "I'm not fooling. I'm in dead earnest.
What we are after is quiet, and the Prince out there, whom you have
scared away with your racket, is so bound to have it that he's willing
to pay handsomely for it. He's got the money, too, and don't you forget
it. He wants to hire several guides and packers, also a lot of
saddle-horses and ponies, but a noisy, loud-talking chap he can't abide,
and won't have round. He has left the whole business to my partner here
and me to settle, seeing that we are his interpreters, and we are going
to do it the way he pays us to do it and wants it done. So,
according to the rule we've laid down in all our travellings and
mountain-climbings up to date, the man who speaks last will be hired
first, and the fellow who makes the most noise won't be given any show
at all. Sabe? As an example, we want a team to take our dunnage to the
river, and I'm going to give the job to that fellow sitting in the
wagon, who hasn't so far spoken a word."

"Good reason why! He's deaf and dumb," shouted a voice.

"All the better," replied Bonny, in no wise abashed. "That's the kind we
want. There are two more chaps who haven't said anything that I've
heard, and I'm going to give them the job of pitching camp for us. I
mean those two Siwash at the end of the platform."

"They are quiet because they can't speak any English," remonstrated some
of those who stood near by.

"We don't mind that, though we are French," replied Bonny, cheerfully.
"You see, the Prince looked out for such things when he engaged us
interpreters, and now we are ready to talk to every man in his own
language, including Chinook and United States. Now the only other thing
I've got to say is that we won't be ready to consider any further
business proposals until two o'clock this afternoon, and anybody coming
to our camp before that time will lose his chance. After that we shall
be glad to see you all, and the fellows that make the least talk will
stand the best show of getting a job."

The effect of this bold proposition was surprising. Instead of exciting
wrath and causing hostile demonstrations, as Alaric feared, its quieting
influence was magical. Times were hard in Yelm Prairie, and a well-paid
trip up the mountain, or the chance to obtain a dollar a day for the
hire of a pony, was not to be despised.

So Bonny was allowed to engage the deaf-and-dumb teamster by signs, and
the two Indians by a few words of Chinook, without hinderance. All these
worked with such intelligence and expedition that within an hour one of
the neatest camps ever seen in that section was ready for occupancy
beside the white waters of the glacier-fed Nisqually.

When M. Filbert, who spied it from afar, came in soon afterwards, with
hands and pockets full of floral specimens, he found a comfortably
arranged tent and a bountiful camp dinner awaiting him. At sight of
these things his peace of mind was fully restored, and he congratulated
himself on having secured such skilful interpreters of both his words
and wishes as the lads through whom they had been accomplished.

Promptly at the hour named by Bonny a motley but orderly throng of men,
mules, and ponies presented themselves at the camp, and the whole
afternoon was spent in making a selection of animals and testing the
skill of packers. Both Alaric and Bonny were inexperienced riders, but
neither of them hesitated when invited to mount and try the steeds
offered for their use. A moment later Bonny was sprawling on the ground,
with his pony gazing at him derisively, while Alaric was flying over the
prairie at a speed that quickly carried him out of sight. It was nearly
an hour before he returned, dishevelled and flushed with excitement, but
triumphant, and with his pony cured of his desire for bolting, at least
for a time.

By nightfall the selections and engagements had been made, and the
expedition was strengthened by the addition of two white men to act as
packers, two Indians who were to serve as guides and hunters, five
saddle-ponies, and as many pack-animals.

That night our lads slept under canvas for the first time, and as they
lay on their blankets discussing the novelty of the situation, Bonny
said:

"I tell you what, Rick, this mountain-climbing is a more serious
business than some folks think. When you first told me what our job was
to be I had a sort of an idea that we could get to the top of old
Rainier easy enough in one day and come back the next. So I couldn't
imagine why Mr. Bear should want to engage us by the month. Now, though,
it begins to look as though we were in for something of a cruise."

"I should say so," laughed Alaric, who had learned a great deal about
mountain-climbing in Switzerland. "It would probably take the best part
of a week to go from here straight to the summit and back again. But we
shall be gone much longer than that, for we are to make a camp somewhere
near the snow-line, and spend a fortnight or so up there collecting
flowers and things."

"Flowers?" said Bonny, inquiringly.

"Yes. M. Filbert is a botanist, you know, and makes a specialty of
mountain flora. But I say, Bonny, what makes you call him 'Mr. Bear'?"

"Because I thought that was his name. I know you call him 'Phil Bear,'
but I never was one to become familiar with a Cap'n on short
acquaintance."

"Ho! ho!" laughed Alaric; "that's a good one. Why, Bonny, Filbert is his
surname. F-i-l-b-e-r-t--the same as the nut, you know, only the French
pronounce things differently from what we do."

"I should say they did if that's a specimen, and I'm glad I'm not
expected to talk in any such language. Plain Chinook and every-day North
American are good enough for me. I suppose he would say 'Rainy' for
Rainier?"

"Something very like it. I see you are catching the accent. We'll make a
Frenchman of you yet before this trip is ended."

"Humph!" ejaculated Bonny. "Not if I know it, you won't."

Sunrise of the following morning found the horsemen of the expedition
galloping over the brown sward of the park-like prairie toward the
forest that for hundreds of miles covers the whole western <DW72> of the
Cascade Range like a vast green blanket. The road soon entered the
timber and began a gradual ascent, winding among the trunks of stately
firs and gigantic cedars that often shot upward for more than one
hundred feet before a branch broke their columnlike regularity.

By noon they were at Indian Henry's, twenty miles on their way, and at
the end of the wagon-road. That night camp was pitched in the dense
timber, and our lads had their first taste of life in the forest. How
snugly they were walled in by those close-crowding tree-trunks, and how
they revelled in the roaring camp-fire, with its leaping flames, showers
of dancing sparks, and perfume of burning cedar! What a delight it was
to lie on their blankets just within its circle of light and warmth,
listening to its crisp cracklings! Mingled with these was the cheery
voice of a tumbling stream that came from the blackness beyond, and the
soft murmurings of night winds among the branches far above them.

Another day's journey through the same grand forest, only broken by the
verdant length of Succotash Valley, and by the rocky beds of many
streams, brought them to Longmire's Springs and the log cabins of the
hardy settler who had given them his name. At this point, though they
had been steadily ascending ever since leaving Yelm Prairie, they were
still less than three thousand feet above the sea, and the real work of
climbing was not yet begun. After an evening spent in listening to
Longmire's thrilling descriptions of the difficulties and dangers
awaiting them, Bonny admitted to Alaric that he had never before
entertained even a small idea of what a mountain really was.


CHAPTER XXVIII.

ON THE EDGE OF PARADISE VALLEY.

From the springs a four-mile scramble through the woods and up the rocky
beds of ancient waterways brought the party to a place where the
Nisqually River must be crossed. Here a single giant tree had been
felled so as to span the torrent, and its upper surface roughly hewn to
a level. A short distance above the rude bridge rose the frowning front
of a glacier. Although its ice was mud-stained and honeycombed by
countless rivulets that ponied from its upper surface in tiny cascades,
it still formed an inspiring spectacle, and one that filled Bonny with
wondering admiration, for it was his first glacier.

From an arched ice cavern at its base poured the milk-white river, with
a hollow roaring, and such force that fair-sized bowlders were swept
down its channel as though they were so many sticks of wood. The whole
scene was of such fascinating interest that it very nearly brought poor
Bonny to grief.

[Illustration: BONNY WAS JERKED VIOLENTLY BACKWARD.]

He had dismounted, and was preparing to follow M. Filbert and Alaric,
who had already led their ponies in safety across the narrow bridge.
These animals had crossed so readily that he supposed his would do the
same, and, as he stepped out on the great log, was paying far more
attention to the glacier than to it. Suddenly he was jerked violently
backward, pitched headlong down the bank, and barely saved himself from
the icy torrent by clutching at a friendly bush. At the same moment his
pony, who had no confidence in mountain bridges, dashed into the roaring
stream, was instantly swept from his footing, rolled over and over, and
borne struggling away toward what seemed certain destruction. By the
good fortune that attends all fools, animals as well as human, he
managed to escape both drowning and broken bones, and finally regained
his feet on a friendly reef that projected into the river a quarter of a
mile below the bridge. There he stood trembling, bruised, and dripping
when Bonny and one of the Indians, who had hastened down the bank to
discover his fate, found him a few minutes later. From that time forth
he was the meekest and most docile pony imaginable, suffering himself
not only to be led over the log bridge without remonstrance, but
wherever else his young master desired.

High above this lovely valley, and close to the line where snow and
timber met, M. Filbert called a halt, and ordered the permanent camp to
be pitched. Although this point was less than half-way to the top of the
mountain, or only 6500 feet above sea-level, the ponies could climb no
higher, and, after being unladen, were sent back in charge of the
packers into Paradise Valley, where they might fatten on its juicy
grasses until needed for the return trip.

From here, then, the ragged <DW72> of ice, snow, and rock that stretched
indefinitely upward toward the far-away shining summit must be traversed
on foot or not at all. But this was not to be done now nor for days to
come, during which the camp just pitched was to be the base of a
widespread series of explorations. A few straggling hemlocks, so bent by
the ice-laden winds that swept down the mountain-side in winter that
they looked like decrepit old men, furnished shelter, fuel, and bedding.

"It beats the sloop away out of sight," remarked Bonny.

"Or Skookum John's," said Alaric.

"Yes, or being chased and starved."

"The best of it all is that up here I seem to amount to something,"
added Alaric.

This was, after all, the true secret of our lads' content; for, in spite
of its novelty, the present situation would quickly have grown wearisome
had they not been constantly and happily occupied. Every day that the
weather would permit they tramped from early morning until dark over
snow-fields and glaciers, sealed cliffs, scrambled down into valleylike
meadows set like green jewels in the grim mountain-side, threaded their
way amid the fantastic forms of stunted forests, toiled slowly up lofty
heights, or slid with the speed of toboggans down gleaming <DW72>s. Each
day they gained in agility and daring, and each night they returned to
that cheery camp with its light, warmth, and abounding comforts, so
healthfully tired and so ravenously hungry that it is no wonder they
grew to look upon it as a home and a very pleasant one.

Both lads developed specialties in which they became expert. Alaric's
was photography, an art that he had acquired in France, and had
practised at intervals for more than a year. As soon as M. Filbert
discovered this knowledge on the part of his young interpreter, he
entrusted him with the camera, and never had the lad devoted himself to
anything with such enthusiasm, as he now did to the capturing of views.
His greatest triumph came through hours of tedious and noiseless
creeping over a rough icefield that finally placed him within twenty
yards of a couple of mountain-goats.

Although the wind was blowing strongly from them to him, the timid
creatures were already alarmed, and were sniffing the air suspiciously,
when a click of the camera's shutter sent them off like a flash. But the
shot had been successful, as was shown by the development of a perfect
plate that evening. M. Filbert was jubilant over this feat, which he
said had never before been accomplished, and complimented the lad in
flattering terms upon the skilful patience that had led to it.

Bonny's specialty lay in the collecting of flowers, to which he had
devoted himself assiduously ever since learning that they were what the
little Frenchman most desired. Keen-eyed, nimble-footed, and tireless,
he discovered and secured many a rare specimen that but for him would
have been passed unnoticed.

Thus the leader of the expedition found reason to value the good
qualities of his young assistants more highly with each day, and was
already planning to have them accompany him on his entire American tour,
during which he proposed to ascend at least a dozen more mountains.
Bonny was jubilant over the prospect of such a trip, and was now as
eager to learn French, in order to qualify himself for it, as he had
formerly been scornful of the language.

With all this open-air life and splendid physical exercise the one-time
pale-faced and slender Alaric was broadening and developing beyond
belief. His cheeks were now a ruddy brown, his eyes were clear, his
muscles hard, and his step as springy as that of a mountain-goat. Above
everything else in his own estimation he was learning to swing an axe
with precision, and could now chop a log in two almost as neatly as
Bonny himself.

For all that they were so constantly and agreeably occupied, the boys
were possessed of a great and ever-increasing longing to stand on the
lofty but still distant summit, with the general aspect of which they
had become so familiar during their stay in the timber-line camp. Thus,
when one evening M. Filbert decided to make a start toward it on the
morrow, they hailed the announcement with joy. One of the Indians was to
accompany them as guide, while his fellow was to be left with François
to keep camp.

The greater part of the following morning was devoted to making
preparations for the climb and what was thought might prove a three
days' absence from camp. The hobnails of their walking-boots, worn
smooth by friction, were replaced by a fresh set. Alpenstocks were
tested until it was certain that each of those to be taken would bear
the weight of the heaviest of the party. Provisions were cooked and
packs laid out. Each was to carry a canvas-covered blanket sleeping-bag,
inside of which would be rolled provisions for three days, a tin plate,
and a cup. Each was also provided with a sheath-knife and a supply of
matches. Besides these things M. Filbert was to carry a barometer, a
thermometer, a compass, and a collecting-case. Alaric was entrusted with
the camera and two dozen plates. Bonny's extras were a hatchet and a
fifty-foot coil of stout rope; while the Indian was to carry an ice-axe,
and pack a burden of fire-wood.

It was nearly noon when, fortified by a hearty lunch, they left their
homelike camp, and facing resolutely upward, began a tedious climb over
the limitless expanse of snow that they struck within the first hundred
yards. The climb of that afternoon was hot, in spite of the snow that
crunched beneath their feet, tedious, and only mildly exciting, for all
the perils of the ascent were to come on the morrow. Shortly before the
sun sank into the sea of cloud that spread in fleecy undulations beneath
them, they reached the base of the Cleaver, a gigantic ridge that seemed
to bar their further progress. Here, on a small plat of nearly level
ground from which they dug away the snow, they made a fire over which to
boil water for a pot of tea, ate supper, and prepared to pass the night.
They were four thousand feet above timber-line, and two miles higher
than the waters of Puget Sound.

As soon as supper was over the entire party crawled into their
sleeping-bags for protection against the bitter cold of the night, and
for a while the two boys, nestling together, talked in low tones.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




SOLVING A GEOGRAPHICAL CONUNDRUM.

THE LONG-VEXED QUESTION OF THE MOBANGI-MAKUA RIVER.

BY CYRUS C. ADAMS.


If you were to select a bit of the earth's surface to illustrate the slow
and painful steps by which geographical knowledge often grows, you could
do no better than to point to the Mobangi-Makua River, the largest Congo
tributary. No other subordinate river in Africa has ever been the theme
of so much mistaken guess-work, or has cost the labor of so many
explorers. For many years this was the largest river in the world that
was in dispute. Even the name by which it was long known was a blunder.
When Schweinfurth asked its name, the natives answered, "Welle." But
Welle simply means "river," and is not the name of the stream.

If all African tribes were great travellers, as some of them are, and
were gifted, like the Eskimos, with keen geographical instinct, they
would save explorers no end of blunders, guess-work, and toil. But often
they do not know rivers, lakes, or mountains beyond their own frontiers,
and each tribe has its own names, or no names at all, for the
geographical aspects around them. When an explorer asked the name of a
great lake, the natives shouted, "Nyassa!" which means simply "lake":
and so we have the name Lake Nyassa on the maps to-day. Nearly every
tribe along the Mobangi-Makua has its own name for the river, which,
being disguised as the Kibali, the Makua, the Dua, the Mobangi, and so
on, was hard to recognize as one and the same great river under many
aliases.

Schweinfurth says it was a thrilling moment when first he stood upon the
bank of the "noble river, which rolled its deep dark flood majestically
to the west." At a glance he settled one important question. He had
heard of the river, and thought it might be a tributary of the Nile. But
on that spring day in 1870 he saw its flood drifting into the great
unknown to the west. One point was settled. It was not a Nile affluent;
and the explorer, listening to all the natives could tell him, studying
all our meagre information about water systems to the west, convinced
himself that he had discovered the upper part of the Shari River, which
pours into Lake Tchad, on the edge of the Sahara Desert. For years most
geographers agreed with him, and map-makers traced the supposed course
of Schweinfurth's Welle to the edge of the great northern desert.

But when Stanley floated down the Congo in 1877, he saw great rivers
entering it from the north. It occurred to him, and to the explorers who
followed him, that one of them was probably the lower course of
Schweinfurth's Welle. For years this and that river was talked about as
the possible outlet of the Welle.

Stanley thought it was very likely identical with the Aruwimi, and he
published his hypothesis in his book _The Congo_ in 1885. He had never
seen the mighty flood that the Mobangi pours into the Congo, hundreds of
miles below the Aruwimi confluence.

Nobody knew, until after Stanley's book was published, that one of the
greatest and most modest of explorers, the late Dr. Wilhelm Junker, had
already traced the Welle--or the Makua, as he called it--for hundreds of
miles, to a point far west of the Aruwimi, proving that it could not
possibly be that river. For nearly seven years (1879-86) this man of
science lived alone near the upper waters of the mysterious river,
studying Nature and Nature's children, eating the food his black friends
sold him, including fried ants and other relishes and dainties not known
in our cuisine, and wandering through the land with only a cane in his
hand, and a few black servants to carry his baggage. At the frontier of
a new district he always pitched his camp, sent his presents forward to
the chief, made his peaceful purpose known, and asked permission to go
on. In all these years he never fired a hostile shot; and late in 1882
he set out down the river to find if it really flowed to Lake Tchad.

But Junker's heart was heavy within him. How could he map the unknown
region he was entering? His scientific equipment was worthless. Some
instruments had been broken during mouths of incessant travel. Others
had been ruined by the humid climate. He had absolutely nothing except a
compass to aid in determining his positions. Destitute of scientific
outfit he determined to make up for it, as far as he could, by
scrupulous care, and the most minute exactitude he could attain in his
route survey.

[Illustration: JUNKER TRUDGED ALONG, COMPASS IN HAND.]

So Dr. Junker trudged along through the grass, that was often higher
than his head, compass in hand, counting every step. Every fifteen
minutes he stopped and jotted down in his note-book the distance and the
mean direction travelled in the preceding quarter of an hour. He noted
all the little streams, the names of villages, the hill features, and so
on; and at night he drew on his route map, with the greatest care, the
journey of the day, and all the data that may be recorded on a map.
Geographers still examine with great interest these neat and methodical
map sheets. But they did not know, till years after Junker had returned
home, that he had achieved, as we shall see, one of the most remarkable
geographical feats on record.

Junker kept up this trying routine through all the weeks of his long
journey. Compelled at last to turn back, when nearly four hundred miles
on his way, by news that the Mahdists might destroy all the collections
he had left behind, he computed the latitude and longitude of his
farthest point. All the facts for this computation were his note-book
records and the known position of his starting-point. When he returned
home, he and Dr. Hassenstein, a famous German cartographer, sat down and
laboriously dug through Dr. Junker's records again. The result was
almost the same that Junker himself had reached.

The time came when Lieutenant Le Marinel, ascending the great river from
the Congo, reached Dr. Junker's farthest. With his instruments he fixed
the geographical position of this point, and found that it was
practically just where Junker and Hassenstein said it was. Junker's
determination, made without instruments, at the end of a long journey,
was not more than a mile or two out of the way.

Did you ever hear of a steamboat losing its way and getting into the
wrong river by mistake? This actually happened on the Congo, and the
blunder hastened the day when the world was to know all about the
destination of the Makua River. One day, in 1885, Mr. George Grenfell
was steaming along on the _Peace_, and thought he was making excellent
progress up the Congo. But one thing perplexed him. He could not find
Libongo, on the Congo's right bank. He had been there before, and knew
where the town ought to be. He began to wonder if he was on the Congo,
after all. He discovered that he had passed the first parallel of north
latitude, and then he knew that he had ascended, for one hundred miles,
a mighty tributary that seemed as large as the Congo itself. It was the
Mobangi. Grenfell's mistake was not so absurd as it appears. The Mobangi
has a very wide channel, is thickly strewn with islands, like the Congo,
and its lower course, for many miles, runs nearly parallel with the
greater river. Its mouth had been discovered the year before, but
nothing was known of the river.

Grenfell had other work to do just then, and so he lost no time in
getting out of the Mobangi; but later in the same year he entered its
mouth again, determined to go wherever it led him. His little party on
the steamer were in great straits for food one day, and they could not
buy provisions. The Mobangi natives had decided that their strange
visitors were ghosts, and who ever heard of ghosts needing food? As
usual, Grenfell tried argument and persuasion instead of force.

"Look here," he said. "We are men like you. If we do not eat we cannot
live. We sleep as you do. We have the same number of fingers and toes
that you have. You never saw ghosts who were like you as we are."

It took a good deal of this sort of talk to convince the native mind,
but at last the explorer went on his way, with as much food as his boat
could carry, leaving friends behind.

[Illustration: THEY ASSAILED THE "PEACE" WITH FLIGHTS OF POISONED
ARROWS.]

Up the Mobangi steamed the _Peace_, over three hundred miles north of
the equator, and Grenfell had travelled four hundred miles on the river,
when rapids barred the way, and he turned back. It had been an exciting
trip, for thousands of natives lined the banks, convinced that the times
were out of joint indeed if these remarkable strangers with their
puffing smoke boat must needs be inflicted upon them. Near the most
northern point attained Grenfell saw houses built in the branches of
tall straight-stemmed trees. The houses were forty to fifty feet in the
air, and from them dangled rope-ladders reaching to the ground. A
strange and animated spectacle was witnessed when these aerial
structures came into view; for men, women, and children were clambering
up the rope-ladders as fast as their arms and legs could carry them, and
taking refuge in the houses. From these points of vantage they assailed
the _Peace_ with flights of poisoned arrows, which nobody on board
minded a whit, for the party were well protected by the arrow-proof wire
netting that shielded the deck. Savage fears were finally allayed, and
the refugees sought terra firma again. Everybody welcomed Grenfell as he
steamed down the river, and the only trouble was that he could not stay
long enough to satisfy the newly made friends, who had been his enemies
a little before.

Thus the mystery was gradually clearing up. Even before the news from
Grenfell reached Europe, the Belgian geographer Wauters declared that
Schweinfurth's Welle must be a Congo tributary, and the Mobangi its
lower course. What a shout of protest the French geographers raised!
They laughed at the idea, and said it was extremely absurd. The trouble
with them was that if Schweinfurth's river was in the Congo basin, it
could not belong wholly to France, and so they were determined that its
waters should not join the Congo if they could help it. They wanted
nearly every foot of the waterway to be traversed before they were
willing to surrender. But as soon as Grenfell's great discovery was
reported, all other theories melted into air, and Lake Tchad ceased to
figure as the outlet of the Makua.

But poor Dr. Junker did not know how grandly he had helped to solve the
problem. His letters had reached the outside world, but no letters from
home had come to him. Months after Grenfell's ascent of the Mobangi,
Junker reached the sea. "I still believe," he said, "that the Makua goes
to Lake Tchad." He was told of Grenfell's discovery, and he thought it
over for a while before he made reply. Then he simply said: "That
settles it. The Makua goes to the Congo."

But several hundred miles of unexplored river still stretched between
the points attained by Grenfell and Junker, and it was 1890 before this
gap was completely filled by the expeditions of Van Gèle and Le Marinel.
Time and again Van Gèle pulled his little steamer through the rapids
that had barred Grenfell's advance. One of them will always bear the
name of Elephant Rapid, because there the explorer killed an elephant,
whose flesh was smoked, and supplied food to forty black helpers for two
months. New vistas of Africa opened along the half-mile-wide river above
the rapids. Plantations of maize and bananas stretched for miles away.
Many villages dotted the hill-sides, posts of observation were seen high
up in the branches of lofty cottonwood-trees, and, strange to relate,
many women had black hair hanging down their backs in braids, some of
which were so very long that they were tied around the arms to keep them
from trailing on the ground. European anthropologists rubbed their eyes
and read again. But how many stories are spoiled by a little
investigation! It was discovered at last that all these tresses were
false, and of vegetable origin.

Most of the natives were friendly, and their fleets of thirty or forty
canoes, filled with food for sale, often surrounded the steamer; and so,
after twenty years of theory, guess-work, discussion, and exploration,
the great river was at last revealed, from the mountains near the Nile
that gave it birth to the place where it mingles with the Congo.




THE ARMENIAN RELIEF COMMITTEE OF

WASHINGTON SQUARE.

A Comedietta in One Act.

BY EDITH V. BRANDER MATTHEWS.


_Characters:_

  MISS SILVIA BROWN, _hostess_.
  MISS HARRIETT SPAULDING.
  MISS GRACE DUNLAP.
  MISS ROSE HALLAM.
  MISS PAULINE DAVENPORT.
  MISS CATHERINE CRUGER.

TIME.--_Present._

PLACE.--_Miss_ Silvia Brown'_s home, overlooking Washington Square._

SCENE.--_Parlor. Fireplace in flat centre. Door in right upper corner.
Low table to left of fireplace. Six chairs arranged in a semicircle in
centre of stage. At rise of curtain_ Silvia _is discovered seated in a
big arm-chair to left centre, busy reading._

_Silvia_ (_dropping book in her lap as the curtain rolls up_). Oh, dear!
I do wish those girls would come! I begin to feel nervous.
(_Fretfully._) I don't see what good we girls can do, anyhow. We can't
prevent those hideous old Turks from scratching the eyes out of the poor
Armenians. Oh, why did Miss Peabody suggest that we girls of the
graduating class of the Peabody School (_mimicking_) should form
ourselves into some sort of a society in order to keep up the pleasant
friendships begun at school? She might have known Catharine Cruger would
want us to undertake some outlandish thing or other. (_Sarcastically._)
Of course dear Catharine no sooner returned to town this fall than she
reminded us of Miss Peabody's parting injunction, and proposed we should
try to relieve the unfortunate Armenians. It will be so easy, so simple.
(_Angrily._) To think that I was idiot enough to offer to have the
meeting here! But I won't have anything to do with the matter, no noth--

_Rose_ (_entering door right upper corner_). Good-afternoon, dear. I
hope I am not late?

_Silvia_ (_shaking hands, but still somewhat ruffled_). Oh no, dear!
it's only three-quarters of an hour past the time.

_Rose_ (_serenely_). Oh, I am so glad I am the first, for I haven't had
time to look up where Armenia is, so do tell me, dear, before the girls
come (_taking off her veil_). I really meant to have been here earlier,
but as I passed Madame Jacquin's I saw such a love of a theatre hat I
simply couldn't resist going in to try it on.

_Silvia_ (_with interest_). What was it like?

_Rose_. A soft crown of gold-brown velvet, with the cutest little
net-work of gold beads, held on with little loops of blue--

_Harriet_ (_appearing in the doorway_). Oh, girls, I have hurried so,
and I can't stay but a few minutes, for I promised to meet mamma at Mrs.
Draper's in half an hour! It's a musical, you know, and I've simply got
to tell Kitty Draper all about the Leap-Year Ball.

_Grace_ (_entering hastily, and out of breath, addressing_ Harriet). I
saw you ahead of me and tried to catch up, but you walked like a
steam-engine. (_To_ Silvia.) Why, where are the rest?

_Silvia_. I don't know. Pauline promised to be here early, and she is an
hour late now.

_Pauline_ (_coming in as_ Silvia _utters the last words, laughingly_).
Now do have the grace to say "better late than never."

_Silvia_ (_smiling_). "Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves"
would be a more suitable proverb. But are we really all here? (_Looks
around._) No, Catharine is missing.

_Grace_ (_mischievously_). Absent would be a better word.

_Rose_. Well, do let's begin. I can't stay more than fifteen minutes. I
ought to be trying on my new mousseline de soie this minute. (_Becoming
enthusiastic._) Really, Madam Mosset has outdone herself. Why, she has
put the dearest, little folds of--

_Harriet_ (_interrupting, wearily_). What are we to do, anyway?

_All_. I don't know.

_Grace_ (_pulling out a letter from her pocket, and reading_). Catharine
says we are an Armenian Relief Committee. (_Helplessly._) What do we
have to do?

_All_ (_wailingly_). I don't know.

_Grace_. Let Silvia tell us; she's hostess.

_Silvia_ (_despairingly_). I haven't the faintest idea what we can do.
Catharine suggested this meeting, and she ought to be here to help us.

_Harriet_ (_gloomily_). If Catharine were here she would make us do just
as she pleases. (_With awe._) She has been studying parliamentary law.

_All_ (_much impressed_). No! Really?

_Grace_. Well, suppose we think hard for a few minutes, and then tell
our ideas. [_Silence._]

_Pauline_ (_suddenly_). Couldn't we-- No, that wouldn't do.

_Harriet_. Perhaps we might-- No, I'm afraid that wouldn't do, either.

_Rose_. Do they need clothes? We might send them a trunkful or two.

_Silvia_ (_doubtfully_). No, I don't believe they need clothes
particularly. (_Then quickly._) I've heard that they suffer horribly
from hunger.

_Harriet_. Splendid! Then we can send them some canned soups and potted
meats and--

_Pauline_ (_sarcastically_). And lobster salad and fried oysters. No,
girls; really, I think if we got our brothers to give us their old guns
and bought a few new ones it would be the best thing. My brother said
last evening they were unarmed, and couldn't defend themselves.

_Grace_ (_humming to the air of "If you want to know the time, ask a
policeman"_). Won't you come and have a Gatling-gun with me?

_Pauline_ (_ruffled_). Well, then, suggest something better yourself;
only my brother said--

_Harriet_ (_energetically_). I know one sure thing. I will have nothing
to do with any fair. I'll do almost anything else you girls want, but
after standing five hours steadily, and only selling four dollars' worth
of rubbish last year at the Golden Rule Fair, I made a solemn vow I
would scrub before doing such a thing again.

_Silvia_. I quite agree with you, my dear. Fairs are immoral. I've told
more lies at my last fair trying to get people to buy things they didn't
want than I ever expect to be guilty of again till--(_hesitating_)--till
the next one.

_Rose_ (_thoughtfully_). Fairs are tiresome, but a costume fair would be
lovely.

_Grace_ (_shaking her head_). No fairs for me. I spent six months for
the last one doing drawn-work on twelve doilies, and then Mrs. Miller
bought them at twenty-five cents apiece for handkerchiefs for her little
girl's doll!

_Pauline_ (_importantly_). Well, my brother says he thinks lotteries and
fairs are all on a par, for at the former you lose your dollars, and at
the latter you lose your sense.

_All_ (_groaning_). Oh, Pauline!

_Grace_. Well, at least we have settled what we won't do, so let's think
up something we can do. Come, Silvia, you suggest something.

_Silvia_. Why can't we give tableaux-vivants, and send the money we get
to our ambassador at Constantinople for distribution?

_Rose_. Lovely!

_Pauline_. Splendid!

_Harriet_. Oh, I can't!

_Grace_. Oh yes, let's!

_Harriet_ (_despairingly_). Oh, I'm so sorry! I wish I could join you
girls in this, but mamma has forbidden my taking part in tableaux.

_All_. Why?

_Harriet_. Because this summer at Newport Mrs. Miller got up some
tableaux in her barn for the benefit of ship-wrecked sailors, and the
next day the papers had a full account of it, and fancy pictures of
every one, and they represented me, in what looked like a night-gown,
posing airily for Maid Marian under a tree.

_Rose_. How shameful!

_Silvia_. Naturally we can't have that; but what can we--

_Catharine_ (_entering_). How do you do, girls? I must apologize for my
tardiness, Silvia, but I had to go shopping, and was delayed. (_Seating
herself._) Now what have you girls decided on doing?

_All_ (_wofully_). Nothing.

_Catharine_ (_springing up_). Do you mean to say you are going to do
nothing? Nothing, when thousands of unfortunate Armenians are being
massacred daily, and thousands still are homeless, hungry, and
destitute; when--

_Silvia_ (_exasperated_). We didn't say we weren't going to do anything:
we simply said we hadn't decided what to do.

  [_All try to explain at once._]

_Pauline_. My brother says they need arms--

_Harriet_. Silvia said tableaux; but I can't--

_Grace_. Perhaps if we simply got--

_Rose_. We might give a fancy dress b--

_Catharine_ (_putting her fingers in her ears_). Look here, girls; if we
all talk at once, we won't decide on anything. Now I've studied
Parliamentary law, and I know we ought to have a chairman and a
secretary. Suppose we nominate?

_All_. Oh yes; you be chairman!

_Catharine_. But you must vote. (_Rising._) All those in favor of Miss
Cruger serving us as chairman will please say aye.

_All_ (_half paralysed_). Aye!

_Catharine_. It is a unanimous vote, and Miss Cruger is elected. (_Goes
over to centre of stage and takes middle chair._) Will you please
nominate a secretary?

_Rose_. You be secretary, Harriet.

_Harriet_. No; you be it.

_Rose_. Well, let's have Pauline.

_Pauline_. I can't. I never should know what to do. My brother says--

_Catharine_ (_rapping on back of chair_). The meeting will please come
to order.

_Pauline_ (_with a gasp_). I--I only wanted to say--[_Collapses and
remains silent._]

_Catharine_ (_impatiently_). Well, are you going to nominate?

_All_ (_except_ Harriet). You be secretary, Harriet.

_Harriet_. I really don't want to be. I--

_Catharine_. Miss Spaulding has been nominated. All those in favor of
Miss Spaulding acting as secretary will please say aye.

_All_. Aye!

_Harriet_. But I don't know what to do.

_Catharine_. You're chosen to act. I'll tell you what to do. (_Turning
to the others._) The first business to come before this meeting is how
and in what way can we help the unfortunate Armenians?

_Rose_. I think it would be better--

_Pauline_. My brother says they can't--

_Catharine_. One at a time, please. Miss Hallam has the floor.

_Rose_ (_nettled_). I was only going to suggest--that is, I thought
perhaps it would be as well--(_weakly_)--but I am not at all sure--
[_Subsides._]

_Catharine_ (_severely_). Miss Davenport now has the floor.

_Pauline_ (_bravely_). Well, I simply wanted to say, if the girls
agreed, that as my brother says they need arms, it might be a good thing
for us to send some guns over; but (_beginning to falter_) I don't know
how we could reach the poor things 'way off in Armenia.

_Catharine_. Has any one any further remarks to make? (_Girls sit in
crushed silence._) Then I would like to suggest that we give a fair for
the benefit of the Armenians.

_Silvia_. I don't like fairs, and I don't believe the other girls do.

_Catharine_. Then why don't you rise to a question of consideration.
[Silvia, _nonplussed, remains silent_.]

_Pauline_. Fairs mean hard work, and don't pay; besides, we should have
to have it so soon.

_Catharine_. Kindly make your suggestions in the form of an amendment.

_Pauline_ (_not knowing how, and not liking to admit it, hastily_). Oh,
it's of no consequence.

_Rose_ (_animatedly_). The only fair I ever enjoyed was during the
Columbia celebrations, when we all dressed up as Spanish court ladies,
and--

_Catharine_. Please confine yourself to the question at issue.

_Harriet_ } (_timidly_). But we don't want a--

_Grace_   }

_Catharine_. Miss Spaulding has the floor.

_Harriet_ (_in a fright_). Oh no; you speak, Grace.

_Grace_. No, you speak; you began.

_Harriet_. Yes; but you can say it so much better.

_Catharine_. You are both out of order. Private differences of opinion
should be settled after the meeting. (_Silence._) Are there any further
remarks? (_Slight pause._) If not, I will add to the suggestion that we
have a fair, that we six originators act as patronesses, and each secure
the help of five of our friends. That we then engage Sherry's ballroom
for an afternoon, and give a tea. Useful things only to be sold, such as
lamp shades, sofa cushions, and all household necessities--dusters,
glass-towels, wash-rags, etc. The admission to be by invitation, and the
proceeds to be given to the Clara Barton Fund--

_Girls_ (_interrupting_). Hurrah!

_Catharine_ (_continuing, calmly_). All those in favor of accepting this
suggestion will please say aye.

_All_ (_meekly_). Aye!

CURTAIN.




[Illustration: From Chum to Chum.]

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

XVII.--FROM BOB TO JACK.

(_Continued from last week._)


     After you leave the Bois de Bologne you don't see much until you
     get to where the Palace of St. Cloud used to be, and even then you
     don't see much either, because there isn't much left to see. It's
     had hard luck St. Cloud has. It probably got more licking during
     the war with Prussia than any other town in France. Everybody took
     a whack at it. When the Germans weren't having fun with it the
     French would bombard it, until finally almost every house in it
     that hadn't already been shaken down, or bowled over with
     cannon-balls, was burned together with the Palace. It's a
     nice-looking old ruin though, and Jules says that on Sundays it
     fairly swarms with babies and lemonade stands. I'd sort of like to
     see it some Sunday, but Pop thinks Sunday is the best day to look
     at the churches.

     [Illustration]

     There's another interesting place you pass on the way out to
     Versailles and that is Sevres where they make bric-a-brac. They
     make great big vases there that weigh so little you feel as if you
     ought to put a brick inside 'em to make 'em stay down. Jules was
     stationed here during the war, and he says it was fine. He could
     see all the big fires, and all the skirmishes that took place, and
     everybody had a sort of a notion that sooner or later there'd be a
     big crash in the bric-a-brac shop and Jules is just a human being
     like the rest of us. He hated to have the bric-a-brac smashed but
     if it had to be smashed he wanted to be on hand to see it go.
     That's me all over again. If I had my choice between seeing a King
     or a President of the United States, and a bull in a china shop, I
     think I'd choose the bull. When you think of how he'd toss tea-cups
     around and lash his tail around pile after pile of dinner plates
     and soup tureens--well, there's no use trying to describe a sight
     like that, but it's what Jules was waiting for at Sevres and it
     never happened. War is full of disappointments anyhow. Pop's uncle
     went to war once and he says it isn't a bit like the pictures. He
     says these parlor tableau generals with spick and span clothes on
     and horses rearing on their hind legs with their ears cocked aren't
     so, which I don't like to hear and I didn't believe it but Jules
     says it's true. He says making mud pies is clean alongside of war.
     I have had more ideas busted since I came over here than I ever
     thought one person could have. Dukes are plain, Kings are human,
     and war is not all bands and flags and glory but just grimy
     scrapping. I'm sure I don't know what to believe in any more.

     [Illustration]

     After a while, after we'd driven through lots of pretty country we
     entered the town of Versailles, where the great palace is, and I
     tell you it was magnificent. Most of the Avenues have great trees
     arching over them, and when I say arching I mean arching because
     they are all trimmed and not allowed to grow foliaginous--that's
     one of Aunt Sarah's words--the way we let our trees grow at home.
     If a giant came walking by he'd think the trees formed a hedge,
     they grow so thickly together and are kept square cut on the top
     and arched underneath. They look as if an army of barbers had
     tended 'em all their lives. I don't think I'd like it always but
     once in a while it's interesting to see trees growing that way, and
     if I were a monkey there's nothing I'd like better than it because
     I could walk mile after mile from tree to tree without having to
     come down once.

     As for the Palace of Versailles the best way to describe it is what
     Aunt Sarah said. "It baffles description" was what she said and
     that's what it does. It's so big in the first place that you can't
     take it in without looking eight or ten times, and when you try to
     go through it and see all there is to be seen you wish you had a
     year to spare to do it in. Such pictures, such sculptuary, such
     bric-a-brac you never saw before unless you'd been there before.

     They had 36,000 men working on the Palace grounds at one time. When
     Pop heard that he nearly fainted. He gave me a sum in mental
     arithmetic to do. If our hired man can loaf three hours a day, how
     many hours a minute, can 36,000 hired men loaf. That's a dandy. Eh?
     Some time when I haven't anything else to do I'm going to work it
     out.

     [Illustration]

     Once a lady wanted to go sleigh-riding in July out here, and she
     told the King, and he said all right go ahead, "Where'll I get the
     snow?" she said. "That's easy," said the King. "You get ready and
     it'll be all right." Pop says the King thought it would take her
     until winter to get her hat on straight, but it didn't. She was
     ready next morning, and he took her sleigh-riding over a road he'd
     had covered with _salt_. That's the way Kings did things, and
     that's why they discharged 'em.

     [Illustration]

     We saw the royal carriages too, and they were royal. Gold all over
     even the wheels--just like the band-wagons at the circus. Some of
     'em looked like show-cases, and Aunt Sarah says that's what they
     were and she's glad that day is gone when people liked that sort of
     thing and that's where she's wrong because that day hasn't gone.
     "People like it yet but they hate to pay for it," Pop says, and I
     guess that's it. That's what's the matter in France. They've got
     lots of beautiful things, but they've had to pay too much for 'em.
     This one palace cost a thousand million francs to build it which is
     two hundred million dollars, and after that they had to furnish it
     and keep it up, which made taxes so high that nobody had anything
     left, and when people haven't got anything left they're apt to get
     a little cross, which is what they did here, only they got cross
     with the wrong man, cut off the head of a King that didn't have
     anything to do with it, which strikes me as a poor way to get
     revenged on his great-grandfather.

     It is long past bed-time and I must quit. I've made this letter
     pretty long because I've sort of hated to go to bed. Jules told me
     about the guillotine to-day, which is a sort of spile-driver with a
     knife in it to cut people's heads off, and I'm afraid I'm going to
     dream about it. Still I can't sit up forever and so good-night.

  BOB.




N.Y.I.S.A.A. GAMES: THE 120-YARD HURDLE RACE, FINAL HEAT--SHOWING (1)
BIEN AND BEERS EVEN AT THE THIRD OBSTACLE, AND (2) BEERS FALLING AFTER
STRIKING THE SEVENTH, BIEN WINNING.

[Illustration: 1.]

[Illustration: 2.]

N.Y.I.S.A.A. GAMES: THE START AND FINISH OF THE FINAL HEAT IN THE
100-YARD DASH.

[Illustration: Harris. Patterson. Moore.]

[Illustration]




[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]


The field-meetings of the New York and Brooklyn Interscholastic leagues
were held a week ago Saturday, the former on the Berkeley Oval and the
latter at Eastern Park. In many respects the Brooklyn athletes'
performances surpassed those of the New-Yorkers, and in point of
record-smashing the Long-Islanders were far ahead. Only three New York
Interscholastic figures were lowered, whereas in Brooklyn nine out of
fourteen were upset.

There was a number of surprises at the New York meeting. The first was
Irwin-Martin's defeat by Washburn in the quarter-mile run. Martin
started off badly, setting too hot a pace, and took the lead for the
first quarter of a lap. Then Hipple and Washburn broke away from the
bunch, and when three-quarters of the distance had been covered Washburn
forged ahead of the Berkeley man, with Hipple close behind him, leaving
Martin in third place. In this way the three raced down the stretch, and
crossed the line in that order. This hard race took a good deal of the
starch out of Hipple, so that when it came to the half-mile he was not
fresh enough to do any record-breaking. He ran well, however, and came
close to the mark; Draper of Cutler's ran a beautiful race in this
event, leading most of the way, and took second, beating Bedford.

The half-mile tired Bedford for the mile, and Hipple had very little
speed and endurance left in him after the gallant work he had already
done. Nevertheless, both of these Barnard runners toed the scratch with
a large field, and started off pluckily. They staid behind from the
start, and it was soon evident that Bedford could do nothing. Turner of
Cutler's and Clark of Condon's took the lead, and ran beautifully.
Hipple, after trying to urge his schoolmate on for a couple of laps,
left Bedford, and worked his way slowly and laboriously to the front.
But he could not do anything against the fresh leaders, and deserves
great credit for taking the place he did, especially as Turner broke the
interscholastic record for the distance. In spite of being the last man,
Bedford ran pluckily, and did not leave the cinder path until he had
crossed the finish and covered the distance. The quality which led him
to do this is called "sand," and if every athlete would follow Bedford's
example in the many hopeless races that they are forced to run, and
"stick to their colors," it would raise the standard of performance in a
great many cases.

[Illustration: C. W. YOUNG PUTTING THE SHOT.]

Both of the senior sprints went to Moore of Barnard, and both of the
junior sprints went to Leech of Cutler's. These two men are very fast.
If they had not had to face an unfavorable wind, they would doubtless
have made better time; as it is, the performances are not to be ashamed
of. Both Moore and Leech had an easy time of it in their heats,
outclassing all their opponents. They seemed to be aware of their
superiority--too much aware of it, I am afraid, because Moore especially
lost a fraction of his speed by continually looking back. This is a very
bad habit to get into, and no matter how slow the other men are, there
is no excuse for the leading sprinter to look back.

NEW YORK AND LONG ISLAND INTERSCHOLASTIC GAMES.

Event.                  Records Previous to May 16, 1896.
100-yard dash                      10-3/8 sec.
100-yard dash (Jun.)               11      "
220-yard dash                      22-4/5  "
220-yard dash (Jun.)               23-4/5  "
440-yard run                       52-2/5  "
880-yard run                 2 m.   4-1/5  "
Mile run                     4 "   52      "
Mile walk                    7 "   30-2/5  "
Mile bicycle                 2 "   34-2/5  "
120-yard hurdle                    15-3/5  "
220-yard hurdle                    26-3/5  "
High jump                    5 ft. 11     in.
Broad jump                  21 "    5      "
Putting 12-lb. shot         40 "      3/4  "
Throwing 12-lb. hammer     117 "    5-1/2  "
Pole vault                  10 "      3/8  "

N. Y. I. S. A. A. Games, Berkeley Oval, May 16, 1896.

Event.                 Winner.                             Performance.
100-yard dash          R. W. Moore, Barnard.                   10-3/5 sec.
100-yard dash (Jun.)   D. C. Leech, Cutler's.                  11-1/5  "
220-yard dash          R. W. Moore, Barnard.                   23-1/5  "
220-yard dash (Jun.)   D. C. Leech, Cutler's.                  25-1/5  "
440-yard run           H. L. Washburn, Barnard.                52-2/5  "
880-yard run           W. S. Hipple, Barnard.             2 m.  5-4/5  "
Mile run               [1]W. S. Turner, Cutler's.         4 "  49-3/5  "
Mile walk              J. R. Walker, Berkeley.            7 "  56-1/5  "
Mile bicycle           H. M. Ridabock, Barnard.           2 "  48-3/5  "
120-yard hurdle        F. Bein, Jun., Berkeley.                15-4/5  "
220-yard hurdle        D. G. Harris, Cutler's.                 27      "
High jump              T. R. Pell, Berkeley.              5 ft. 6     in.
Broad jump             T. R. Pell, Berkeley.             20  "  5      "
Putting 12-lb. shot    C. W. Young, Berkeley.            39  "  9-1/2  "
Throwing 12-lb. hammer [1]C. R. Irwin-Martin, Berkeley. 123  "  5      "
Pole vault             [1]J. L. Hurlburt, Jun., Berkeley.10  "  7-3/4  "

Long Island I. S. A. A. Games, Eastern Park, Brooklyn, May 16, 1896.

Event.                 Winner.                             Performance.
100-yard dash          [1]A. W. Robinson, St. Paul's.          10-2/5 sec.
100-yard dash (Jun.)   [1]A. W. Robinson, St. Paul's.          10-2/5  "
220-yard dash          Ira Richards, Poly. Prep.               23-4/5  "
220-yard dash (Jun.)              -----                     -----
440-yard run           [1]W. L. Van Wagenen, St. Paul's.       53-3/5  "
880-yard run           [1]C. M. Hall, St. Paul's.        2 m.   6      "
Mile run               [1]P. Christensen, B'klyn High.   4 "   54-4/5  "
Mile walk                         -----                     -----
Mile bicycle           O. L. Roehr, Poly. Prep.          2 "   40-3/5  "
120-yard hurdle        L. S. Herrick, B'klyn H.-S.             16-3/5  "
220-yard hurdle        [1]L. S. Herrick, B'klyn H.-S.          29-2/5  "
High jump              [1]C. L. Duval, B. L. S.          5 ft.  7     in.
Broad jump             W. Girrash, B'klyn H.-S.         18  "   3      "
Putting 12-lb. shot    B. P. Kinney, St. Paul's.        41  "   9      "
Throwing 12-lb. hammer [1]H. J. Brown, St. Paul's.     123  "  11      "
Pole vault             [1]J. A. Forney, Adelphi.         9  "   6      "

[1] Record broken.

Walker of Berkeley, as had been anticipated, had it all his own way in
the walk, and won easily in excellent form. The real race was for second
and third. These places were taken by McCracken of Berkeley and Coffin
of Cutler's.

[Illustration: J. L. HURLBURT, JUN., VAULTING 10 FT. 7-3/4 IN.]

The hurdles furnished some exciting heats. Bien of Berkeley took his
trial, and Beers got first in the second heat. Beers ran in faultless
style on this occasion, but when he met Bien in the finals he seemed to
lose his nerve and to go all to pieces. He scraped most of the
obstacles, and after Bien had passed him he stumbled even more clumsily,
and took an ugly header on the track. Beers is a very clever man over
the high hurdles, but if, as it seems, he becomes affected by the
prowess of an opponent, he should strive mightily to overcome this
weakness. He has frequently covered the distance in better than Bien's
winning time. In the low hurdles Beers met Bien in the trials, and ran
second; but in the finals he seemed to go to pieces again, although he
managed to keep his feet until the last hurdle, where he fell again, and
allowed Harris to win. He recovered himself in time, however, to keep
Bien in third place.

Berkeley took every field event, winning all the points in the hammer.
Here Irwin-Martin made up for his loss of the quarter by breaking the
interscholastic record. Young, who took second, also broke the record,
and Galloway, who took third, came within three feet of the mark. Young
scored again for his school by taking the shot, and T. R. Pell earned a
double win in the jumps.

One of the best performances of the day was Hurlburt's pole-vaulting. He
fulfilled every one's expectations, and broke the interscholastic record
of 10 ft. 3/8 in. by clearing 10 ft. 7-3/4 in., and his work was
performed in faultless style. His nearest opponent, Brown of Drisler,
reached no greater height than 8 ft. 9 in.

[Illustration: J. R. WALKER,--AND THE FIELD.]

No better argument in favor of the abolishment of the bicycle-race from
the interscholastic programme could be offered than Saturday's
performance. It was not a race in the final heat, and it is not certain
that the best man won. It was simply luck that kept Ridabock out of the
mix-up which ruined the chances of every other competitor, twisted one
or more wheels, and caused any number of bruises and scratches. The
bunch was going around the lower turn, at the end of the second lap,
when Ridabock spurted and got clear of the field. No sooner had he done
so than Harbeck of Cutler's tried to follow him. Harbeck fell, and every
other racer piled on top of him. By the time the tangle had been
straightened out Ridabock was three-quarters of a lap in the lead,
riding easily, and looking back complacently. This was a big piece of
luck for Barnard, and enabled her team to tie Cutler's score. If it had
not been for this, the latter would probably have gotten at least five
points, if not more, out of the event, and would have been a closer
second than she was to Berkeley.

The Interscholastic Cup now becomes the permanent property of the
Berkeley School, her winning score at Saturday's games being 48 points.
Barnard and Cutler tied for second place with 36, and Trinity came next
highest with only 7.

In the Long Island games St. Paul's School of Garden City led all the
way, and made the excellent record of 51 points, taking six firsts, six
seconds, and three thirds. St. Paul's has a fine lot of sprinters, but
the leader of them all is A. W. Robinson, the very swift young man who
took both the senior and the junior hundred yards in 10-2/5 sec.,
breaking the record in both cases. He ought to take the event at the
National games, or, at any rate, give Moore a very hard race. In the
220, Goetting of Brooklyn High was a little nervous at the scratch, and
was penalized. This put him at a disadvantage, and he failed even of a
place, the race going to Richards of Poly. Prep.

In the quarter, Van Wagenen of St. Paul's took the lead from the start,
set a hot pace, and won easily, breaking the record. His schoolmate Hall
followed his example in the half, and broke another record. Christensen
of Brooklyn High did good work in this race, but showed himself to be
better at the longer distance. Here, too, he had a race with Hall, but
in this case he defeated the St. Paul's man.

Both the hurdles went to Herrick of Brooklyn High. In the longer
distance he was penalized by two yards, but in spite of this he reached
the tape first, and broke the Long Island interscholastic record.

In the field events the Long-Islanders averaged better than the
New-Yorkers, Duval jumping 5 ft. 7 in., one inch better than Pell;
Kinney putting the shot 41 ft. 9 in. to Young's 39 ft. 9-1/2 in.; and
Brown throwing the hammer six inches further than Irwin-Martin, and also
breaking his League's record. Forney of Adelphi did not do so well as
Hurlburt in the pole vault, but this was hardly to be expected.
Nevertheless, he bettered the previous record of the Long Island
Association.

The papers on track athletics that have appeared from time to time in
this Department are published to-day in book form under the title of
_Track Athletics in Detail_. The aim of the book is to give clearly,
accurately, and concisely the best available information concerning the
methods of training for track and field events as practised by college
and school athletes. The idea has been to furnish to the aspiring
athlete the knowledge which he could otherwise obtain only from a
professional trainer, and, where professional trainers are unavailable,
this book should prove of especial value.

The events treated are limited to those recognized as standards by the
Intercollegiate and Interscholastic Associations. Each one is treated as
briefly as is consistent with thoroughness, and each article is
illustrated with instantaneous photographs taken of the best exponent in
each particular event. The illustrations are arranged in series, as they
were when they first appeared in these columns, and show the attitude of
the athlete at every important point in the performance of his
specialty. The book should be especially valuable as being up to date in
every particular, even to the table of records in the Appendix.

  THE GRADUATE.

       *       *       *       *       *

An Evening with Battle Heroes.

     Now that the summer gayeties will soon be on us in full force, and
     entertainments of every conceivable character, old and new, are in
     demand, worthy Knights and Ladies of Chapters far and near are
     doubtless ready to arrange an evening for charity or pleasure, and
     I can safely recommend "An Evening with Battles and Battle Heroes"
     as a very acceptable entertainment.

     Some explanation of the last number is necessary. The scene is
     enacted by a quartet of young men in Zouave uniform. An artificial
     camp-fire is constructed with the aid of handsome logs, crimson
     paper, and, if possible, electric light, though kerosene or candles
     will serve. It is needless to go into particulars; a member with
     mechanical ability will find no difficulty in making a very
     realistic camp-fire. The room is darkened while the logs are being
     set. The quartet recline about the fire, and two of them tell
     short, pithy war-stories. Then follow some war-songs; Root's
     "Tenting on the Old Camp Ground" is a beautiful selection.

     PROGRAMME.

     1. Piano Solo.--"Le Trot du Cavalier," Spindler.

     2. The Death of Hamlet and Laertes; "Hamlet": Act V., Scene II.,
     (all but these two parts may be omitted if preferable.)

     3. Cornet Solo.--"La Marseillaise," Rouget de Lisle.

     4. Discussion.--"Who was the Greater General, Hannibal or Cæsar?"
     (Delivered by two members.)

     5. A Recollection of '63.

     This programme will not occupy so much time that there will not be
     a half-hour or so of conversation, with opportunity for serving
     refreshments. Plenty of ideas concerning decoration, costuming,
     etc., will come to the members once they are given this outline.

  VINCENT V. M. BEEDE, R.T.F.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




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[Illustration: Hartford Single Tube Tires]

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[Illustration: Thompson's Eye Water]




TO THE VACATION ARMY.

The quality of the food served at the hotel table or on board ship has
almost more to do with the comfort and enjoyment of the traveller than
any other one thing. When through unwholesome food indigestion seizes
hold of the traveller's stomach, he may as well make up his mind to
renounce a large part of his anticipated pleasure. There is much more in
this than would appear at first thought. When we go to a hotel we look
at the beds to see if they are clean, and feel of the cups to know if
they are sticky or ill-washed. But we eat what is set before us,
thankful if it doesn't taste bad. Would it not be well when you stop at
a hotel to ask what baking powder they use, and if it is not Royal to go
to the next? If going abroad, why not resolve to take no steamer unless
the agent assures you that Royal Baking Powder is used exclusively in
its galleys? At some hotels, and on board some ships, also, a false
economy has induced the employment of alum baking powders. It would be
well to inquire closely and avoid all such. Your pleasure may be spoiled
by an attack of indigestion, or by seasickness induced by a roll, a
biscuit, dumpling, or griddle-cake made with poisonous alum baking
powder. Good health and good food add zest to your vacation pleasures.
The best and most wholesome pastry cannot be made without the Royal
Baking Powder, and the hotels and steamers noted for the excellence of
their cuisine we have found use it to the exclusion of every
other.--_The Traveller._




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[Illustration]

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[Illustration: BICYCLING]

     This Department is conducted in the interest of Bicyclers, and the
     Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject. Our
     maps and tours contain many valuable data kindly supplied from the
     official maps and road-books of the League of American Wheelmen.
     Recognizing the value of the work being done by the L.A.W., the
     Editor will be pleased to furnish subscribers with membership
     blanks and information so far as possible.


[Illustration: Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers.]

Continuing the run from Poughkeepsie to Waterbury, leave Newtown and
proceed to Southbury over a fairly good road, with a few hills. Leaving
Southbury, keep to the right; but before getting beyond the town limits
a sharp turn to the left is made, and at the fork beyond turn again to
the right and run out to Strongtown. From Strongtown to Naugatuck the
road improves slightly, and is in good condition. There is no difficulty
in finding the way except at a point a mile or more before reaching
Longmeadow Pond. Here a sharp turn to the right, another to the left,
and a third to the right again are made, and it may be necessary to make
inquiries in order to keep to the proper road. Passing Longmeadow Pond,
continue to Naugatuck, and here cross the railroad, turn to the left,
run up through Union City by Great Hill, to Waterbury, following on the
eastern side of the railroad and Naugatuck River.

Leaving Waterbury, proceed direct to Waterville, running alongside the
New York and New Haven Railroad, keeping to the left of Waterville by a
somewhat steep hill, and then bearing to the right again into Pequabuck.
Crossing the railroad, follow it to Terryville, and keeping sharp to the
right on running out of Terryville, run to a junction of the roads about
a mile out of Bristol. It will be wise to follow the map here, carefully
turning to the left, and on entering Bristol keeping to the right again
rather than running straight through the side streets of the town.
Passing Forestville, cross the railroad at Plainville, and follow the
railroad into New Britain. The run from New Britain to West Hartford is
not difficult to find, except at about four miles out from the centre of
the city the rider must keep to the right at the fork, and a little less
than three miles farther on, instead of running into Elmwood, he should
bear to the left and make straight for West Hartford. At West Hartford
take Farmington Avenue and run into Broad Street, Hartford; thence
proceed to Capital Avenue, Trinity Street, and Pearl Street to the City
Hall.

The roads along this route are in reasonably good condition, but they
are not very level. After reaching the Connecticut line, and especially
after leaving Newtown, the wheelman will find that he has a good many
very short but somewhat steep grades, and the danger is, if he is not an
experienced rider, realizing that they are not very long hills, and not
appreciating the strain that a succession of short hills gives to a
rider, he may try to do them all. It should be borne in mind, therefore,
that it is wiser occasionally to dismount and walk up several of these
hills, or to dismount and rest on the top of one or two of them.
Otherwise a run of this length, which is not over thirty miles, would
tire the average rider and take away the pleasure of his run.

     NOTE.--Map of New York city asphalted streets in No. 809. Map of
     route from New York to Tarrytown in No. 810. New York to Stamford,
     Connecticut in No. 811. New York to Staten Island in No. 812. New
     Jersey from Hoboken to Pine Brook in No. 813. Brooklyn in No. 814.
     Brooklyn to Babylon in No. 815. Brooklyn to Northport in No. 816.
     Tarrytown to Poughkeepsie in No. 817. Poughkeepsie to Hudson in No.
     818. Hudson to Albany in No. 819. Tottenville to Trenton in No.
     820. Trenton to Philadelphia in No. 821. Philadelphia in No. 822.
     Philadelphia-Wissahickon Route in No. 823. Philadelphia to West
     Chester in No. 824. Philadelphia to Atlantic City--First Stage in
     No. 825; Second Stage in No. 826. Philadelphia to Vineland--First
     Stage in No. 827; Second Stage in No. 828. New York to
     Boston--Second Stage in No. 829; Third Stage in No. 830; Fourth
     Stage in No. 831; Fifth Stage in No. 832; Sixth Stage in No. 833.
     Boston to Concord in No. 834. Boston in No. 835. Boston to
     Gloucester in No. 836. Boston to Newburyport in No. 837. Boston to
     New Bedford in No. 838. Boston to South Framingham in No. 839.
     Boston to Nahant in No. 840. Boston to Lowell in No. 841. Boston to
     Nantasket Beach in No. 842. Boston Circuit Ride in No. 843.
     Philadelphia to Washington--First Stage in No. 844; Second Stage in
     No. 845; Third Stage in No. 846; Fourth stage in No. 847; Fifth
     Stage in No. 848. City of Washington in No. 849. City of Albany in
     No. 854; Albany to Fonda in No 855; Fonda to Utica in No. 856;
     Utica to Syracuse in No. 857; Syracuse to Lyons in No. 858; Lyons
     to Rochester in No. 859; Rochester to Batavia in No. 860; Batavia
     to Buffalo in No. 861; Poughkeepsie to Newtown in No. 864.




[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.


Some of the most advanced collectors are now mounting the stamps in
their albums by affixing the hinge at the left side. First quality of
hinges are used, and as small a portion of the stamp covered by the
hinge as possible. This method has many advantages over the old plan of
hinging at the top.

A philatelic button has been put on the market, and is finding quite a
large sale. It is circular in form, bearing a suggestion of the common
2c. red stamp in the centre, with the motto in a circle, "Philatelia's
Followers." The price is fifteen cents.

A gentleman has just disposed of his collection as a whole for $11,000.
This collection was made during the fifteen years 1860-1875, when stamps
were low in price, owing to the fact that study and observation had not
yet determined the relative scarcity of the stamps then known. The
collector kept a record of what his stamps cost, which was about $350 in
all. The gem of the collection was an unused Cape of Good Hope, black
4d, error in red, which has since been sold for $2500. Many other
rarities are in the collection, and the purchaser has already sold
enough to pay the first cost, and has many valuable stamps left as a
profit.

One of the leading philatelists of England has published an article
claiming to have discovered the secret mark on the 30c. 1873 U. S. It
turns out to be the regular faint centring mark, which shows on almost
every U. S. stamp until the plate has been worn down by printing.

Nearly two years ago the Boston post-master had a cancelling die made in
the form of the U. S. flag. His example has been widely followed
throughout the Union, and now other countries are using a similar
device. In Canada they use the "union-jack," and it makes a very neat
cancellation. This is a very commendable practice from the point of view
of philatelists. How often have we not been obliged to put a stamp in
our albums which was cancelled with a dauber. The most advanced
philatelists make it a point to get cancelled stamps bearing a date-mark
wherever possible. Of course, in the case of very rare stamps they are
glad to take whatever they can get.

The stock of sixpenny Bahamas, mauve, is entirely exhausted. Probably a
new stamp in another color will be issued. This stamp is much scarcer
than the catalogue price would indicate (25c., either used or unused).

Collectors of revenue stamps will be interested to know that Western
Australia has issued one stamp of value £2625 (about $13,000). The Black
Flag Mining Company purchased forty leases of mining lands for £525,000.
The stamp duty was £2625. The government took a one-penny stamp and
surcharged it with the amount, and the lessees affixed it to the lease.
When that lease expires the collectors of Australia will bid against
each other for the unique stamp.

     J. V. COOPER.--Stamps bearing "Ultramar" with date are Cuban stamps
     issued between 1868 and 1876. The Congo 50c. green can be bought,
     used or unused, for 20c.

     P. B. SHEE.--The 2-1/2d. English surcharged 40 paras is used, for
     prepaying letters sent through the British Post-office at
     Constantinople. Germany, France, and Russia also have post-offices
     in Constantinople, as the Turkish P. O. is very inefficient.

     J. N. FRAZIER.--No premium on your coins.

     A. O. HALL.--"Speculative" stamps are those issued by governments
     primarily for the revenue to be raised by the purchase of the
     unused stamps by stamp-dealers and stamp-collectors. The stamps
     themselves are good for postage. Instances: the various "Seebeck"
     issues, the St. Anthony stamps of Portugal, etc. "Fraudulent"
     stamps are those not issued by a government for postal or revenue
     purposes, but are issued by unauthorized parties. Instances: the
     Principality of Trinidad, Clipperton Island, Nyassaland, etc.

     JACQUES COMBES, Lycée, 106 Rue de la Pompe, Paris, wishes to
     exchange European stamps for United States stamps.

     W. K. DART.--There is no 2c. green Straits Settlement 1892. The
     12-1/2c. Canada is worth 30c.; the 10c. pink, 4c.; the 5c. beaver,
     5c. U. S. revenues are very well worth keeping, with the exception
     of the 2c. Bank Check, etc.

     A. CUENOD.--The 5r. Switzerland unperforated is worth 15c., the
     15r. unperforated 6c., the perforated 5r. and 10r., 2c. each.

     G. H. CLARK.--The surcharge "O.S." on New South Wales stamps and
     others means "Official Service." Your Canadian piece is a token,
     not a coin. Stamp-dealers, as a rule, are not collectors.

     HAROLD C. DAY, 420 Madison Avenue, New York city, wishes to
     exchange stamps.

  PHILATUS.




ADVERTISEMENTS.




[Illustration: Columbia Catalogue]

The Columbia Catalogue is not a mere price-list. It gives convincing
reasons why all who love pleasure and comfort in bicycling should select

[Illustration: Columbia Bicycles]

STANDARD OF THE WORLD

$100 to all alike

Your knowledge of bicycle making will grow by reading this interesting
book.

Free from the Columbia agent or by mail from us for two 2-cent stamps.

POPE Mfg. Co., Hartford, Conn.




WALTER BAKER & CO., LIMITED.

Established Dorchester, Mass., 1780.

Breakfast Cocoa

[Illustration]

Always ask for Walter Baker & Co.'s

Breakfast Cocoa

Made at

DORCHESTER, MASS.

It bears their Trade Mark

"La Belle Chocolatiere" on every can.

Beware of Imitations.




Easy to hook,

easy to unhook

--If you do the hooking and unhooking--never separates by itself.

The DELONG

Hook and Eye

[Illustration]

See that

hump?

Richardson &

DeLong Bros.,

Philadelphia.

Makers of the CUPID Hairpin.

It will not slip out of the hair.




Postage Stamps, &c.




$117.50 WORTH OF STAMPS FREE

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

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




[Illustration]

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




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




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




[Illustration: Thompson's Eye Water]




Cryptography Again.

     Members with musical tastes will enjoy corresponding by means of a
     musical cryptogram. Though this is more difficult of construction
     than the Dial or Stencil cryptogram, it will be a novel and
     interesting variation of the "Model Letter-writer," and such helps.
     If, perchance, a member becomes involved in State politics, and
     desires to inform his friend in office of an important plan, he can
     send a few bars of music and no one will be the wiser.

     On a 10-inch square of card-board draw a circle divided into 30
     parts. These should be separated by lines into three rows or sets.
     In each of the outer spaces place a figure of musical time, in each
     of the next row the capital letters of the alphabet, and in each of
     the inner spaces a note or group of notes on ruled lines. The blank
     space within is to be filled by a movable disk. On the edge of the
     disk, at regular intervals, place the three musical signatures, and
     through the centre drive a pin. Your correspondent must be supplied
     with a similar dial. Provide yourself with the regulation ruled
     music paper. Turn the disk so that one of the signatures will
     correspond with a note on the square, with a letter and figure of
     time above it. This will give the clew to your correspondent. You
     are now prepared to write your message by using the various notes
     which correspond to the letters above.

  VINCENT V. M. BEEDE.

       *       *       *       *       *

South African Fruits and Facts.

     Perhaps your scientific readers can make an astronomical puzzle
     plain to me. A gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, has often
     said he could always tell whether we would have rain by the
     appearance of the new moon. If on her first appearance she was "on
     her point" we would have rain, if she lay on her back we would have
     dry weather. I confess I was rather sceptical when I first heard
     this, but it has been proved to me so often that I am fain to
     believe it.

     During our recent severe drought this gentleman used to look at the
     new moon every month. "No rain this month." At last, "The moon is
     on her point! we'll have rain!" and _we did have rain_. Can you
     explain this? His predictions concerning the weather have never
     been known to fail. An old <DW5> used to say, "The moon's dam is
     open; we'll have rain." It was no use explaining to him that there
     was no water in the moon. The question is, Does the moon really
     affect the atmosphere? That is to say, "Why is it that in rainy
     seasons the moon is on her point?" I should be much obliged if some
     of your clever readers would kindly solve this problem for me.

     I like Brenda Neville's suggestion of a temperance club. I am a
     teetotaler, and would like to correspond with Lady Brenda. One has
     only to live among the <DW5>s to see what an awful power brandy has
     over men. In one of our newspapers I saw that total abstinence is
     steadily on the increase in Cape Colony. I am glad of it. I hope
     the Founders of our splendid Order will take up this idea of a
     temperance club. Our object--as far as I understand it--is to do as
     much good as we can in the world, and to make the best and most of
     our lives.

     In the Park at East London (South Africa) grows a rather peculiar
     plant. It bears a fruit which so exactly resembles a hen's egg that
     many people have been deceived by it. In fact, one lady took
     several to an old Dutch woman, and asked her if she would kindly
     set them under one of her fowls. The simple old woman was
     delighted, being under the impression that these were a
     particularly precious setting of eggs. It was not until some time
     after that the lady explained her practical joke.

     The wild coffee grows about the mountains and kopjes here. It is an
     exceedingly pretty shrub, the leaves being of a bright glossy
     green, and the flowers of a waxy cream-color. It bears berries
     which, after a while, turn red. After they are dry, if you open
     one, you will find two seeds very much resembling bought coffee.
     One of my uncles had a number of these seeds gathered, burnt, and
     ground. Then he had it prepared in the ordinary way, and said it
     tasted very good indeed.

     The wild-tobacco-tree grows about here too, but it is not of much
     use. It is said to be poisonous, but I am told that this is
     incorrect. We used to make chains out of the flowers years ago.

     In the kloofs we have several varieties of the wild geranium. My
     favorite is the "Ivy." It looks so pretty growing over the rocks or
     around some old stumps. The aloes grow all up the sides of the
     mountain. When it is time for them to flower, a tall stalk shoots
     up from the middle of the aloe which, in course of time, becomes
     covered with red blossoms. There is another aloe which is
     extensively used for making fences. I do not know whether it grows
     wild. When it flowers it sends up a stalk to a very great height,
     the top of which is crowned with yellow flowers. It has long
     tapering leaves, the sides of which are covered with thorns. It
     makes an excellent hedge.

     At the agricultural show, which was held on the 26th and 27th
     February, in Queenstown, I saw a pair of snow-white ferrets. I
     thought at first they were white mice. Among the rocks we often see
     dassies sunning themselves. These are said to be the conies of the
     Bible. The spring hare, or jerboa, is a great nuisance to the
     farmers. Its front feet are used for making burrows. Its hind legs
     are four times the length of the front ones, and it is with these
     that it makes its prodigious leaps. It is said that the jerboa uses
     its tail as a lever. It comes out at night-time and works great
     havoc among the farmers' crops. By the time this reaches you autumn
     will have set in properly. At present there seems no abating of the
     summer heat. If anything it is worse.

  ISMA FINCHAM, R.T.L.
  ROYDON, QUEENSTOWN, CAPE COLONY,
  SOUTH AFRICA, _March_ 2, 1896.




[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.

HOW TO MAKE A NEGATIVE FROM A PRINT.


It sometimes happens that one is so unfortunate as to break a valuable
negative. If the glass is broken, but the film uninjured, the film may
be removed, and transferred to another glass with very little trouble.
(Directions for this process were given in No. 856 of the ROUND TABLE.)
If the film as well as the glass is broken, there is no way of restoring
the negative, but a new negative may be made from an unmounted print.

The printing-frame must be fitted with a plain glass, free from defects.
Lay the print on the glass face up, and place over it a slow plate--a
plate about the sensitomer of the Carbutt "B" gives the best results. If
the print is of average density, expose to an ordinary gas-flame or
lamp-light for five seconds. A little longer time must be given to a
strong print, and a little less to a weak print. Develop the same as any
negative properly timed, starting with a slow developer.

In case one has only mounted prints, remove the print from the card by
soaking in warm water till it can be easily stripped off from the mount.
Lay the print face down on a sheet of glass, and sponge carefully to
remove all particles of paste. Sometimes the print requires soaking
after it has been removed from the mount if the paste used was very
adhesive. After the print is cleaned, dry on a ferrotype plate free from
scratches. Old albumen prints make fine negatives, as the paper gives
deeper prints. It is always a good plan to make a paper negative from
fine plates, so that if a negative is accidentally destroyed one has
still a good substitute.

Sir Knight Russell Senior, who is much interested in the formulas for
tinted papers and transparencies, sends the following process for
changing blue prints to brown:

"After washing and drying as usual, immerse the print in a solution made
of strong ammonia water, 1 oz., water, 8 oz. Leave the print in this
solution till it has lost its blue color, which will take from three to
five minutes; then rinse and place in a solution of water, 6 oz., tannic
acid, 1 dram. (This must be filtered before using.) The print must
remain in this solution till the required sharpness and tone are
obtained, which will take from ten to fifteen minutes. If the color is
not dark enough at the end of fifteen minutes, add a few drops of
ammonia; leave in two minutes longer, and wash."

Our members will probably like to try this formula, and very soft tones
of brown may be obtained if the directions are carefully followed.

     SIR KNIGHT FRANK F. SMITH, P.O. Box 236, Cumberland, Md., one of
     the prize-winners in our recent contest, says that any of the other
     prize-winners who wish a copy of his prize picture may have it by
     sending a copy of his or her own picture that also took a prize,
     and that any members of the Camera Club who would like a
     photo-etching of the picture may have it by sending two-cent stamp
     for postage. Sir Knight Frank would like to exchange photographs
     with each of the prize winners.

     SIR KNIGHT J. M. COREY asks how to transfer the film on a
     photograph to glass, and how a drop-shutter is made. The best way
     of transferring film to glass is to use the transferrotype paper
     for prints, and then transfer according to directions given in No.
     840 of the ROUND TABLE. Directions for a drop-shutter could not be
     given without illustrating with diagrams, and our space does not
     allow of illustrations.

     "NEW PATRON," Nova Scotia, asks for a formula for a flash-light
     powder. Why not use the pure magnesia? It makes a strong actinic
     light, and if burned on metal is comparatively harmless, but when
     combined with other compounds is sometimes dangerously explosive,
     and requires great care in handling. In regard to mixing the
     solutions without hydrometer, the simplest way would be to use the
     rule for ten-per-cent. solutions--one ounce of the chemical and
     nine ounces of water. A twenty-per-cent. solution would be two
     ounces, Troy measure, and eight ounces of water. A thirty-per-cent.
     solution would be three ounces, Troy measure, and seven ounces of
     water.

     SIR KNIGHT F. T. WATSON asks how to make solio and aristo paper;
     what is litmus paper, filtering paper, and distilled water; how
     many sheets 4 by 5 blue prints can be made with formula given in
     No. 797; if the formula given for glycin developer is good for
     pocket Kodak; wishes a formula for combined toning and fixing bath;
     and what is a ferrotype plate, and for what it is used. Do not
     attempt to make either solio or aristo paper; it is much more
     expensive than to buy the ready-prepared paper. Formulas for toning
     both in one and two solutions are enclosed in each package. Litmus
     paper is unsized white paper steeped in a solution of litmus and
     dried in the air. It is used to test solutions, the red litmus
     paper for alkalies, and blue litmus paper for acids. Filtering
     paper is unsized porous paper, and is used to filter or strain
     solutions to remove any impurities which they may hold. Distilled
     water is water evaporated by boiling, and again collected and
     condensed by means of a still. In making up solutions where one
     cannot get distilled water, water which has been filtered will
     often serve as well as distilled water. A ferrotype plate is a thin
     iron plate highly varnished. It is used by amateurs to dry aristo
     prints. The prints are squeegeed to the plate, and when dry have a
     high polish. The glycin developer works well for films, but is
     rather slow. Metol-quinol is better, and more easily managed. Three
     or four dozen sheets of paper may be sensitized with the blue-print
     formula.




[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.


How to make a cup of tea? Is that what Agnes and Amy wish me to tell
them? Nothing is easier. The odd thing is that so many girls fancy
tea-making a difficult art, when it is really a very simple process,
which needs only attention and care to produce excellent results.

One thing you must if possible have, and that is a good brand of tea.
English breakfast, if excellent, is a very satisfactory kind, and there
are blends of Oolong, Souchong, and just a dash of orange pekoe which
any good grocer will put up for you, and which are very satisfactory. By
this I mean that the taste is refined and agreeable, and the tea rests
and refreshes the one who drinks it. I myself prefer a sort of tea which
comes from Ceylon, and has a fragrance like flowers, and is so clean and
sweet and smooth that no tea compares with it in the opinion of those
who have given it a trial. Whatever tea you use, it should be bought in
small quantities, unless you have an air-tight box, lined with tin-foil,
in which to keep it from the air. Tea loses its flavor if carelessly
kept in a loosely fastened caddy.

Having good tea to begin with, next be sure that you have freshly drawn
pure and filtered water of which to make the beverage. The water must
not have been standing for hours exposed to the weather nor simmering on
the range, and growing flat. It must be fresh, and then if you have a
brisk fire, or the hot flame of an alcohol-lamp, bring it quickly to the
boil. A flat-bottomed kettle is to be preferred, as it has a broad
surface to expose to the heat, and the boiling is soon accomplished.
Water is boiling when it bubbles and jumps merrily about, and the steam
comes in white puffs from the spout of the kettle. It does not boil when
it begins to simmer and to sing. That is only the sign that it is near
to boiling. You must make your tea when the water has just boiled, not
when it has been boiling a long time. A kettle which has been standing
on the back of a stove all day, filled up now and then by a dipper or
two more of water added when some has been taken out, will not make good
tea. You must boil the water on purpose.

An earthen pot is better for tea than a metal one. Pour a little boiling
water in the pot to heat it, and after a minute or two pour it out. Now
put a teaspoonful of tea for every cup of hot water--an even, not a
heaping spoonful--and add an extra one for the pot. Pour on as much
water as will fill the number of cups you wish to make. Let it stand two
minutes, then with a long-handled spoon stir the leaves once through the
water, and instantly cover the pot again. Three minutes more and your
tea is done. Never let tea steep or boil, or stand a long time. It is a
quick, neat, nice process from beginning to end.

  MARGARET E. SANGSTER.




[Illustration: Ivory Soap]

    Physicians lay the greatest stress,
  On perfect, spotless cleanliness;
    And where this law is recognized,
  There Ivory is most highly prized.

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




[Illustration]

[Illustration]

                Over the hills
                and far away,
      The whizzing wheels speed on to-day.
    As they fly along the glad shouts ring
  "Ride MONARCH, the wheel that's best and king."

MONARCH

KING OF BICYCLES

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

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

Send for Monarch book.

[Illustration]

Monarch Cycle Mfg. Co.

Lake, Halsted and Fulton Sts., CHICAGO.

88 Reade St., NEW YORK.




If you accept a substitute, you must not fuss because it's not as good
as HIRES Rootbeer.

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

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




HOOPING

COUGH

CROUP

_Can be cured_

by using

ROCHE'S HERBAL

EMBROCATION

The celebrated and effectual English cure, without internal medicine. W.
EDWARD & SON, Props., London, Eng. Wholesale, E. FOUGERA & CO., New York




Commit to

Memory.

In Germany the children in the schools Commit to Memory the words they
are accustomed to sing, and they are seldom at a loss for Music
anywhere; especially when great numbers are assembled do they sing
together, in mighty chorus, the songs and hymns of the Fatherland
without reference to a book "for the words." This is a grand result
coming out of the Schools. In America too much time is occupied in
teaching, not enough in learning, and, as a result, when we want to
sing--perhaps only the National Hymn--"nobody knows the words." Let it
be regarded an essential part of School work, daily or weekly, for
Teacher and pupil to Commit to Memory some good thing in Prose or Verse.

The Franklin Square Song Collection comprises Eight Numbers, which may
be had bound separately or in different styles. These numbers may also
be had in two volumes at $3.00 each. For full list of contents, sixteen
hundred songs and hymns, alphabetically arranged, address

Harper & Brothers, New York.




[Illustration: Thompson's Eye Water]




_NOW READY:_

TRACK ATHLETICS IN DETAIL

     Compiled by the Editor of "Interscholastic Sport" in HARPER'S ROUND
     TABLE. Illustrated by Instantaneous Photographs. 8vo, Cloth,
     Ornamental, $1.25. In "HARPER'S ROUND TABLE Library."

Each chapter of this book treats of a different event of track and field
athletics, and is illustrated by instantaneous photographs of the
leading athletes of America. These pictures show the detail of the work
for each event, and the text gives instruction and advice which will
prove most valuable not only to athletes who cannot avail themselves of
the services of a trainer, but to more experienced performers as well.
In an appendix are given the A. A. U. rules and tables of amateur,
inter-collegiate, and interscholastic records.

       *       *       *       *       *

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.




A CLOSE CALL.


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[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

An American who was travelling in the hills of Scotland paid ten dollars
for a first-class ticket for a stage-coach ride over the mountains. Soon
after the start he noticed that a man who had a second-class ticket,
which cost five dollars, and several who had third-class tickets, price
two dollars and a half, were enjoying as good seats and apparently as
many privileges as he was. The American concluded that the canny
Scotsmen had gotten the better of him, but decided to hold his peace and
pay for the experience. When the end of the journey was reached, at
evening, however, the traveller had changed his mind; he felt he had had
his money's worth. For every time that day when the coach came to the
foot of a steep hill the horses were stopped, and the driver called out,
"First-class passengers, keep your seats; second-class passengers, get
out and walk; third-class passengers, get out and push!" And they all
did every time.

       *       *       *       *       *

There had been a lack of men joining the ranks, and the Colonel was
visiting a recruiting-station, inspecting the workings of his recruiting
sergeants. Suddenly a terrific noise of shouting and shuffling of feet
came through the open window. Now it came from the stairway,
intermingled with sundry loud bumps and knocks, and the door burst open,
showing a red-faced perspiring little sergeant pushing, hauling, and
tugging at a big country lad. The latter was doing his best to escape
the firm grip of the soldier.

"Halt!" cried the Colonel. "How is this, sir?" he said to the sergeant.
"Is this the way you secure recruits--by force, sir!"

The red-faced sergeant looked up and down, then at the Colonel, and
blurted out, "Sure, sir, the only way to get them _volunteers_ is by
force, sir."

       *       *       *       *       *

Pat was an Irishman, and he was trying to ride a bicycle. "The pesky
wheel," as he put it, wouldn't stay straight, but wriggled this way and
that, every now and then landing him in a heap on the road. A number of
people gathered around to see the fun. At last, however, he got started
fairly well, and was moving along smoothly, when the wheel gave a lurch,
and in attempting to recover himself he made a desperate lunge, and over
he went, hitting the curb-stone in his downfall. A policeman ran up, and
after straightening him out, demanded that he give an account of
himself.

"Faith!" said Pat, "I'd loike to see any man give an account when he has
once lost his balance."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a battered, war-scarred veteran that ambled into the
pension-office one day last week, and slowly approaching the clerk of
the office, asked, in a quavering voice, where he could get a pension.

"In what company did you serve?" asked the clerk.

"Company G, of the Sixth Volunteers."

"Ever injured in battle?"

The veteran drew himself up to his full height, which was distressingly
little, and exclaimed, in as loud a voice as he could muster,

"Yes, sir; I was hit by a shell in the battle of Bull Run, and knocked
all to pieces."

"Dear me!" said the clerk, smiling. "You're a wonderful veteran. Where
do you live, and how do you manage to keep alive your many pieces?"

"That's the trouble, sir, and the very reason I want a pension, 'cause
I've had trouble ever since taking up my quarters wherever I could find
them."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mary and Martha, two little sisters, had been promoted to the dignity of
a big bed, where they slept together. "I sleep on the front side,"
announced Mary, with an air of importance.

"And where do you sleep, Martha?" inquired the visitor.

"I sleep where Mary doesn't," replied Martha, with a rueful glance at
her restless little sister.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Sam, I find you are an incorrigible story-teller. Did you ever in your
life tell the truth?"

"Massa, de truth am a virtue, am it not?"

"Yes Sam, it is; but I'm afraid you lack that virtue."

"No, sah, dat am not so. It am such a powerful good virtue, sah, an' I's
got so much ob it, sah, dat I's am not goin' to let any of it escape,
so's I's done waste any of it, sah."

       *       *       *       *       *

Two little girls were out walking, when they passed the big brick
building of an orphan asylum. "That, Martha," said Mary, anxious to
impart her knowledge to her younger sister, "is where the little orphans
live. Mr. and Mrs. Orphan are both dead."





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, May 26, 1896, by Various

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